Sycamore Row (18 page)

“And your firm prepared the 1987 will, is that correct?”

“That is true,” Stillman said with a generous, sappy smile.

“Very well. Next.”

A large man with a round hairless head stood and growled, “Your Honor, I’m Wade Lanier, of the Lanier firm in Jackson. I’m here with my associate, Lester Chilcott, and we represent the interests of Ms. Ramona Dafoe, daughter of the deceased. Her husband, Ian Dafoe, is a longtime client of our firm and—”

“That’s enough, Mr. Lanier,” Judge Atlee barked, rudely cutting him off. Welcome to Ford County. “I didn’t ask about your other clients or your firm.”

The presence of Wade Lanier was also disturbing. Jake knew him by reputation only, but that was enough to dread dealing with him. Big firm, hardball tactics, enough success to fuel the ego and keep it hungry.

Judge Atlee pointed again and said, “And you, sir?”

A man in a gaudy sports coat jumped up and announced, “Yes, well, Your Honor, my name is D. Jack O’Malley, and I represent Mr. Herschel Hubbard, surviving son of the deceased. My client lives in Memphis and that’s where I’m from but I will most certainly associate local counsel the next time I’m here.”

“Good idea. Next?”

Wedged into a spot behind O’Malley was a thin, rat-faced young man with wild, wiry hair. He stood timidly as if he’d never addressed a judge before and said, in a squeaky voice, “Sir, I’m Zack Zeitler, also from Memphis, and I’ve been hired to represent the interests of the children of Herschel Hubbard.”

Judge Atlee nodded and said, “So, the grandkids have lawyers too?”

“Yes sir. They are beneficiaries under the prior will.”

“Got it. And I’m assuming they are in the courtroom.”

“They are.”

“Thank you, Mr. Zeitler, and if you haven’t already figured things out, next time you’re here please bring a local lawyer—God knows we’ll need some more. Unless, of course, you are licensed in this state.”

“I am, Your Honor.”

“Very well. Next.”

Leaning against a railing in a corner, chairless, a lawyer glanced
around and said, “Yes, Your Honor, I’m Joe Bradley Hunt with the Skole firm in Jackson, and—”

“Which firm?”

“Skole, Your Honor. Skole, Rumky, Ratliff, Bodini, and Zacharias.”

“Sorry I asked. Continue.”

“And we represent the interests of the two minor children of Ramona and Ian Dafoe, grandchildren of the deceased.”

“Okay. Anyone else?”

Necks craned and eyes scanned the crowd. Judge Atlee did some quick math and said, “A dozen. I count eleven lawyers so far, and there is no reason to believe there won’t be more.” He shuffled some papers and looked at the spectators in the courtroom. To his left, behind Jake and Lettie, there was a crowd of black people, including Simeon, their kids and grandkids, some cousins and aunts, Cypress, a preacher, and a lot of friends, old and new, who were there to provide moral support for Lettie as she took the first step in fighting for what was rightfully hers. To His Honor’s right, across the aisle, behind the throng of lawyers gearing up to oppose the last will, there was a crowd of white people, including Ian and Ramona and their two children; Herschel and his two kids; his ex-wife, though she was on the back row as far away as possible; Dumas Lee and another reporter; and the usual collection of courthouse regulars who rarely missed a trial or a contested hearing. Deputy Prather stood at the main door, sent there by Ozzie to hear it all and report back later. Lucien Wilbanks sat on the back row on the black side, partially hidden by a beefy young man in front of him. He and Atlee went back many years, and Lucien did not want to be a distraction.

Minutes before they began, Jake had attempted to politely introduce himself to Herschel and Ramona, but they had rudely turned their backs. He was the enemy now, not their father. Ian in particular looked as if he might throw a punch. Their teenage children were turned out in the finest preppy fashions and gave every impression of bearing the arrogance of inherited wealth. Herschel’s two children, on the contrary, were ill-kempt and grungy. Just days earlier, the four had been too busy to attend the funeral of their beloved grandfather. Now, though, their priorities had suddenly shifted.

Jake figured the lawyers had impressed upon the families the need for the kids to be there, to be seen, to be closely identified with the
consequences of the court’s actions. A waste of time, in his opinion, but then the stakes were high.

At the moment, in a crowded courtroom, Jake felt very alone. Next to him, Russell Amburgh was uncooperative, hardly civil, and planning a quick exit from the proceedings. Behind him, only inches away, sat Lettie, a person he thought he could talk to. She, though, was being guarded by a couple of pit bull lawyers who were ready for an alley fight over the fortune. And these were the people on his side of the room! Across the aisle, an entire pack of hyenas was waiting to pounce.

Judge Atlee said, “I’ve read both wills. We will proceed with the last one, the handwritten will dated October 1. A petition to probate it was filed on October 4. Mr. Brigance, you will begin the administration of the estate as required by law—posting the notification to creditors, filing a preliminary inventory, and so on. I expect this to be done promptly. Mr. Amburgh, I understand you wish to step aside.”

Amburgh slowly stood and said, “That’s right, Judge. I have no stomach for this. As the executor I would be required to take an oath in which I swear that this is the valid last will and testament of Seth Hubbard, and I simply refuse to take that oath. I don’t like this will and I want no part of it.”

“Mr. Brigance?”

Jake stood next to his soon-to-be-ex-client and said, “Your Honor, Mr. Amburgh was once a lawyer and he knows the basics of probate. I will prepare an order allowing him to withdraw, and at the same time I’ll submit names for his replacement.”

“Please make this a priority. I want the administration to proceed while we sort out other matters. Regardless of what happens to the holographic will, or the prior one, the estate of Mr. Hubbard needs tending to. I assume there are several parties who intend to contest this will, am I right?”

A squad of lawyers stood, nodding, and Judge Atlee held up his hand. “Thank you. Please be seated, everyone. Mr. Amburgh, you may be excused.” Amburgh managed a terse “Thanks” as he scampered from the plaintiff’s table and hurried down the aisle.

Judge Atlee adjusted his glasses and said, “We will proceed as follows. Mr. Brigance, you have ten days to find a substitute executor, and, according to the wishes of the deceased, let’s make sure it’s not a lawyer from this county. Once the executor is in place, you and he will begin the task of locating assets and identifying liabilities. I would like
a preliminary inventory as soon as possible. In the meantime, the rest of you should file your objections to this will. Once all parties have properly joined in opposition, we will meet again and map out a plan for the trial. As you know, either side may demand a trial by jury. If you so wish, then please make this demand timely, when you file your objection. Will contests proceed like all other civil trials in Mississippi, so the rules of evidence and procedure will apply.” He removed his glasses and chewed on a stem as he surveyed the lawyers. “Since we are headed for a trial, I’ll tell ya’ll right now that I will not preside over one with a dozen lawyers. I cannot envision such a nightmare, nor will I subject a jury, if we do in fact have one, to such abuse. We will define the issues, streamline the procedure, and try the case in an efficient manner. Any questions?”

Oh, a thousand questions, but there would be plenty of time to ask them later. Suddenly, Booker Sistrunk rose, and in his booming baritone said, “Your Honor, I’m not sure what’s appropriate at this time, but I would like to suggest that my client, Lettie Lang, be appointed as the substitute executor to take the place of Mr. Amburgh. I have reviewed the law of this state and have found no provision requiring a lawyer or an accountant or the like to serve in this role. Indeed, the law sets forth no requirements for training or experience for one to serve as either an administrator, in the case of an estate with no will, or an executor, in a case like this.”

Sistrunk spoke slowly, carefully, with perfect diction, and his words boomed around the courtroom. Judge Atlee and the rest of the lawyers listened and watched. The words were true. Technically, anyone could be named to take the place of Russell Amburgh: any sane person over the age of eighteen. Not even criminals were excluded. However, given the size of the estate and the complex issues facing it, a more experienced, dispassionate hand would be needed. The notion of putting Lettie in charge of a $20 million estate, with Sistrunk whispering in her ear, was shocking, at least to the white people in the courtroom. Even Judge Atlee seemed frozen for a second or two.

Sistrunk wasn’t finished. He paused just long enough for the initial shock to register, then continued, “Now, Your Honor, I know that virtually all the probate work is done by the estate’s lawyer, under the strict supervision of the court, of course, and for that reason I’d suggest that my firm be designated as counsel of record in this matter. We will work closely with our client, Ms. Lettie Lang, to follow the precise
dictates of Mr. Hubbard’s wishes. If necessary, we will consult with Mr. Brigance, a fine young lawyer in his own right, but most of the heavy lifting will be done by me and my staff.”

And with that, Booker Sistrunk accomplished his goal. The war would now be defined in terms of black versus white.

Herschel and Ramona and their families glared with hatred across the aisle at the group of blacks, who eagerly and somewhat smugly returned the looks. Their girl Lettie had been chosen to receive the money, and they were there to fight for her. But the money belonged to the Hubbards. Seth had been out of his mind.

Jake, stunned, shot a fierce look over his shoulder but was ignored by Sistrunk. Jake’s first reaction was, How stupid! A predominantly white county means a predominantly white jury. They were a long way from Memphis, where Sistrunk had proven skillful at getting his people on federal juries and winning huge verdicts. But Memphis was another world.

Put nine or ten white folks from Ford County on the jury, make them suffer through a week with Booker Sistrunk, and Ms. Lettie Lang would leave with nothing.

The horde of white lawyers sat as stunned as Jake, but Wade Lanier quickly saw the opportunity. He jumped to his feet and blurted, “We have no objection, Your Honor.”

Judge Atlee snapped, “You have no standing to object to anything.”

Jake’s second thought was, Fine, get me out of here. With this pack of vultures, there will be nothing left. Life is too short to waste a year dodging bullets in a race war.

Judge Atlee said, “Anything else, Mr. Sistrunk?”

“Well, not at this time, Your Honor.” Sistrunk turned and looked smugly at Simeon and the family. He had just proven his backbone. He was fearless, could not be intimidated, and was ready for a street brawl. They had hired the right lawyer. Before he sat, he shot a glance at Herschel Hubbard, and with a smirk seemed to say, “Game on, old boy.”

Judge Atlee calmly said, “You need to keep researching, Mr. Sistrunk. Our probate laws give supreme deference to the wishes of the person who wrote the will. Mr. Hubbard clearly stated his intentions with regard to the attorney he wanted. There will be no change in that regard. Any other requests you may have should be dealt with by proper motion; that is, once you have associated a lawyer recognized by this court and are duly before it.”

Jake began to breathe normally again, though he was still shaken
by the brazenness of Sistrunk and his ideas. And his greed. There was little doubt he had signed up Lettie to some form of contingency agreement that gave him a cut of her take. Most plaintiffs’ lawyers took one-third of a settlement, 40 percent of a jury verdict, and half where the case was appealed. An ego like Sistrunk, and, admittedly, one with a history of winning, would doubtless be at the top end of those percentages. And if that were not enough, he was craving another pile of cash to be earned by the hour as the probate attorney.

Judge Atlee was finished. He picked up his gavel, said, “We’ll meet again in thirty days. Adjourned,” and slammed it onto the surface of his bench.

Lettie was immediately engulfed by her attorneys, who whisked her away, through the railing of the bar and to the front row where she was circled by her family and other clingers. As if her life were in danger, they huddled around, stroking her, cooing, offering encouragement. Sistrunk was admired and congratulated for his bold assertions and positions, while Kendrick Bost kept an arm on Lettie’s shoulder as she whispered gravely to her loved ones. Cypress, her mother, sat in a wheelchair and wiped tears from her cheeks. What an awful thing they were putting the family through.

Jake was in no mood for small talk, not that anyone tried to engage him. The other lawyers broke off into small pockets of conversation as they repacked their briefcases and prepared to leave. The Hubbard heirs clung together and tried to avoid glaring at the blacks who were after their money. Jake ducked through a side door and was headed for the back stairs when Mr. Pate, the ancient courtroom deputy, called, “Say, Jake, Judge Atlee wants to see you.”

In the small cramped room where lawyers gathered for coffee and judges held their off-the-record meetings, Judge Atlee was removing his robe. “Close the door,” he said when Jake walked in.

The judge was no raconteur, no teller of tall legal tales, no jokester. There was little bullshit and rarely was there humor, though, as a judge, he had an audience eager to laugh at anything. “Have a seat, Jake,” he said, and both sat at a small desk.

“What an ass,” Judge Atlee said. “That might work in Memphis, but not here.”

“I think I’m still stunned.”

“Do you know Quince Lundy, lawyer down in Smithfield?”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“Older guy, maybe even semiretired. He’s done nothing but probate
work for a hundred years, really knows his stuff, and straight as an arrow. Old friend of mine. File a motion suggesting Quince and two others—you pick ’em—as the substitute executor, and I’ll appoint Quince. You’ll get along fine with him. As for you, you’re on board until the end. What’s your hourly rate?”