Sycamore Row

43

The lawyers met with Judge Atlee in his chambers at 8:45 Wednesday morning and agreed there were no pending motions or issues to iron out before the trial proceeded. For the third day in a row, His Honor was spry, almost hyper, as if the excitement of a big trial had rejuvenated him. The lawyers had been up all night, either working or worrying, and looked as frayed as they felt. The old judge, though, was ready to go.

In the courtroom he welcomed everyone, thanked the spectators for their keen interest in our judicial system, and told the bailiff to bring in the jurors. When they were seated, he greeted them warmly and asked if there were any problems. Any unauthorized contact? Anything suspicious? Everyone feeling okay? Very well, Mr. Brigance, proceed.

Jake stood and said, “Your Honor, the proponents call Ms. Lettie Lang.”

Portia had told her not to wear anything fitting or tight or even remotely sexy. Early that morning, long before breakfast, they had argued about the dress. Portia won. It was a navy-blue cotton dress with a loose belt, a nice enough dress but one that a housekeeper might wear to work, nothing Lettie would wear to church. The shoes were low-heeled sandals. No jewelry. No watch. Nothing to indicate she had a spare dime or might be contemplating a haul of cash. In the past month she had stopped tinting her gray hair. It was natural now, and she looked all of her forty-seven years.

She was practically stuttering by the time she swore to tell the truth. She looked at Portia sitting behind Jake’s chair. Her daughter gave her a smile-a signal that she should smile too.

The packed courtroom was silent as Jake approached the podium. He asked her name, address, place of employment-softballs that she handled well. Names of children and grandchildren. Yes, Marvis, her oldest, was in prison. Her husband was Simeon Lang, now in jail, awaiting prosecution. She had filed for divorce a month earlier and expected it to become final in a few weeks. Some background-education, church, prior jobs. It was all scripted and at times her answers sounded stiff and rote, even memorized, which they were. She glanced at the jurors, but was rattled when she realized they were staring right back. As her handlers had discussed, when she felt nervous she was to look directly at Portia. At times, she couldn’t take her eyes off her daughter.

Jake eventually made it to the subject of Mr. Seth Hubbard. Or simply Mr. Hubbard, as she was to always call him in court. Never Seth. Never Mr. Seth. Mr. Hubbard hired her as a part-time housekeeper three years earlier. How did she hear about the job opening? She did not. He called her and said a friend knew she was out of work. He happened to be looking for a part-time maid. She went through her history with Mr. Hubbard, his rules, habits, routines, and, later, his preferences in food and cooking. Three days a week became four. He gave her a raise, then another. He traveled a lot and she was often in the house with little to do. Not once in three years did he entertain or have another person over for a meal. She met Herschel and Ramona, but rarely saw them. Ramona visited once a year, and for only a few hours, and Herschel’s drop-ins were not much more frequent. She had never met any of Mr. Hubbard’s four grandchildren.

“But I didn’t work on the weekends so I don’t know who came and went then,” she said. “Mr. Hubbard could’ve had all sorts of company.” She was trying to appear fair, but only to a point.

“But you worked every Monday, correct?” Jake asked from the script.

“I did.”

“And did you ever see evidence of weekend guests in the home?”

“No sir, never.”

Being nice to Herschel and Ramona was not part of the plan at this point. They had no plans to be nice to Lettie; indeed, based on their depositions, it was safe to expect them to lie considerably.

After an hour on the stand, Lettie felt more comfortable. Her answers were clearer, more spontaneous, and she occasionally smiled at the jurors. Jake eventually got around to Mr. Hubbard’s lung cancer. She described how her boss went through a string of unimpressive home-health-care nurses, and finally asked Lettie if she would work five days a week. She described the low points, when the chemo knocked him flat and almost killed him, when he couldn’t walk to the bathroom or feed himself.

Do not show emotion, Portia had lectured. Do not show any feelings whatsoever for Mr. Hubbard. The jurors cannot get the impression there was an emotional bond between the two of you. Of course there had been, the same as any dying person and his caregiver, but do not acknowledge it on the witness stand.

Jake hit the high points but did not spend much time on Mr. Hubbard’s cancer. Wade Lanier would certainly do so. Jake asked Lettie if she had ever signed a will. No, she had not.

“Have you ever seen a will?”

“No sir.”

“Did Mr. Hubbard ever discuss his will with you?”

She managed a chuckle, and sold it perfectly. She said, “Mr. Hubbard was extremely private. He never discussed business or anything like that with me. He never discussed his family or kids or anything. He just wasn’t like that.”

The truth was that Seth had twice promised Lettie he would leave something behind for her, but he had never mentioned his will. She and Portia had discussed it, and it was Portia’s opinion that Wade Lanier and the lawyers on the other side would blow this out of proportion if she admitted it. They would twist it, exaggerate it, and turn it into something lethal. “So you did discuss his last will with him!” Lanier would yell in front of the jury.

Some things are better left unsaid. No one would ever know. Seth was dead and Lettie wasn’t talking.

“Did he ever discuss his illness and the fact that he was dying?” Jake asked.

She took a deep breath and pondered the question. “Sure. There were times when he was in so much pain he said he wanted to die. I suppose that’s natural. In his last days, Mr. Hubbard knew the end was near. He asked me to pray with him.”

“You prayed with him?”

“I did. Mr. Hubbard had a deep faith in God. He wanted to make things right before he died.”

Jake paused for a little drama so the jurors could fully absorb the visual of Lettie and her boss praying, instead of doing what most folks thought they had been doing. Then he moved on to the morning of October 1 of last year, and Lettie told her story. They left his house around 9:00, with Lettie behind the wheel of his late-model Cadillac. She had never driven him before; he had never asked her to. It was the first and only time the two had been together in an automobile. When they were leaving the house, she had made some silly comment about never having driven a Cadillac, so he insisted. She was nervous and drove slowly. He sipped on coffee from a paper cup. He seemed to be relaxed and pain-free, and he seemed to enjoy the fact that Lettie was so uptight driving down a highway with virtually no other traffic.

Jake asked her what they talked about during the ten-minute drive. She thought for a moment, glanced at the jurors, who still had not missed a word, and said, “We talked about cars. He said a lot of white people don’t like Cadillacs anymore because nowadays so many black people drive them. He asked me why a Cadillac was so important to a black person, and I said don’t ask me. I never wanted one. I’ll never have one. My Pontiac’s twelve years old. But then I said it’s because it’s the nicest car and it’s a way of showin’ other folk that you’ve made it. You got a job, got a little money in your pocket, got some success in life. Something’s workin’ okay. That’s all. He said he’s always liked a Cadillac too, said he lost his first one in his first divorce, lost his second one in his second divorce, but since he gave up on marriage nobody’s bothered him or his Cadillacs. He was kinda funny about it.”

“So he was in a good mood, sort of joking?” Jake asked.

“A very good mood that mornin’, yes sir. He even laughed at me and my drivin’.”

“And his mind was clear?”

“Clear as a bell. He said I was drivin’ his seventh Cadillac and he remembered all of them. Said he trades every other year.”

“Do you know if he was taking medication for pain that morning?”

“No sir, I don’t know. He was funny about his pills. He didn’t like to take them and he kept them in his briefcase, away from me. The only time I saw them was when he was flat on his back, deathly sick, and he asked me to get them. But no, he didn’t appear to be on any pain medication that mornin’.”

Under Jake’s guidance, she continued her narrative. They arrived at Berring Lumber Company, the first and only time she’d ever been there, and while he spent the time in his office with the door locked, she cleaned. She vacuumed, dusted, scrubbed most of the windows, arranged magazines, even washed the dishes in the small kitchen. No, she did not empty the wastebaskets. From the moment they entered the offices until they left, she did not speak to nor see Mr. Hubbard. She had no idea what he was doing in his office; she never thought about asking. He walked in with a briefcase, and walked out holding the same one. She drove back to his house, then she returned home, around noon. Late Sunday night, Calvin Boggs called with the news that Mr. Hubbard had hung himself.

At 11:00 a.m., after almost two hours on the stand, Jake tendered the witness for cross-examination. During a quick recess, he told Lettie she did a fabulous job. Portia was thrilled and very proud; her mother had kept her composure and been convincing. Harry Rex, who’d been watching from the back row, said her testimony could not have been better.

By noon, their case was in shambles.

He was certain harboring a fugitive was against the law in every state, including Alaska, so jail time was a possibility, though Lucien wasn’t worried about that at the moment. He woke up at sunrise, stiff from sleeping off and on in a chair. Ancil had the bed, all of it. He had volunteered to sleep on the floor or in a chair, but Lucien was concerned about his head injuries and insisted he take the bed. A painkiller knocked him out, and for a long time Lucien sat in the dark, nursing his last Jack and Coke, listening to the old boy snore.

He dressed quietly and left the room. The lobby of the hotel was deserted. There were no cops poking around, searching for Ancil. Down the street he bought coffee and muffins and hauled them back to the room, where Ancil was awake now and watching the local news. “Not a word,” he reported.

“No surprise,” Lucien said. “I doubt if they’ve brought in the bloodhounds.”

They ate, took turns showering and dressing, and at 8:00 a.m. left the room. Ancil was wearing Lucien’s black suit, white shirt, paisley tie, and the same cap pulled low to hide his face. They hurriedly walked three blocks to the law office of Jared Wolkowicz, a lawyer referred by Bo Buck at the Glacier Inn bar. Lucien had visited Mr. Wolkowicz late the day before, retained him, and organized the deposition. A court reporter and a videographer were waiting in the conference room. At one end of the table, Mr. Wolkowicz stood, raised his right hand, repeated after the court reporter, and swore to tell the truth, then sat facing the camera. He said, “Good morning. My name is Jared Wolkowicz and I’m an attorney, duly licensed by the State of Alaska. Today is Wednesday, April 5, 1989, and I’m sitting here in my law office on Franklin Street in downtown Juneau, Alaska. Here with me is Lucien Wilbanks, of Clanton, Mississippi, and also a man by the name of Ancil F. Hubbard, who currently resides in Juneau. The purpose of the deposition is to record the testimony of Mr. Hubbard. I know nothing about the case that brings us here. My role is to simply vouch for the fact that this will be an accurate recording of what takes place here. If any of the lawyers or judges involved in this matter would like to speak to me, feel free to call.”

Wolkowicz left the chair and Lucien stepped forward. He was sworn by the court reporter, then likewise sat facing the camera. He said, “My name is Lucien Wilbanks and I’m well known to Judge Atlee and the lawyers involved in the contest over the last will and testament of Seth Hubbard. Working with Jake Brigance and others, I have been able to locate Ancil Hubbard. I have spent several hours with Ancil and there is no doubt in my mind that he is in fact the surviving brother of Seth Hubbard. He was born in Ford County in 1922. His father was Cleon Hubbard. His mother was Sarah Belle Hubbard. In 1928, his father, Cleon, hired my grandfather Robert E. Lee Wilbanks to represent him in a land dispute. That dispute is relevant today. Here is Ancil Hubbard.”

Lucien vacated the chair and Ancil took it. He raised his right hand and swore to tell the truth.

Wade Lanier began his toxic cross-examination by asking about Simeon. Why was he in jail? Had he been indicted? How often had she visited him? Was he contesting the divorce? It was a harsh but effective way to remind the jurors that the father of Lettie’s five children was a drunk who’d killed the Roston boys. After five minutes, Lettie was wiping tears, and Lanier looked like a prick. He didn’t care. With her emotions in play, and her judgment temporarily impaired, he quickly switched gears and laid his trap.

“Now, Ms. Lang, prior to being employed by Mr. Hubbard, where did you work?”

Lettie wiped a cheek with the back of a hand and tried to collect her thoughts. “Uh, that was Mr. and Mrs. Tingley, here in Clanton.”

“What type of work?”

“Housekeeper.”

“How long did you work for them?”

“I don’t know exactly, but about three years.”

“And why did you leave their employment?”

“They died. Both of them.”

“Did they leave you any money in their wills?”

“If they did, nobody ever told me.” This got a few smiles from the jurors.

Wade Lanier missed the humor. He continued, “And before the Tingleys, where did you work?”

“Uh, before that, I worked as a cook in the school in Karaway.”

“For how long?”

“Maybe two years.”

“And why did you leave there?”

“I got the job with the Tingleys and I’d rather work as a housekeeper than a cook.”

“Okay. Before the job at the school, where did you work?”

She was silent as she tried to remember. Finally, she said, “Before the school, I worked for Mrs. Gillenwater, here in Clanton, as a housekeeper.”

“And for how long?”

“About a year, then she moved away.”

“Before Mrs. Gillenwater, where did you work?”

“Ummm, that would be the Glovers, in Karaway.”

“And for how long?”

“Again, I can’t remember exactly, but it was three or four years.”

“Okay, I’m not trying to nail down specifics, Ms. Lang. Just remember things as best you can, all right?”

“Yes sir.”

“And before the Glovers, where did you work?”

“That was Miss Karsten, here in town. I worked for her six years. She was my favorite. I never wanted to leave her but she died suddenly.”

“Thank you.” Lanier scribbled on his legal pad as if he was learning something new. “Now, just to summarize, Ms. Lang, you worked for Mr. Hubbard for three years, the Tingleys three, the school two, Mrs. Gillenwater one, the Glovers three or four, and six years for Miss Karsten. According to my math, that’s approximately twenty years. Does that sound about right?”

“It does, give or take a year here, a year there,” Lettie said, confidently.

“And you’ve had no other employers in the past twenty or so years?”

She shook her head. No.

Lanier was going somewhere, but Jake couldn’t stop him. The inflections of his voice, the slight hints of suspicion, the arched eyebrows, the matter-of-factness of his sentences. He was trying to disguise all these, but to Jake’s trained ears and eyes they meant trouble.

“That’s six employers in twenty years, Ms. Lang. How many times were you fired?”

“None. I mean I was terminated after Mr. Hubbard died, and Miss Karsten got sick, and Mr. and Mrs. Tingley passed, but that was just because the job sorta played out, you know?”

“You’ve never been fired for doing a bad job, or for doing something wrong?”

“No sir. Never.”

Lanier abruptly backed away from the podium, looked up at Judge Atlee, and said, “That’s all, Judge. I reserve the right to recall this witness later in the trial.” He walked smugly to his table, and, at the last second, Jake saw him wink at Lester Chilcott.

Lettie had just lied, and Lanier was about to expose her. Jake, though, had no idea what was coming; thus, he had no way to prevent it. His instincts were to get her off the witness stand. He stood and said, “Your Honor, the proponents rest.”

Judge Atlee said, “Do you have some witnesses, Mr. Lanier?”

“Oh yes.”

“Then call the first one.”

“The contestants call Mr. Fritz Pickering.”

“Who?” Jake blurted.

“Fritz Pickering,” Lanier repeated loudly and sarcastically, as if Jake were hard of hearing.

“Never heard of him. He’s not on your witness list.”

“He’s out in the rotunda,” Lanier said to a bailiff. “Waiting.”

Jake was shaking his head at Judge Atlee and said, “He can’t testify if he’s not listed as a witness, Judge.”

“I’m calling him anyway,” Lanier said.

Fritz Pickering entered the courtroom and followed a bailiff to the witness stand.

“I object, Your Honor,” Jake said.

Judge Atlee removed his reading glasses, glared at Wade Lanier, and said, “All right, let’s take a fifteen-minute recess. I’ll see the lawyers in chambers. Lawyers only. No paralegals or staff.”

The jury was hurried out of the courtroom as the lawyers followed the judge into the rear hallway and into his cramped chambers. He did not remove his robe, but sat down and looked as confused as Jake. “Start talking,” he said to Lanier.

“Your Honor, this witness is not an evidentiary witness; thus he does not have to be made known to the other side. His purpose is to impeach the credibility of another witness, not to give evidence. I was not required to put him on the list or in any way divulge his name because I was never certain he would be called. Now, based on the testimony of Lettie Lang, and her inability to tell the truth, this witness is suddenly crucial to our case.”

Judge Atlee exhaled as every lawyer in the room racked his brain for bits and pieces of the rules of evidence and the rules of civil procedure. At the moment, there was little doubt Lanier had full command of the rules regarding witness impeachment. This was his ambush, one he and Lester Chilcott had planned perfectly. Jake wanted to gush forth in some cogent and sensible argument, but brilliance failed him miserably at the moment.

“What will the witness say?” Judge Atlee asked.

“Lettie Lang once worked for his mother, Mrs. Irene Pickering. Fritz and his sister fired Lettie when his sister found a handwritten will leaving fifty thousand in cash to Lettie. She just told at least three lies. Number one, she said she had worked for only those people I mentioned, over the past twenty or so years. Mrs. Pickering hired her in 1978, and they fired her in 1980. Number two, she has in fact been fired as a housekeeper. Number three, she said she has never seen a will. Fritz and his sister showed her the handwritten will the day they fired her. There may be another one or two, I can’t think of them all right now.”

Jake’s shoulders fell as his gut clenched, his vision blurred, and the color drained from his face. It was imperative that he say something intelligent, but everything was blank. Then lightning struck and he asked, “When did you find Fritz Pickering?”

“I didn’t meet him until today,” Lanier said smugly.

“That’s not what I asked. When did you find out about the Pickerings?”

“During discovery. Again, Jake, it’s another example of us outworking you. We found more witnesses. We’ve been out there beating the bushes, working our asses off. I don’t know what you’ve been doing.”

“And the rules require you to submit the names of your witnesses. Two weeks ago you dumped the names of forty-five new ones on the table. You’re not playing by the rules here, Wade. Judge, this is a clear violation of the rules.”

Judge Atlee raised a hand and said, “Enough. Allow me to think a moment.” He stood, walked to his desk, took one of a dozen pipes from a rack, stuffed it with Sir Walter Raleigh, lit up, blew a thick cloud of smoke toward the ceiling, and drifted away. On one side of the table, Wade Lanier, Lester Chilcott, Zack Zeitler, and Joe Bradley Hunt sat smugly, silently, waiting for a decision that would send the trial either north or south, with no return. On the other side, Jake sat alone, scribbling notes that not even he could decipher. He felt ill and couldn’t make his hands stop shaking.

Wade Lanier had pulled a masterful dirty trick, and it was infuriating. At the same time, Jake wanted to grab Lettie and lash out at her. Why had she not mentioned the Pickering matter? They had spent countless hours together since October.

His Honor blew more smoke and said, “This is too crucial to keep out. I’ll allow Mr. Pickering to testify, but within limits.”

Angrily, Jake said, “Trial by ambush. This will be automatically reversible. We’ll be back in two years to do this all over again.”

Angrily, Judge Atlee barked, “Don’t lecture, Jake. I’ve never been reversed by the Supreme Court. Never.”

Jake took a deep breath and said, “Sorry.”

Ancil’s narrative ran for fifty-eight minutes. When he finished, he wiped moisture from his eyes, said he was exhausted and couldn’t continue, and left the room. Lucien thanked Jared Wolkowicz for his accommodations. He had not told the lawyer that Ancil was a man on the run.

Walking back to the hotel, they saw several policemen loitering around a street corner and decided to duck into a coffee shop. They hid in a booth and tried to maintain small talk. Lucien was still rattled by the stories Ancil told, but neither was in the mood to pursue them.

Lucien said, “I’ve paid for two more nights at the hotel; it’s all yours. I’m leaving now. You can have the clothes, toothpaste, everything. There’s a pair of old khakis hanging in the closet with three hundred bucks in the front pocket. It’s yours.”

“Thanks, Lucien.”

“What are your plans?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t want to go to prison, so I’ll probably skip town, as usual. Just disappear. These clowns can’t catch me. This is pretty routine for me.”

“Where will you go?”

“Well, I might mosey on down to Mississippi since my dear old brother thought so highly of me. When might I see some of his estate?”

“Who knows? They’re fighting over it as we speak. Could be a month. Could be five years. You have my phone number. Call me in a few weeks and we’ll catch up.”

“I’ll do that.”

Lucien paid for the coffee and they left through a side door. In an alley, they said good-bye. Lucien was headed for the airport; Ancil, the hotel. When he got there, the detective was waiting.

In a crowded courtroom that was silent, even stunned, Fritz Pickering told his story, every devastating detail. Lettie absorbed it in total defeat, her head bowed, her eyes on the floor, then her eyes closed in agony. She shook her head from time to time as if she disagreed, but no one in the courtroom believed her.

Lies, lies, lies.

Fritz produced a copy of his mother’s handwritten will. Jake objected to its admission into evidence on the grounds that there was no way to prove Irene Pickering’s handwriting, but Judge Atlee barely heard him. It became evidence. Wade Lanier asked his witness to read the fourth paragraph, the one giving $50,000 to Lettie Lang. He read it slowly and loudly. A couple of the jurors shook their heads in disbelief.

Wade Lanier hammered away. “So, Mr. Pickering, you and your sister sat Lettie Lang down at the kitchen table and showed her the will handwritten by your mother, correct?”

“Correct.”

“And if she testified earlier that she had never seen a will, then she was lying, correct?”

“I suppose.”

“Objection,” Jake said.

“Overruled,” His Honor snarled from the bench.

It was apparent, at least to Jake, that Judge Atlee was now the enemy. He viewed Lettie as a liar, and in his world there was no greater sin. Over the years he had jailed several litigants when they were caught red-handed telling lies, but always in divorce cases. A night in jail worked wonders in the search for veracity.

Lettie was in no danger of going to jail; that would be far more preferable. At that dreadful moment, with the jurors squirming nervously and glancing around, she was in danger of losing about $20 million, give or take, before taxes of course.

When a witness is telling the truth, and the truth hurts, a trial lawyer has no alternative but to attack the witness’s credibility. Jake sat stone-faced as if he expected Fritz to say what he was saying, but just under the skin he was desperately searching for a soft spot. What did Fritz have to gain by testifying? Why would he waste his time?

“Mr. Brigance,” Judge Atlee said when Lanier tendered the witness.

Jake stood quickly and faked as much confidence as possible. The first rule every trial lawyer learns is to never ask a question if you don’t know the answer. But when you’re staring at certain defeat, toss the rules. Shooting wildly from the hip, Jake said, “Mr. Pickering, how much are you being paid to testify here today?”

The bullet landed between his eyes. He actually flinched as his jaw dropped, and he shot a desperate look at Wade Lanier. Lanier shrugged and nodded. Go ahead, it’s no big deal.

Fritz said, “Seventy-five hundred dollars.”

“And who’s paying you?” Jake demanded.

“The check came from Mr. Lanier’s office.”

“And what’s the date on the check?”

“I don’t remember exactly, but I got it about a month ago.”

“So about a month ago you guys closed the deal. You agreed to come here and testify, and Mr. Lanier sent you the money, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Didn’t you in fact demand more than seventy-five hundred?” Jake asked, still shooting wildly with no idea what the facts were. But he had a hunch.

“Well, yes, I did ask for more.”

“You wanted at least ten thousand, didn’t you?”

“Something like that,” Fritz admitted and looked at Lanier again. Jake was reading his mind.

“And you told Mr. Lanier that you would not testify unless you got paid, right?”

“At the time, I wasn’t talking to Mr. Lanier. It was one of his investigators. I didn’t meet Mr. Lanier until earlier this morning.”

“Regardless, you were not going to testify for free, right?”

“That’s right.”

“When did you drive over from Shreveport?”

“Late yesterday afternoon.”

“And when are you leaving Clanton?”

“Just as soon as I can.”

“So, a quick trip, say twenty-four hours?”

“Something like that.”

“Seventy-five hundred bucks for twenty-four hours. You’re an expensive witness.”

“Is that a question?”

Jake was getting lucky but he knew it couldn’t last. He looked at his notes, chicken scratch he could not read, and changed course. “Mr. Pickering, didn’t Lettie Lang explain to you that she had nothing to do with the preparation of your mother’s will?”

Jake had no idea what Lettie had done; he had yet to discuss the incident with her. That would be an ugly conversation, probably during lunch.

“That’s what she said,” Fritz replied.

“And didn’t she try to explain that your mother never said a word to her about the will?”

“That’s what she said.”

“Where did you get this copy of the will?”

“I kept it.” Actually, it had arrived anonymously in the mail, but who would ever know the difference?

“Nothing further,” Jake said as he sat down.

Judge Atlee announced, “We’ll be in recess until one thirty.”