Sycamore Row (43 page)

Barely above a whisper, Jake said, “Nothing good. Assuming everything is his fault, and that he was drunk, he’s looking at vehicular homicide. One count, as of now.”

“What’s it carry?”

“Five to twenty-five. The judge has a lot of discretion.”

“And he can’t get out of it?”

“No. I see no way.”

“Hallelujah. He’ll finally be gone for a long time.” She cupped
both hands over her mouth and nose and sobbed harder. “Those poor boys,” she kept saying.

The crowd continued to grow around the waiting area on the hospital’s main wing. Ozzie spoke to Jeff and Evelyn Roston, the parents, who were too stunned to say much. He talked to one of the boys’ uncles and explained that Simeon Lang was in custody and would be moved to the jail within hours. Yes, he was drunk, still is. I’m very sorry.

“You better get him outta here,” the uncle said, nodding to a group of men nearby. Angry, distraught men, rural types raised around guns and rifles and upset enough to do something drastic. Others joined them. The Rostons grew soybeans and chickens and were active in their country church. They had many relatives and friends, and they had never voted for Ozzie.

Every deputy on the payroll was at the hospital by 2:00 a.m. At three, they sneaked Simeon out of the hospital and took him to jail. Ozzie informed the uncle.

Lettie and Portia used the same side door and left the hospital. Jake accompanied them to their car. He returned to the main wing, avoided the waiting area, and found Ozzie chatting with two of his men. Dumas Lee approached them, camera around his neck, and they immediately went silent.

Dumas said, “Say, Jake, you got a minute?”

Jake hesitated, looked at Ozzie, who said, “No comment whatsoever,” then asked Dumas, “What’s on your mind?”

“Just a couple of questions.”

They walked away, side by side, down a long corridor. Dumas asked, “Can you confirm it’s Simeon Lang?”

It was senseless to deny it, so Jake said, “Yes.”

“And you’re his lawyer?”

“I am not.”

“Okay, but he’s had a drunk driving charge pending in city court for four months. Your name’s on the docket as his lawyer.”

Careful, Jake warned himself. He breathed deeply and felt a thick knot in his stomach. “I did that as a favor,” he said.

“I don’t care why you did it. Your name’s on the docket as his lawyer.”

“I’m not his lawyer, okay? Never have been. I can’t represent the estate of Seth Hubbard and also represent Simeon Lang, the husband of one of the beneficiaries.”

“Then why did you show up in court on October 19 to request a postponement of his drunk driving case?”

“It was a favor. I’m not his lawyer, okay Dumas?”

“Why has the case been postponed for four months?”

“I’m not the judge.”

“I’ll talk to him later,” Dumas fired back.

“You do that. No further comment.” Jake abruptly turned around and walked away. Dumas followed and kept talking, saying, “Look, Jake, you’d better talk to me because this is gonna look bad.”

Jake turned around again and they squared off in the center of the corridor. Jake caught himself, took a deep breath, and said, “Don’t draw any conclusions, Dumas. I haven’t touched the DUI case in four months because I’m not his lawyer. If you will recall, at the time he was represented by those clowns from Memphis. Not by me. So please be careful here.”

Dumas was scribbling furiously. Jake wanted to punch him. Everything was suddenly forgotten by screams from the other end of the building.

Bo Roston was pronounced dead at 4:15 a.m.

29

Jake and Carla sat at the kitchen table and waited for the coffee to brew. It was not yet 5:00 a.m. on Wednesday, February 22, a day that would undoubtedly be one of the saddest and darkest in the county’s history. Two teenagers—bright kids, strong students, athletes, church members, popular boys from a good family—slaughtered on an icy road by a drunk. The horrible news was spreading by the minute. The cafés would be packed as the early risers hurried in for the latest word. The churches would open for prayer. Clanton High School would be the worst place to be. Those poor kids.

Carla poured coffee and they spoke softly, in hushed tones so Hanna wouldn’t be awakened. Jake was saying, “I never opened a file. Ozzie called me on Monday, told me Simeon was arrested on Saturday morning and was due in court on Wednesday. When he sobered up, Ozzie drove him home and along the way told him to get rid of the Memphis lawyers. I thanked Ozzie and we agreed to meet later. He called back and asked if I would show up in court Wednesday to get the case continued. Ozzie thought he could use the DUI to pressure Simeon to get in line. I went to court that Wednesday, did the paperwork, asked for a continuance, got one, and forgot about it, for the most part. At the time, Simeon was still represented by Booker Sistrunk, and I told Simeon in court that I would not help him with the DUI. I didn’t like the guy; in fact, I despised him.”

“Did you see a conflict?” Carla asked.

“I thought about it. In fact, I even mentioned it to Ozzie. The truth was, there was no conflict. I’m the attorney for the estate. Simeon is not an interested party in the estate. His wife is, but he’s not.”

“That’s not real clear, Jake.”

“No, it’s not, and I should not have gotten involved. It was a huge mistake. I didn’t trust my instincts.”

“But no one can blame you for Simeon’s drunk driving.”

“Sure they can. If the case had been handled properly, he would have been convicted before now and his license pulled. He would not have been driving last night, in theory anyway. The truth is half the blacks and rednecks in this county do not have valid licenses.”

“It’s only four months, Jake. These cases drag on for longer, don’t they?”

“Sometimes.”

“What was that guy’s name, the roofer? You did a DUI for his son and the case lasted a year.”

“Chuck Bennett, but I didn’t want the boy in jail until they finished with our roof.”

“My point is that these cases can drag on.”

“Sure, but there’s always finger-pointing after a tragedy, the blame game. And since I’m in the Lang camp, I’ll get my share. It’s always easy to blame the lawyers. Ozzie’ll get hammered, too. He’ll be seen as the black sheriff trying to protect one of his own, and now two white kids are dead. It could be brutal.”

“Maybe not, Jake.”

“I’m not optimistic.”

“How will it affect the will contest?”

Jake slowly sipped his coffee and stared through a window into the blackness of his backyard. Softly, he said, “It’s devastating. Simeon Lang will be the most reviled person in this county for months to come. He’ll have his day in court, then get sent away to prison. Over time, he’ll be forgotten by most folks. But our trial is only six weeks away. The Lang name is toxic. Imagine trying to pick a jury with that baggage.” He took another sip, then rubbed his eyes. “Lettie has no choice but to file for divorce, and quickly. She has to cut all ties to Simeon.”

“Will she?”

“Why not? He’ll spend the next twenty or thirty years in Parchman, where he belongs.”

“I’m sure the Rostons will be pleased with that.”

“Those poor people.”

“Are you seeing her today, Lettie?”

“I’m sure I will. I’ll call Harry Rex first thing this morning and try to arrange a meeting. He’ll know what to do.”

“Will this make the
Times
?”

“No, the
Times
will be on the street in an hour. I’m sure Dumas will give it the entire front page next week, with photos of the wrecked vehicles, as much gore as possible. And he’d love to grind me up too.”

“What’s the worst he can say about you, Jake?”

“Well, first, he can label me as Simeon’s lawyer. Then he can slant and twist and imply that I’ve somehow stalled the October DUI case, and that if I had not done so, then Simeon’s driver’s license would have been yanked by the court and he wouldn’t be driving. Thus, the Roston boys wouldn’t be dead.”

“He can’t do that. That’s assuming far too much.”

“He can and he will.”

“Then talk to him. Damage control here, Jake. Today is Wednesday, so the funerals will probably be over the weekend. Wait until Monday, and file the divorce. What do you call that restraining thing?”

“TRO—temporary restraining order.”

“That’s it. Get the judge to sign one of those so Simeon can’t get near Lettie. Sure he’s in jail, but if she wants a TRO it makes her look good. A clean break, she’s running from the guy. In the meantime, talk to Dumas and make sure he gets the facts straight. Do some research and show him that some DUI cases drag on for more than four months. You never opened a file and you certainly weren’t paid a dime. See if you can convince Ozzie to take some heat. If I recall correctly, he got about 70 percent of the vote the last time he ran. He’s bulletproof. Plus, he wants Lettie to win the will contest. If you’re getting hit with baggage, get Ozzie to shoulder some. He can handle it.”

Jake was nodding along, even smiling. Go girl!

She said, “Look, dear, right now you’re shell-shocked and you’re scared. Shake it off. You’ve done nothing wrong, so don’t get blamed for anything. Control the damage, then control the spin.”

“Can I hire you? My office needs some help.”

“You can’t afford me. I’m a schoolteacher.”

Hanna was coughing. Carla went to check on her.

The real damage control began about an hour later when Jake stormed into the Coffee Shop, ready to convince one and all that he was not the lawyer for Simeon Lang and never had been. So many rumors began there, over eggs and bacon. In the shower, Jake decided to go straight to the source.

Marshall Prather was there in uniform behind a stack of pancakes, waiting, it seemed. He’d been up all night too and looked as bleary-eyed as Jake. During the lull that was caused by Jake’s entry, Marshall said, “Hey Jake, saw you at the hospital a few hours ago.” This was a deliberate effort to start the spin because Ozzie was also controlling damage.

“Yeah, just awful,” Jake said somberly. At full volume he asked, “Did ya’ll take Lang to jail?”

“Yep. He’s still sobering up.”

“You his lawyer, Jake?” asked Ken Nugent from three tables over. Nugent drove the Pepsi truck and spent his days hauling cases of beverages into country stores. Dell had once said, in his absence, that no one spread more gossip than Nugent.

“Never have been,” Jake said. “I don’t represent him, nor do I represent his wife.”

“What the hell you doin’ in the case then?” Nugent fired back.

Dell poured coffee into Jake’s cup and bumped him with her rear end, part of the routine. “Mornin’ sweetie,” she whispered. Jake smiled at her, then looked back at Nugent. Things went mute as all other conversations stopped. Jake said, “Under the law, I actually represent Mr. Seth Hubbard, who’s no longer with us, of course, but just before he died he selected me as the attorney for his estate. My job is to follow his wishes, present his last will, and protect his estate. My contract of representation is with the administrator of the estate, and no one else. Not Lettie Lang, and certainly not her husband. Frankly, I can’t stand the guy. Don’t forget he hired those Memphis clowns who tried to steal the case.”

Dell, always loyal, piped in, “That’s what I tried to tell ’em.” She placed Jake’s toast and grits in front of him.

“So who’s his lawyer?” Nugent asked, ignoring her.

“I have no idea. Probably one appointed by the court. I doubt if he can afford his own.”

“What will he get, Jake?” asked Roy Kern, a plumber who’d worked on Jake’s previous home.

“A lot. Two counts of vehicular homicide at five to twenty-five a pop. Don’t know how it’ll go down, but Judge Noose is tough in these cases. I wouldn’t be surprised if he got twenty or thirty years.”

“Why not the death penalty?” asked Nugent.

“It’s not a death case because—”

“The hell it ain’t. You got two dead kids.”

“There was no deliberate effort to kill, nothing premeditated. A death penalty case requires murder plus something else: murder plus rape; murder plus robbery; murder plus kidnapping. This could never be a death case.”

This was not well received by the crowd. When stirred up, the gang at the Coffee Shop could resemble the beginnings of a lynch mob, but it always settled down after breakfast. Jake sprinkled Tabasco on his grits and began buttering his toast.

Nugent asked, “Can the Rostons get any of the money?”

The money? As if Seth’s estate were now available and thus vulnerable.

Jake laid down his fork and looked at Nugent. He reminded himself that these were his people, his clients and friends, and they just needed reassuring. They did not understand the ins and outs of the law and of probate, and they were concerned that an injustice might be in the works. “No,” Jake said pleasantly, “there’s no way. It will be months, probably years before Mr. Hubbard’s money is finally disbursed, and as of right now we really don’t know who’ll get it. The trial will help settle things, but its verdict will certainly be appealed. And even if Lettie Lang eventually gets all the money, or 90 percent of it, her husband doesn’t get a dime. He’ll be locked away anyway. The Rostons will not have the right to make a claim against Lettie.”