Sycamore Row

Another draw, another sneer. “There are no liabilities, Mr. Brigance. Only assets, and plenty.”



“Please, let’s meet and have a chat. All secrets are about to be revealed, Mr. Amburgh, I just need to know where it’s going. Under the terms of his will, you’re the executor and I’m the lawyer for the estate.”



“That doesn’t sound right. Seth hated the lawyers in Clanton.”



“Yes, he made that very clear. If we can meet in the morning, I’ll be happy to show you a copy of his will and shed some light.”



Amburgh started walking again and Jake tagged along, for a few steps anyway. As they approached the cemetery, Ozzie was waiting by the gate. Amburgh stopped again and said, “I live in Temple. There’s a café on Highway 52, west of town. Meet me there at 7:30 in the morning.”



“Okay. What’s the name of the café?”



“The Café.”



“Got it.”



Amburgh disappeared without another word. Jake looked at Ozzie, shook his head in disbelief, then pointed to the parking lot. Both of them eased away from the cemetery. They’d had enough of Seth Hubbard for one day. Their farewell was complete.



Twenty minutes later, at exactly 4:55 p.m., Jake jogged into the offices of the Chancery Court clerk and smiled at Sara. “Where you been?” she snapped, waiting.



“It’s not even five o’clock,” he shot back as he zipped open his briefcase.



“Yes, but we stop working at four, on Tuesdays anyway. Five on Monday. Three on Wednesday and Thursday. On Friday you’re lucky if we show up.” The woman talked nonstop and had a quick tongue. After twenty years of daily give-and-take with a bunch of lawyers, she had honed her retorts and one-liners.



Jake laid the papers on the counter in front of her and said, “I need to open the estate of Mr. Seth Hubbard.”



“Testate or intestate?”



“Oh, he has a will, more than one. That’s where the fun’s coming from.”



“Didn’t he just kill himself?”



“You know damned well he just killed himself because you work in this courthouse where rumors fly and gossip is created and nothing is secret.”



“I’m offended,” she said, stamping the petition. She flipped a few pages, smiled and said, “Ooh, nice, a handwritten will. A boon to the legal profession.”



“You got it.”



“Who gets everything?”



“My lips are sealed.” As Jake bantered he pulled more papers from his briefcase.



“Well, Mr. Brigance, your lips may be sealed but this court file certainly is not.” She stamped something dramatically and said, “It is now officially a public record, under the laws of this great state, unless of course you have a written motion requesting the file to be sealed.”



“I do not.”



“Oh good, so we can talk about all the dirt. There is some dirt, right?”



“Don’t know. I’m still digging. Look, Sara, I need a favor.”



“Anything you want, baby.”



“This is a race to the courthouse and I’ve just won. Sometime soon, perhaps tomorrow, I expect two or three pompous-ass lawyers in dark suits to show up and hand over their version of a petition to open Mr. Hubbard’s estate. More than likely they’ll be from Tupelo. There’s another will, you see.”



“I love it.”



“So do I. Anyway, you’re not required to inform them they’ve just finished second, but it might be fun to watch their faces. Whatta you think?”



“I can’t wait.”



“Great, show them the court file, have a laugh, then call me with a full report. But please, bury this until tomorrow.”



“You got it, Jake. This could be fun.”



“Well, if things unfold the way I expect, this case could keep us amused for the next year.”



As soon as he left, Sara read the handwritten will that was attached to Jake’s petition. She summoned the other clerks to her desk where they read it too. A black lady from Clanton said she’d never heard of Lettie Lang. No one seemed to know Seth Hubbard. They chatted awhile, but it was now after 5:00 p.m. and everyone had places to go. The file was put in its place, the lights were turned off, and the clerks quickly forgot things related to work. They would resume their speculation the following day and get to the bottom of the matter.



Had the petition and will been filed during the morning, the entire courthouse would have been buzzing by noon; the entire town by late afternoon. Now, though, the gossip would have to wait, but not for long.



Simeon Lang was drinking but he was not drunk, a distinction that was often blurred but generally understood by his family. Drinking meant behavior that was somewhat controlled and not threatening. It meant he was slowly sipping beer with glassy eyes and a thick tongue. Being drunk meant harrowing times with people running from the house and hiding in the trees. And, to his credit, he was often cold sober, the preferred state, even for Simeon.



After three weeks on the road, hauling loads of scrap iron throughout the Deep South, he had returned with a paycheck intact, tired and clear-eyed. He offered no explanation of where he had been; he never did. He tried to appear content, even domesticated, but after a few hours of bumping into other people, and of listening to Cypress, and of deflecting the rejections of his wife, he ate a sandwich and moved outdoors with his beer, to a spot under a tree beside the house where he could sit in peace and watch the occasional car go by.



Returning was always a struggle. Out there, on the open road, he would dream for hours of a new life somewhere, always a better life alone and unbothered. He’d been tempted a thousand times to keep driving, to drop his freight at its destination and never slow down. His father left them when he was a kid, left a pregnant wife and four children and was never heard from. For days Simeon and his older brother sat on the porch, hiding tears, waiting. As he grew, he hated his father, still did, but now he too was feeling the urge to run away. His kids were much older; they would survive.



On the road he often asked himself why he felt the pull of home. He hated living in a cramped rental house with his mother-in-law, two rotten grandkids he didn’t ask for, and a wife who nagged him for more out of life. Lettie had threatened divorce a hundred times in the past twenty years, and to him it was a miracle they were together. You wanna split, then let’s have a split, he said as he took a sip. But he’d said that a hundred times too.



It was almost dark when she stepped out of the house onto the rear patio and slowly made her way across the grass to his tree. He sat in one of two mismatched lawn chairs, his feet propped on an old milk crate, his beer cooler next to him. He offered her the other chair but she declined.



“How long you home?” she asked softly as she stared at the road, like him.



“I just got home and you’re ready for me to leave.”



“I didn’t mean it that way, Simeon. Just curious, that’s all.”



He wasn’t about to answer the question so he took another sip. They were rarely alone together, and when they were they couldn’t remember how to talk. A car passed slowly on the county road and they watched it as though fascinated. Finally, she said, “I’m probably gonna lose my job tomorrow. I told you Mr. Hubbard killed himself, and his family don’t want me around past tomorrow.”



Simeon had mixed feelings about this. It made him feel superior because once again he would be the principal breadwinner, the head of the house. He despised the way Lettie took on airs when she was earning more than he was. He resented her bitching and chirping when he was out of work. Even though she was only a housekeeper, she could get arrogant when acting like a white man trusted her so thoroughly. But, the family needed the money, and losing her wages would inevitably lead to trouble.



He struggled to say “I’m sorry.”



There was another long, silent gap. They could hear voices and noise from inside the house. “Any word from Marvis?” he asked.



She dropped her head and said, “No, it’s been two weeks and no letter.”



“Did you write him?”



“I write him every week, Simeon, you know that. When’s the last time you wrote him?”



Simeon seethed but held his fire. He was proud of himself for coming home sober, and he wouldn’t ruin it with a fight. Marvis Lang, age twenty-eight, two years in the pen with at least ten to go. Drug trafficking, assault with a deadly weapon.



A car approached and slowed, then slowed some more as if the driver wasn’t sure. It moved a few feet, then turned in to their driveway. There was enough sunlight left to reveal it to be an odd make, definitely foreign, and red in color. The engine was turned off and a young white man got out, alone. He was wearing a white shirt with a loosened tie. He carried nothing, and after walking a few feet seemed uncertain of where he was.



“Over here,” Simeon called out, and the young man stiffened as if scared. He had not seen them under the tree. He proceeded cautiously across the small front yard. “Looking for Ms. Lettie Lang,” he said loud enough for them to hear.



“I’m over here,” she said as he came into view. He walked to within ten feet and said, “Hello, my name is Jake Brigance. I’m a lawyer in Clanton and I need to speak to Lettie Lang.”



“You were at the funeral today,” she said.



“I was, yes.”



Simeon reluctantly climbed to his feet and the three exchanged awkward handshakes. Simeon offered him a beer, then returned to his seat. Jake declined the beer, though he would have enjoyed one. He was, after all, there on business.



Lettie said, without being edgy, “I’m sure you’re not just passin’ through our little corner of the world.”



“No, no I’m not.”



“Brigance,” Simeon said, sipping. “Didn’t you represent Carl Lee Hailey?”



Aw, the old icebreaker, at least with black folks. “I did,” Jake said modestly.



“I thought so. Good job. Great job.”



“Thanks. Look, I’m actually here on business, and, well, I need to speak with Lettie here in private. No offense or anything, but I have to tell her something confidential.”



“What is it?” she asked, confused.



“Why is it private?” Simeon asked.



“Because the law says it is,” Jake replied, fudging a bit. The law had nothing to do with this situation. In fact, as he muddled through this encounter he began to realize that his big news perhaps wasn’t so confidential after all. There was no doubt Lettie would tell her husband everything before Jake pulled out of the driveway. The last will and testament of Seth Hubbard was now a public record and would be scrutinized by every lawyer in town within twenty-four hours. Where was the privacy, the confidentiality?



Simeon angrily tossed a beer can against the tree, sending a line of foam across the trunk. He bolted to his feet, growling, “All right, all right,” as he kicked the milk crate. He reached into the cooler, grabbed another beer, and stomped away, mumbling and cursing under his breath. The shadows consumed him as he moved deeper into the trees, no doubt watching and listening.