Sycamore Row

47

The jurors filed silently out of their room and followed the bailiff down a back stairway to a side door of the courthouse, the same route they had taken every day since Tuesday. Once outside they scattered without a word. Nevin Dark decided to drive home for lunch. He did not want to be around his colleagues at that moment. He needed time to digest the story he had just heard. He wanted to breathe, to think, to remember. Alone in his truck with the windows down, he almost felt dirty; maybe a shower would help.

Mista Burt. Mista Burt. Somewhere on the shadier side of his wife’s family tree, there had been a great-uncle or a distant cousin named Burt. Many years ago he lived near Palmyra, and there had always been whispers about Burt’s involvement with the Klan.

It couldn’t be the same man.

In his fifty-three years in Ford County, Nevin had heard of only one other lynching, but he had almost forgotten the story. It supposedly happened around the turn of the century. All witnesses were dead, and the details had been forgotten. Nevin had never heard a description of such a killing by a real witness. Poor Ancil. He looked so pitiful with his little round head and oversized suit, and wiping tears with a sleeve.

Disoriented by Demerol or not, there was no doubt Seth knew what he was doing.

Michele Still and Barb Gaston had no plans for lunch, and they were too emotional to think clearly. They jumped into Michele’s car and fled Clanton, taking the first road out with no destination in mind. The distance helped, and after five miles on an empty county road they were able to relax. They stopped at a country store and bought soft drinks and crackers, then sat in the shade with the windows down and listened to a soul station out of Memphis.

“We got nine votes?” Michele asked.

“Girl, we may have twelve.”

“Naw, we’ll never get Doley.”

“One day, I’m gonna slap his ass. Might be today, might be next year, but I’ll do it.”

Michele managed to laugh and their moods were lifted considerably.

Jim Whitehurst also drove home for lunch. His wife was waiting with a stew and they ate on the patio. He had told her everything else about the trial, but he did not want to replay what he had just heard. But she insisted, and they hardly touched their lunch.

Tracy McMillen and Fay Pollan drove together to a strip mall east of town where a new sub shop was doing a booming business. Their “Juror” buttons got a few looks but no inquiries. They got a booth so they could talk and within minutes were in complete agreement. Seth Hubbard might have been fading in his final days, but there was no doubt he planned things perfectly. They had not been too impressed with Herschel and Ramona anyway. And, they didn’t like the fact that a black housekeeper would get all the money, but, as Jake had said, it was not for the jurors to decide. It wasn’t their money.

For the Hubbard family, a morning that had begun with such promise had turned into a humiliating nightmare. The truth was out about their grandfather, a man they’d hardly known, and now their family name would be permanently stained. They could learn to handle the stain, but losing the money would be a catastrophe. They suddenly wanted to hide. They sprinted to the home of their host, out by the country club, and ignored lunch while debating whether they should return to the courtroom.

Lettie and Portia returned to the Sappington place during the break, but there were no thoughts of lunch. Instead, they went to Lettie’s bedroom, kicked off their shoes, and lay side by side, holding hands, and began to cry.

Ancil’s story had closed so many circles.

With so many thoughts swirling around there were almost no words. Emotions were too high. Lettie thought of her grandmother Esther and the horror of the story. And her mother, a little girl with no clothes, no food, no shelter.

“How’d he know, Mom?” Portia asked.

“Who? Which one? Which story?”

“Seth. How’d he know it was you? How did Seth Hubbard ever find out you were the daughter of Lois Rinds?”

Lettie stared at the spinning ceiling fan and couldn’t begin to answer. Finally, she said, “He was a very smart man, but I doubt if we’ll ever know.”

Willie Traynor stopped by Jake’s office with a platter of sandwiches and invited himself to lunch. Jake and Harry Rex were upstairs, on the balcony, having a drink. Coffee for Jake, beer for Harry Rex. They appreciated the sandwiches and helped themselves. Willie chose a beer. He said, “You know, when I had the paper, somewhere around 1975, some guy published a book about lynchings. He did his homework, had lots of gory photographs and such, and it was a good read. According to him, and he was from up north and eager to make us look bad, between 1882 and 1968 thirty-five hundred blacks were lynched in the United States. There were also thirteen hundred whites, but most were horse thieves out west. From 1900 on, almost all lynchings were of blacks, including some women and children.”

“Is this really appropriate during lunch?” Harry Rex asked.

“I didn’t know you had such a delicate stomach, big boy,” Willie shot back. “Anyway, guess which state leads the nation in lynchings.”

“I’m afraid to ask,” Jake said.

“You got it. We’re number one, at almost six hundred, and all but forty were black. Georgia is a close second, Texas a close third. So I remember reading this book and thinking, Six hundred is a lot. How many were in Ford County? I went back a hundred years and read every copy of the Times. I found only three, all black, and there was no record of Sylvester Rinds.”

“Who compiled these numbers?” Jake asked.

“There have been studies, but you have to question their validity.”

“If they knew of six hundred,” Harry Rex said, “you can bet there were a lot more.”

Willie took a swig of beer and said, “And guess how many people were charged with murder for taking part in a lynch mob.”

“Zero.”

“You got it. Not a single person. It was the law of the land, and black folks were fair game.”

“Kinda makes me sick,” Jake said.

“Well, old buddy, your jury’s sick too,” Willie said, “and they’re on your side.”

At 1:30, the jurors reassembled in the deliberation room, and there was not a single word uttered about the trial. A bailiff led them into the courtroom. The large screen was gone. There were no more witnesses. Judge Atlee looked down and said, “Mr. Brigance, your closing argument.”

Jake walked to the podium without a legal pad; he had no notes. He began by saying, “This will be the shortest closing argument in the history of this courtroom, because nothing I can say could ever be as persuasive as the testimony of Ancil Hubbard. The longer I talk, the more distance I put between him and your deliberations, so I’ll be brief. I want you to remember everything he said, not that anyone who heard it is likely to forget. Trials often take unexpected turns. When we started this one on Monday, none of us could have predicted that a lynching would explain the mystery of why Seth Hubbard left his fortune to Lettie Lang. His father lynched her grandfather in 1930. And after he killed him, he took his land and scattered his family, and Ancil told that story far better than I’ll ever be able to. For six months, many of us have wondered why Seth did what he did. Now we know. Now it’s clear.

“Personally, I have a new admiration for Seth, a man I never met. In spite of his flaws, and we all have our own, he was a brilliant man. Who else do you know who could put together such a fortune in ten years? But beyond that, he somehow managed to keep track of Esther and Lois, and then Lettie. Some fifty years later, he called Lettie and offered her the job; she did not call him. He planned it all, folks. He was brilliant. I admire Seth because of his courage. He knew he was dying, yet he refused to do what would have been expected. He chose a far more controversial route. He knew his reputation would be tarnished, that his family would curse his name, but he didn’t care. He did what he thought was right.”

Jake stepped over and picked up the handwritten will. “And lastly, I admire Seth because of his sense of justice. With this handwritten will, he is trying to fix a wrong inflicted upon the Rinds family by his father decades ago. It falls upon you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, to help Seth correct that injustice. Thank you.”

Jake slowly returned to his seat, and, as he did, glanced at the spectators. Sitting on the back row, smiling and nodding, was Lucien Wilbanks.

Three minutes and twenty seconds, Harry Rex said to himself as he punched the timer on his watch.

Judge Atlee said, “Mr. Lanier.”

Wade was limping worse than usual as he made his way to the podium. He and his clients were watching helplessly as the money slipped away yet again. They had had it in the bag. As recently as eight o’clock that morning, they had been mentally spending it.

Wade had little to say at this urgent moment. History had suddenly and unexpectedly reared up and crushed him. However, he was a veteran who’d been in tough spots before. He began, “One of the most important tools a lawyer has in the courtroom is the chance to cross-examine opposing witnesses. The lawyer almost always gets the opportunity to do this, but occasionally, like now, that opportunity is not available. And it’s very frustrating. I feel handcuffed. I’d love to have Ancil here, to ask him some questions. For example, I’d say, ‘Now, Ancil, isn’t it true that you are now in the custody of the Juneau police?’ And, ‘Now, Ancil, isn’t it true you’re under arrest for cocaine distribution and escape from custody?’ And, ‘Now, Ancil, isn’t it true that you’re wanted by the authorities in at least four states for such things as obtaining goods under false pretenses, grand larceny, and nonpayment of child support?’ And, ‘Tell the jury, Ancil, why you haven’t filed a tax return in the past twenty years.’ And, the big one: ‘Isn’t it true, Ancil, that you’re all set to collect a million bucks if Seth’s handwritten will is declared valid?’

“But I can’t do that, ladies and gentlemen, because he is not here. All I can do is caution you. I caution you that everything you’ve just seen and heard from Ancil might not be all that it purports to be.

“For a moment, let’s take Ancil out of the picture. I want you jurors to go back to last night. Remember what you were thinking last night? You left here after hearing some powerful testimony. First, by doctors with unimpeachable credentials, experts who’ve worked with cancer patients and understand the extent to which powerful pain medications disrupt one’s ability to think clearly.” Lanier then went through summaries of the testimonies of Drs. Swaney and Niehoff. It was a closing argument and much leeway was given for the art of persuasion, but Lanier slanted things so perversely that Jake was compelled to stand and say, “Your Honor, I object. I don’t believe that’s what Dr. Niehoff said.”

“Sustained,” Judge Atlee said rudely. “Mr. Lanier, I’ll ask you to stick to the facts.”

Stung, Lanier rambled on about what these fine doctors had said. They had taken the stand only yesterday. It was not necessary to replay such recent testimony. Wade Lanier was stumbling now, and off his game. For the first time since the opening bell, Jake thought he looked lost. When he couldn’t think of anything, he said, repeatedly, “Seth Hubbard lacked testamentary capacity.”

He brought up the 1987 will, and much to Jake’s delight, and much to the jurors’ dismay, he fleshed it out once more. “Three point one million dollars wasted, just like that,” he said, snapping his fingers. He described a tax ploy known as the generation-skipping trust, and just when Juror Number Ten, Debbie Lacker, was about to nod off, he said again, “Three point one million dollars wasted, just like that,” and snapped his fingers loudly.

It was a cardinal sin to bore jurors who were pinned down and required to listen, but Wade Lanier was pouring it on. Wisely, though, he did not attack Lettie Lang. Those listening had just learned the truth about her family; it would not be wise to belittle or condemn her.

As Lanier took a painful pause to assess his notes, Judge Atlee said, “You might want to wrap this up, Mr. Lanier. You’re over the time limit.”

“Sorry, Your Honor.” Flustered, he offered a sappy thanks to the jury for their “wonderful service” and concluded with a plea for faithful considerations, free from emotion and guilt.

“Rebuttal, Mr. Brigance?” Judge Atlee asked. Jake was entitled to ten minutes to counter anything Lanier had said. As the lawyer for the proponent, he got the last word, but he wisely declined. “No, Your Honor, I think the jury has heard enough.”

“Very well. Now, ladies and gentlemen, I need to spend a few minutes and instruct you as to what the law is and how it applies in this case, so listen carefully. When I’m finished, you will retire to the jury room and begin your deliberations. Any questions?”

The waiting was always the worst part. A great load was lifted after the jury retired. All the work was finished; all the witnesses had testified; all the worrying about opening statements and closing arguments was over. Now the waiting began. There was no way to predict how long it would take.

Jake invited Wade Lanier and Lester Chilcott to his office for a drink. It was, after all, Friday afternoon and the week was over. They opened beers on the balcony upstairs and watched the courthouse. Jake pointed to a large window in the distance. “That’s the jury room,” he said. “That’s where they are right now.”

Lucien showed up, ready as always for a drink. He and Jake would have words later, but at the moment the mood demanded alcohol. With a laugh, Wade said, “Come on, Lucien, you gotta tell what happened in Juneau.”

Lucien gulped down half a beer, and started talking.

After everyone had either coffee, a soft drink, or water, Nevin Dark called their little meeting to order and said, “I suggest we start with this verdict worksheet that the judge has given us. Any objections to that?”

There were none. There were no guidelines on jury deliberations. Judge Atlee said they could figure things out themselves.

Nevin said, “Okay, here is the first question: Was the document signed by Seth Hubbard a proper holographic will, in that it was (1) written entirely by Seth Hubbard, (2) signed by Seth Hubbard, and (3) dated by Seth Hubbard? Any discussion?”

“Ain’t no doubt about that,” Michele Still said.

The others agreed. The contestants had not argued otherwise.

Nevin continued: “Next, and the big one, testamentary capacity, or sound and disposing mind. The question is, Did Seth Hubbard understand and appreciate the nature and effect of his holographic will? Since this is what the case is all about, I suggest we each take a turn and say what’s on our minds. Who wants to go first?”

Fay Pollan said, “You go first, Nevin. You’re Juror Number One.”

“Okay, here’s what I think. I think it’s wrong to cut out the family and give all the money to another person, especially someone who Seth knew for only three years. But, as Jake said at the beginning, our job is not to decide who should get the money. It’s not our money. Also, I think Seth was slipping in his last days and was pretty doped up, but after seeing Ancil, I have no doubt he knew what he was doing. He’d been planning it for a long time. I’m voting in favor of the will. Tracy?”

Tracy McMillen said quickly, “I agree. So much about this case troubles me, but so much of it I’m not supposed to worry about. We’re suddenly dealing with decades of history, and I don’t think any one of us should tamper with that. Seth did what he did for some very good reasons.”

“Michele?”

“Ya’ll know how I feel. I just wish we weren’t here. I wish Seth had given Lettie some money if he wanted to, then taken care of his family, even if he didn’t like them. Can’t say as I blame him. But I don’t care how bad they are, they don’t deserve nothing.”

“Fay?”

Fay Pollan evoked less sympathy than anyone else in the room, maybe with the exception of Frank Doley. She said, “I’m not too concerned about his family. They’ve probably got more money than most of us, and they’re young and educated. They’ll be fine. They didn’t help Seth make his money, why should they expect all of it? He cut ’em out for a reason, reasons we’ll never know. And his son didn’t even know who played center field for the Braves. My God. We’ve been fans of Dale Murphy for years now. I think he was just lying. Anyway, I’m sure Seth was not a nice person, but, like Jake said, it’s not our business who he gives his money to. He was sick but he wasn’t crazy.”

It was a two-beer deliberation. After the second, a clerk called and said there was a verdict. All laughter ceased immediately as the lawyers shoved gum in their mouths and straightened their ties. They walked into the courtroom together and took their places. Jake turned to the spectators and saw Carla and Hanna seated on the front row behind him. They smiled and Carla mouthed, “Good luck.”

“Are you okay?” Jake whispered as he leaned over to Lettie.

“I’m at peace,” she said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m a wreck,” he said and smiled.

Judge Atlee took the bench and the jurors were brought in. It is impossible for a trial lawyer not to look at the jurors as they return with a verdict, though every trial lawyer vows to ignore them. Jake looked straight at Michele Still, who sat down first, then gave him a quick little grin. Nevin Dark handed the verdict to the clerk who handed it to Judge Atlee. He reviewed it forever, then leaned an inch or two closer to his mike. Enjoying the drama, he said, “The verdict appears to be in order. The jury was to answer five questions. Number one: Did Seth Hubbard execute a valid holographic will on October 1, 1988? By a vote of 12 to 0, the answer is yes. Number two: Did Seth Hubbard understand and appreciate the nature and effect of what he was doing when he executed his holographic will? By a vote of 12 to 0, the answer is yes. Number three: Did Seth Hubbard understand and appreciate who the beneficiaries are to whom he had given gifts in his holographic will? By a vote of 12 to 0, the answer is yes. Number four: Did Seth Hubbard understand and appreciate the nature and amount of his property and how he wanted to dispose of it? By a vote of 12 to 0, the answer is yes. And, number five: Was Seth Hubbard unduly influenced by Lettie Lang or anyone else when he executed his holographic will on October 1, 1988? By a vote of 12 to 0, the answer is no.”

Ramona gasped and began crying. Herschel, who had moved himself to the second row, rose immediately and stormed out of the courtroom. Their children had left the trial the day before.

Judge Atlee thanked the jurors and dismissed them. He adjourned court and disappeared. There were hugs among the victors and long faces among the losers. Wade Lanier was gracious in defeat and congratulated Jake on such a fine job. He spoke kindly to Lettie and wished her the best.

If she was on the verge of being the richest black woman in the state, she did not look it. She just wanted to go home. She ignored a couple of reporters and brushed aside some well-wishers. She was tired of being pawed at and fawned over.

Harry Rex organized a party on the spot, hot dogs on the grill in his backyard and beer in the cooler. Portia said she would be there after she took care of Lettie. Willie Traynor was always ready for a party. Lucien said he would come early, and he might bring Sallie, a rare occurrence. Before they left the courthouse, Lucien was already taking credit for the win.

Jake wanted to choke him.