Sycamore Row (36 page)

Then figure it out yourself, asshole, Jake thought but didn’t say. He was amused at Stillman’s clumsy effort at gossip, as if the two were old drinking buddies who often shared secrets. Loose lips sink ships, Harry Rex was fond of saying. Loose lips lose lawsuits.

Jake said, “It’s hard to believe a little sex could be worth twenty-four million.”

Stillman laughed and said, “Not so sure. Wars have been fought over it.”

“True.”

“No interest in pursuing a settlement?”

“No. I have my marching orders.”

“You’ll be sorry.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Not at all. The way we see it, Booker Sistrunk has already pissed off every white person in Ford County.”

“Didn’t know you were such an expert on Ford County.”

“Look, Jake, you got one huge, sensational verdict here. Don’t let it go to your head.”

“I wasn’t looking for advice.”

“Maybe you need it.”

“From you?”

Stillman drained his mug and sat it hard on the table. “Gotta run. I’ll pay at the bar.” He was already out of the booth and reaching into a pocket. Jake watched him leave, cursed him, then eased deeper into the room and slid into the booth opposite Harry Rex.

“Sitting among your friends?” Jake asked.

“Well, well, so Carla let you out of the house.” Harry Rex was working on a Bud Light and reading a magazine, which he put aside.

“I just had my first and last drink with Stillman Rush.”

“How thrilling. Let me guess. He wants to settle.”

“How’d you know?”

“Figures. A quick deal and those boys make out like bandits.”

Jake described Stillman’s version of a fair settlement, and they had
a good laugh. A waiter delivered a platter of nachos and dip. “Is this your dinner?” Jake asked.

“Naw, this is high tea. I’m headed back to the office. You’ll never guess who’s in town.”

“Who?”

“Remember Willie Traynor, used to own the
Times
?”

“Sort of. I met him once or twice, years ago. Seems like he sold the paper about the time I arrived here.”

“That’s right. Willie bought it in 1970 from the Caudle family. It was in bankruptcy and I think he paid something like fifty grand for it. Sold it ten years later for one point five mill.” Harry Rex loaded up a nacho and stuffed it in his mouth. Pausing only slightly, he continued, “He never really fit in around here, so he went back to Memphis, where he was from, and lost his ass in real estate. Then his grandmother died and left him another bundle. He’s in the process of losing it too, I think. We were pretty close back in the day and he pops in from time to time, looking for a drink.”

“Does he still own the Hocutt House?”

“Yep, and I think that’s one reason he wants to talk. He bought it in 1972 after all the Hocutts died off. Talk about a weird bunch. Twins, Wilma and Gilma, plus a brother and a crazy sister, and none of them ever married. Willie bought the house because nobody else wanted it, then he spent a few years fixing it up. You ever seen it?”

“Only from the street. It’s beautiful.”

“It’s one of the finest Victorians in these parts. Kinda reminds me of your old place, just a lot bigger. Willie has good taste and the interior is immaculate. Problem is, he hasn’t spent three nights there in the past five years. He wants to sell it, probably needs the money, but, hell, can’t nobody around here afford it.”

“Whatever the price, it’s way out of my range,” Jake said.

“He thinks it’s worth $300,000. I said maybe so, but he’ll never get it. Not now, not ten years from now.”

“Some doctor’ll buy it.”

“He mentioned you, Jake. He followed the Hailey trial, knows all about the Klan burning your house. He knows you’re in the market.”

“I’m not in the market, Harry Rex. I’m in litigation with the insurance company. But tell him thanks anyway. Too rich for my blood.”

“You want some nachos?”

“No thanks. I need to get home.”

“Tell Carla I love her and lust after her body.”

“She knows it. Later.”

Jake walked to his office in a cold drizzle. The streetlamps around the square were adorned with Christmas wreaths and silver bells. Carols rang out from a Nativity scene in front of the courthouse. The merchants were open late and the stores were busy. There was a slight chance of snow tomorrow and few things excited the town like such a forecast. The old-timers claimed there had been a white Christmas in 1952, and even the slightest chance of one now had kids staring out of windows and stores offering shovels and salt. Shoppers scurried about with great anticipation as if a blizzard was expected.

Jake took the long route home, driving slowly away from the square and into the shaded streets of central Clanton until he turned onto Market Street. A light was on in the Hocutt House, a rarity. Jake and Carla had passed it many times, always slowly, admiringly, and always aware that the lovely Victorian was hardly used. There had always been rumors that Willie Traynor was selling the place. He had abandoned Clanton after he sold the paper, and everyone knew it.

The house needed painting. In the summer, the flower beds were choked with weeds and the grass was rarely mowed. In the fall, the leaves gathered in drifts on the front porch and no one raked them.

For a moment, Jake was tempted to stop, knock on the door, barge in, have a drink with Willie, and talk business. But the temptation passed and he headed home.

24

On the morning of Christmas Eve, Jake slept late, or as late as possible. With Carla dead to the world, he eased out of bed at seven, and without a sound went to the kitchen. He brewed coffee, scrambled eggs, and toasted muffins, and when he returned with breakfast in bed she grudgingly came to life. They were eating slowly and talking quietly, thoroughly enjoying a rare moment, when Hanna bounded into the room full of anticipation and chattering nonstop about Santa Claus. She wedged herself between her parents and helped herself to a muffin. Without prompting, she reviewed everything she’d put in her letter to the North Pole, and seemed genuinely concerned that she might be asking for too much. Both parents patiently disagreed. She was, after all, the only child and usually got what she wanted. Plus, there was a surprise that would overshadow all of her requests.

An hour later, Jake and Hanna left for the square while Carla stayed home to wrap packages. Roxy was off for the day, and Jake needed to retrieve a gift for his wife. The office was always the best hiding place. He expected to find no one there, but was not too surprised when he saw Lucien in the conference room, digging through a stack of old files. He looked as though he’d been there for hours, and, more important, he looked clean and sober. “We need to talk,” he said.

Hanna loved to rummage through her father’s big office, so Jake turned her loose upstairs and went to find coffee. Lucien had already consumed half a pot and seemed sufficiently wired. “You’re not gonna believe this,” he said as he closed the conference room door. Jake fell into a chair, stirred his coffee, and asked, “Can this wait until Monday?”

“No, shut up and listen. The great question here is, Why would
a man do what Seth Hubbard did? Right? Make a last-minute will, crude and handwritten, cut out his family, and leave everything to a person who has no claim to any of his fortune? This is the question that haunts you now, and it will only get bigger until we find the answer.”

“Assuming there is an answer.”

“Yes. So to unravel this mystery, and to hopefully help you win this case, we have to answer that question.”

“And you’ve found it?”

“Not yet, but I’m on the trail.” Lucien waved at a pile of debris on the table—files, copies of old deeds, notes. “I have examined the land records of the two hundred acres Seth Hubbard owned in this county when he died. A lot of the records were destroyed when the courthouse burned after the second war, but I’ve been able to reconstruct much of what I’m looking for. I’ve dug through every deed book, all the way back to the early 1800s, and I’ve scoured every copy of the local newspapers from the day they started printing. I’ve also done a fair amount of genealogical research, into the Hubbard, Tayber, and Rinds families. As you know, it’s very difficult with these black folks. Lettie was raised by Cypress and Clyde Tayber, but she was never legally adopted. She didn’t know it until she was thirty years old, according to Portia. Portia also believes, as do I, that Lettie was really a Rinds, a family that no longer exists in Ford County.”

Jake took a sip of coffee and listened intently. Lucien propped up a large, hand-drawn map and began pointing. “This is the original Hubbard property, eighty acres, been in the family for a hundred years. Seth inherited it from his father, Cleon, who died thirty years ago. Cleon left a will giving everything to Seth, and Ancil was never mentioned. Next to it is another eighty-acre section, right here, at the bridge where they found Seth after he fell off his ladder. The other forty acres over here were purchased by Seth twenty years ago and are not important.” Lucien was tapping the second parcel upon which he had crudely drawn a creek, a bridge, and a hanging tree. “Here’s where it gets interesting. This second tract of eighty acres was purchased in 1930 by Cleon Hubbard. It was sold to him by Sylvester Rinds, or the wife of Sylvester Rinds. The land had been in the Rinds family for sixty years. What’s unusual about this is that Rinds was black, and it appears as though his father was the son of a freed slave who took possession of the eighty acres around 1870, during Reconstruction. It’s not clear how he managed to assume ownership, and I’m convinced we’ll never know. The records simply do not exist.”

“How did Cleon take ownership from Rinds?” Jake asked.

“By a simple quitclaim deed, signed by Esther Rinds, not by her husband.”

“Where was her husband?”

“Don’t know. I’m assuming he was either dead or gone because the land was in his name, not his wife’s. For her to be able to convey property, it would’ve been necessary for her to inherit the land. So, he was probably dead.”

“No record of his death?”

“None, yet, but I’m still digging. There’s more. There are no records of the Rinds family in Ford County after 1930. They disappeared and there’s not a single Rinds to be found today. I’ve checked phone books, voter registration records, tax rolls, you name it and I’ve been through it. Not a single Rinds anywhere. Pretty unusual.”

“So?”

“So, they vanished.”

“Maybe they all went to Chicago, like everybody else.”

“Perhaps. From Lettie’s deposition we learned that her mother was about sixteen when she was born, out of wedlock, and that she never knew her father. She says she was born near Caledonia, down in Monroe County. Her mother died a couple of years later—Lettie doesn’t remember her—and an aunt took her in. Then another aunt. Then she finally landed over in Alabama with the Tayber family. She took their last name and got on with life. You heard the rest of it in her deposition. She’s never had a birth certificate.”

“What’s the point here, Lucien?”

He opened another file and slid a copy of a single sheet of paper across the table. “A lot of Negro babies were born back then without birth certificates. They were born at home, with midwives and such, and nobody bothered with record keeping. But the health department in every county tried to at least record the births. That’s a copy from a page in the 1941 Register of Live Births. It shows one Letetia Delores Rinds being born on May 16 to a young woman named Lois Rinds, age sixteen, in Monroe County, Mississippi.”

“You went to Monroe County and dug this up?”

“I did, and I’m not finished. Looks like Lettie might be a Rinds.”

“But she said she doesn’t remember any of this, or at least she doesn’t remember anything before her childhood in Alabama.”

“Do you remember anything that happened before you were three years old?”

“Everything.”

“Then you’re a nutcase.”

“So, what if Lettie’s people came from Ford County?”

“Let’s assume they did, just for the hell of it. And let’s assume further that they once owned the same eighty acres that Cleon Hubbard took title to in 1930, the same that got handed down to Seth Hubbard. And the same he willed to Lettie. That closes the circle, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe, maybe not. There are still some huge gaps. You can’t assume that all black folks named Rinds in north Mississippi came from Ford County. That’s a stretch.”

“Granted. It’s only a theory, but we’re making progress.”

“We?”

“Portia and I. I’ve got her digging through her family tree. She’s been hounding Cypress for details, but she’s not too talkative. And, like most families, there’s a lot of crap back there that Portia wishes she’d never found.”

“For example?”

“Cypress and Clyde Tayber never married. They had six kids and lived together for forty years, but never tied the knot, legally anyway.”

“That was not that unusual. The common law protected them.”

“I know that. There’s a good chance that Cypress is not even blood kin. Portia thinks her mom might have been abandoned more than once before getting dumped on the Taybers’ front doorstep.”

“Does Lettie talk about it?”

“Not much, evidently. As you might guess, her family tree is not a pleasant subject.”

“Wouldn’t Lettie know if she was born a Rinds?”

“One would think so, but maybe not. She was thirty years old before Cypress told her the truth about being adopted; in fact, Cypress never met Lettie’s mother. Think about that, Jake. For the first thirty years of her life she assumed Cypress and Clyde were her biological parents and the other six kids were her brothers and sisters. Portia said she was upset when she finally learned the truth, but she’s never had any desire to dig into her past. The Taybers in Alabama are not even remotely related to the Rindses in Ford County, so I guess it’s possible Lettie doesn’t know where she came from.”

Jake thought about this for a few minutes as he sipped coffee slowly and tried to think of all the angles. He said, “Okay, let’s buy into your theory. Why, then, would Seth want to return the land to a Rinds?”