Sycamore Row (54 page)

“Thanks. Since your fees are so cheap, get busy.”

“I’m really tired of this case, Jake. On Monday, I’m gonna help you pick the jury, then I’m outta there. I got my own cases to lose.”

“Fair enough. Just be there for the selection.” Jake knew Harry Rex would in fact miss little of the actual courtroom testimony, then he would park himself in the downstairs conference room each evening as they ate pizza and sandwiches and argued about what went wrong and what might happen the following day. He would second-guess every move Jake made; excoriate Wade Lanier with scathing criticism; curse the negative rulings made by Judge Atlee; offer unsolicited advice at every turn; maintain the constant gloom of losing an unwinnable case; and at times be so unbearable Jake would want to throw something at him. But he was seldom wrong. He knew the law and its intricacies. He read people like others read magazines. Without being obvious, he watched the jurors as they watched Jake. And his advice would be invaluable.

Despite Seth Hubbard’s rather explicit command that no other lawyer in Ford County profit from his estate, Jake was determined to find a way to channel some fees to Harry Rex. Seth wanted his last-minute, handwritten will to survive all challenges, and whether he liked it or not, Harry Rex Vonner was crucial to the effort.

The phone on Jake’s desk started a muted ringing. He ignored it. Harry Rex said, “Why have ya’ll stopped answering the phones around here? I’ve called ten times this week and nobody answered.”

“Portia’s been in the courthouse. I’ve been busy. Lucien doesn’t answer the phone.”

“Think of all the car wrecks and divorces and shoplifting cases you’re missing. All the human misery out there trying like hell to get through.”

“I’d say we’re tied up right now.”

“Any word from Lucien?”

“Nothing this morning, but then it’s only six in Alaska. I doubt if he’s up and about yet.”

“He’s probably just now getting in. You’re an idiot, Jake, for sending Lucien on a road trip. Hell, he gets drunk between here and his house. Put him on the road, in airport lounges, hotel bars, you name it, and he’ll kill himself.”

“He’s cutting back. He plans to study for the bar and get reinstated.”

“Cutting back for that old goat means stopping at midnight.”

“When did you get so clean and sober, Harry Rex? You’ve been drinking Bud Light for breakfast.”

“I know how to pace myself. I’m a professional. Lucien’s just a drunk, that’s all.”

“Are you going to perfect those jury instructions or just sit here and bad-mouth Lucien all morning?”

Harry Rex stood and began lumbering away. “Later. You got a cold Bud Light?”

“No.” When he was gone, Jake opened the envelope and studied the check from the insurance company. On the one hand, he was sad because the check represented the end of their first home. Sure it went up in flames more than three years earlier, but the lawsuit against the insurance company gave Carla and him hope that it might be rebuilt. That was still possible, but unlikely. On the other hand, the check meant cash in the bank; not much by any means, but after paying off the two mortgages they would net close to $40,000. It wasn’t exactly unrestricted, but it did take some pressure off.

He called Carla and said a small celebration was in order. Find a babysitter.

Lucien sounded normal on the phone, though normal for him meant the usual scratchy voice and the pained delivery of a drunk trying to shake off cobwebs. He said their man Lonny Clark had a rough night; the infection would not subside; the doctors were more concerned than the day before; and, most important, he was not receiving visitors.

“What are your plans?” Jake asked.

“Hang around for a while, maybe take a road trip. You ever been out here, Jake? Pretty spectacular, with mountains on three sides and
the Pacific right here at the door. The town’s not a big place and not that pretty, but, man, what scenery. I like it. I think I’ll get out and explore.”

“Do you think it’s him, Lucien?”

“I know less than I did when I left Clanton. Still a mystery. The cops don’t care who he is or what’s happening back there; they’ve got a drug ring to break up. I like it here, Jake. I might stay awhile. I’m in no hurry to get back. You don’t need me in that courtroom.”

Jake certainly agreed but said nothing.

Lucien continued, “It’s cool and there’s no humidity. Imagine that, Jake, a place with no humidity. I like it here. I’ll keep an eye on Lonny and chat with him when they let me.”

“Are you sober, Lucien?”

“I’m always sober in the morning. It’s ten at night when I run into trouble.”

“Keep in touch.”

“You got it, Jake. Don’t worry.”

They dropped off Hanna at Jake’s parents in Karaway and drove an hour to Oxford, where they drove through the Ole Miss campus and soaked in the sights and memories of another lifetime. It was a warm, clear spring day, and the students were out in shorts and bare feet. They slung Frisbees across The Grove, sneaked beer from coolers, and soaked up the sun as it was disappearing. Jake was thirty-five, Carla thirty-one, and their college days seemed so recent, yet so long ago.

A walk through campus always triggered a wave of nostalgia. And disbelief. Were they really in their thirties? It seemed like they were students just last month. Jake avoided walking near the law school—that nightmare was not distant enough. At dusk they drove to the Oxford square and parked by the courthouse. They browsed for an hour in the bookstore, had a coffee on the balcony upstairs, then went to dinner at the Downtown Grill, the most expensive restaurant within eighty miles. With money to burn, Jake ordered a bottle of Bordeaux—sixty bucks.

Returning, at almost midnight, they took their customary turns and slowly drove by the Hocutt House. Some of its lights were on, and the grand old place beckoned them. Parked in the driveway was Willie Traynor’s Spitfire with Tennessee plates. Still a bit loose from the wine, Jake said, “Let’s check on Willie.”

“No, Jake! It’s too late,” Carla protested.

“Come on. Willie won’t care.” He’d stopped the Saab and was shifting into reverse.

“Jake, this is so rude.”

“For anyone else, yes, but not for Willie. Plus he wants us to buy this place.” Jake parked behind the Spitfire.

“What if he has company?”

“Now he has more. Let’s go.”

Carla reluctantly got out. They paused for a second on the narrow sidewalk and took in the sweeping front porch. The air was rife with the fragrant aromas of tree peonies and irises. Pink and white azaleas burst forth from the flower beds.

“I say we buy it,” Jake said.

“We can’t afford it,” she replied.

“No, but the bank can.”

They stepped onto the porch, rang the bell, and heard Billie Holiday in the background. Willie eventually came to the door, in jeans and a T-shirt, and pulled it open with a big smile. “Well, well,” he said, “if it’s not the new owners.”

“We were just in the neighborhood and wanted a drink,” Jake said.

“I hope we’re not intruding,” Carla said, somewhat embarrassed.

“Not at all. Come in, come in,” Willie insisted as he waved them in. They went to the front parlor where he had a bottle of white wine on ice. It was almost empty, and he quickly grabbed another and uncorked it. As he did so he explained that he was in town to cover the trial. His latest venture was the launch of a monthly magazine devoted to southern culture, and its inaugural issue would have an in-depth story about Seth Hubbard and the fortune he’d left to his black housekeeper. Willie had not mentioned this before.

Jake was thrilled at the idea of some publicity outside Ford County. The Hailey trial had given him a dose of notoriety, and it was intoxicating. “Who’s on the cover?” he asked, joking.

“Probably not you,” Willie said as he handed over two glasses filled to the top. “Cheers.”

They talked about the trial for a moment or two, but all three were having other thoughts. Finally, Willie broke the ice by saying, “Here’s what I propose. Let’s shake hands tonight on the house, a verbal contract, just the three of us.”

“Verbal contracts for real estate are not enforceable,” Jake said.

“Don’t you just hate lawyers?” Willie said to Carla.

“Most of them.”

Willie said, “It’s enforceable if we say it’s enforceable. Let’s shake hands tonight on a secret deal, then after the trial we’ll find a real lawyer who can draft a proper contract. You guys go to the bank and line up a mortgage, and we’ll close in ninety days.”

Jake looked at Carla who looked right back. For a moment they froze, as if the idea was entirely new. In reality, they had discussed the Hocutt House until they were weary of it.

“What if we can’t qualify for a mortgage?” Carla asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Any bank in town will loan you the money.”

“I doubt it,” Jake said. “There are five in town and I’ve sued three of them.”

“Look, this place is a bargain at two fifty and the banks know it.”

“I thought it was two twenty-five,” Jake said, glancing at Carla.

Willie took a sip of his wine, smacked his lips with satisfaction, and said, “Well, yes, it was, briefly, but you didn’t take the bait at that price. Frankly, the house is worth at least $400,000. In Memphis—”

“We’ve had that conversation, Willie. This is not midtown Memphis.”

“No, it’s not, but two fifty is a more reasonable price. So, it’s two fifty.”

Jake said, “That’s a strange way to sell, Willie. If you don’t get your price, you keep raising it?”

“I’m not raising it again, Jake, unless some doctor comes along. It’s two fifty. That’s fair. You guys know it. Now let’s shake hands.”

Jake and Carla stared at each other for a moment, then she slowly reached over and shook Willie’s hand. “Atta girl,” Jake said. The deal was closed.

The only sound was the faint hum of a monitor, somewhere above and behind him. The only light was the red glow of digital numbers that recorded his vitals. His lower back was cramping and Lonny tried to shift slightly. An IV drip kept the clear but potent meds in his blood, and for the most part kept the pain away. In and out, in and out, he came and went, barely awake for a few moments, then dead again. He’d lost track of the days and hours. They had turned off his television and taken away his remote. The meds were so strong that not even the worrisome nurses could awaken him at all hours of the night, though they tried.

When awake, he could feel movement in the room—orderlies, housekeepers, doctors, lots of doctors. He occasionally heard them speak in low, grave voices, and Lonny had already decided he was dying. An infection he couldn’t pronounce or remember was now in control, and the doctors were struggling. In and out.

A stranger appeared without a sound and touched the guardrail. “Ancil,” he said in a low but strong voice. “Ancil, are you there?”

Lonny’s eyes opened wide at the sound of his name. It was an old man with long gray hair and a black T-shirt. It was the same face, back again. “Ancil, can you hear me?”

Lonny did not move a muscle.

“Your name’s not Lonny, we know that. It’s Ancil, Ancil Hubbard, brother of Seth. Ancil, what happened to Sylvester Rinds?”