Sycamore Row

“So would I.”



“Did you ever handle a nasty will contest?”



“Oh, so that’s where we’re going. You need some free legal advice from a disbarred lawyer.”



“These cases are pretty rare.”



Lucien worked a mouthful and scratched his beard. He shook his head and said, “No, nothing. Look, the Wilbanks family has fought over its land and stocks and deposits for a hundred years; everything has been fought over, bitterly at times. There have been fistfights, divorces, suicides, duels, threats of murder, you name it and a Wilbanks has done it. But, we’ve always managed to keep it out of the courts.”



Sallie appeared and topped off their glasses. They ate in silence for a few minutes. Lucien was staring at the front lawn, his eyes glowing, his mind racing. “Fascinating, isn’t it, Jake?”



“It is indeed.”



“And either side can demand a trial by jury, right?”



“Yes, the law has not been changed. And, the request for a jury trial must be made before any hearing, so it must be dealt with soon. That’s what I want you to ponder, Lucien. That’s the big issue of the day. Do I play it before a jury, or do I trust Judge Atlee with the decision?”



“What if Atlee recuses himself?”



“He won’t because this case will be too much fun. The largest estate he’ll ever see, a packed courtroom, high drama, and, if there’s a jury, then Atlee gets to preside over the circus while hiding behind its verdict.”



“You may be right.”



“The question is, Can you trust a Ford County jury? Three blacks, four at the most.”



“The Hailey jury was all white as I recall.”



“This is not Carl Lee Hailey, Lucien. Far from it. That was all about race. This is all about money.”



“Everything is about race in Mississippi, Jake, don’t ever forget that. A simple black woman on the verge of inheriting what might be the largest fortune this county has ever seen, and the decision rests with a jury that’s predominantly white. It’s race and money, Jake, a rare combination around here.”



“So you wouldn’t risk a jury?”



“I didn’t say that. Allow me to consider this for a spell, okay? My valuable advice, though still free to you, often needs proper reflection.”



“Fair enough.”



“I might stop by this afternoon. I’m looking for an old book that might be in the attic.”



“You own the place,” Jake said, shoving away his plate.



“And you’re late with the rent.”



“Sue me.”



“I’d love to but you’re broke. You’re living in a rental house and your car has almost as many miles as mine.”



“I guess I should’ve gone into the furniture business.”



“Anything but the law. I like this case, Jake. I might want to work on it.”



“Sure, Lucien,” Jake managed to say without hesitation. “Stop by late this afternoon and we’ll chat.” He stood and dropped his napkin on the table.



“No coffee?”



“No, I need to run. Thanks for lunch and pass along my regards to Sallie.”



11



A nosy paralegal sniffing through old land records down the hall heard the gossip as it drifted over from a watercooler, and went to make copies of the latest will to be filed for probate in Ford County. Back at the office, he showed it to his bosses, made even more copies, and began faxing here and there. His bosses faxed it too, and by noon Wednesday copies of Seth’s two-page will were popping up all over the county. The “perish in pain” wish was a favorite touch, but speculation about the deceased’s net worth soon dominated the discussion.



As soon as Herschel left his father’s home, he called his lawyer in Memphis to pass along the wonderful news that he would soon be inheriting “several” million dollars. Of particular concern was his ex-wife—he was still bleeding from the divorce—and he was curious if she could make a claim. No she could not, his lawyer assured him. The lawyer called a lawyer friend down in Tupelo for no reason other than to spread rumors, and in doing so managed to include the bit about Seth Hubbard having a net worth “in excess of $20 million.” The lawyer in Tupelo called some friends. The size of the estate began to grow.



As soon as Ian Dafoe got on the Natchez Trace Parkway and headed south, he set his cruise control on fifty and settled in for the pleasant drive. Traffic was light; the sun was up; the leaves were beginning to change and some were dropping in the breeze. Though his wife, as always, was complicating his life, he had reason to smile. He had managed to defuse the divorce talk, at least for the moment. She was hungover and she had just buried her father and her nerves were shot anyway, and even on a good day Ramona dealt poorly with adversity. He could pacify her, bring her around, kiss her ass enough to gloss over their problems, and set about the task of managing their new wealth. Together. He was certain he could handle this.



She was lying across the rear seat, on her back with a forearm over her eyes, trying to sleep it off. She had stopped talking and her breathing was heavy. He turned around often to make sure she was out of it, then he carefully reached for his new car phone and called the office. Speaking as softly as possible, he offered only the minimum to Rodney, his partner: “The old boy’s gone … estate’s somewhere north of twenty mill … furniture and lumber … pretty amazing … had no idea … just saw the will … 40 percent, after taxes … not bad … about a year … not kidding … more later.”



Ian drove on, smiling at the foliage and dreaming of a better life. Even if they got a divorce, he’d still get a piece of her inheritance, right? He thought about calling his lawyer, but wisely decided to wait. The phone rang suddenly, startling him and waking up Ramona. “Hello,” he said.



On the other end, a stiff male voice said, “Yes, hello, Ian, Stillman Rush here, hope I didn’t disturb. We’re on our way back to Tupelo.”



“Not at all. We’re on the Trace with a couple of hours to go. Nothing to do but talk.”



“Yes, well, look, there’s been a slight complication, so I’ll just go ahead and get right to the point.” His voice had a nervous tinge to it, and Ian knew immediately that something was wrong. Ramona sat up in the rear seat and rubbed her swollen eyes.



Stillman went on: “We didn’t get the chance to open Mr. Hubbard’s estate after we saw you this morning because another will has already been presented. Seems as though a lawyer in Clanton hustled over to the courthouse late yesterday afternoon and filed a handwritten will that Mr. Hubbard purportedly wrote last Saturday, the day before he died. Handwritten wills are still valid, if they meet certain criteria. This will is just awful. It leaves nothing to the family—Ramona and Herschel are specifically cut out—and instead gives 90 percent of the estate to Lettie Lang, the housekeeper.”



“Lettie!” Ian managed to gasp as he veered across the center line. He caught himself and yanked the wheel.



“What is it?” Ramona snarled from the backseat.



“Yes, Lettie Lang,” Stillman repeated. “I guess he was quite fond of her.”



“This is ridiculous!” Ian said sharply, his voice already several octaves higher, his eyes glaring wildly into the rearview mirror. “Ninety percent? Did you say 90 percent?”



“I did, yes. I have a copy of the will and it clearly says 90 percent.”



“Handwritten? Is it a forgery?”



“We don’t know at this point. Everything is preliminary.”



“Well, obviously, Stillman, this can’t stand up, can it?”



“Of course not. We met with the attorney who probated the will, and he’s not going to withdraw it. So we’ve agreed to meet with the judge soon and work things out.”



“Work things out? What does that mean?”



“Well, we’ll ask the judge to toss out this handwritten will and probate the legitimate one we looked at this morning. If for some reason he says no, then we’ll go to court and fight over which will should stand.”



“When do we go to court?” Ian asked belligerently, but there was also a noticeable layer of desperation in his voice, as if he could feel the fortune beginning to slide.



“We’re not sure right now, but I’ll call in a few days. We’ll work this out, Ian.”



“Damned right you will or I’ll bring in the Lanier firm from Jackson, the big boys, been representing me for a long time. Those guys know how to litigate. In fact, I’ll probably call Wade Lanier as soon as we hang up.”



“No need for that, Ian, not yet anyway. The last thing we need at this point is more lawyers. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”



“You do that.” Ian slammed the phone down and glared at his wife, who said, “What’s going on, Ian?”



Ian took a deep breath, exhaled, and said, “You’re not going to believe it.”



Herschel was sitting behind the wheel of his small Datsun listening to the end of a Springsteen song when the call came. The Datsun was parked near the main entrance of the BMW dealer in East Memphis. Dozens of shiny new BMWs glistened in perfect rows along the street. He’d fought himself over this ridiculous stop, and made peace only with a compromise that was to include a chat with a salesman but certainly no test-drive. Not yet anyway. As he reached to turn off the radio, his car phone rang.



It was Stillman Rush. He began with a nervous “Herschel, there’s a new wrinkle.”



Lettie arrived alone. Jake followed her up the stairs to the big office, where he closed the door and directed her to a small sitting area with a sofa and chairs. He took off his tie and poured coffee and tried to ease her apprehension. She explained that Simeon had already left again. She had told him nothing about Seth’s will, and this angered him. They had fought briefly, with every word echoing around the crowded house, and so he left.



Jake handed her a copy of Seth’s will. She read it and began crying. He placed a box of tissues next to her chair. She read it again, and when she finished she laid it on the coffee table before her and sat for a long time with her face in her hands. When the tears stopped, she wiped her cheeks and sat straighter, as if the shock was gone and she was ready for business.



“Why would he do this, Lettie?” Jake asked firmly.



“I don’t know, I swear I don’t know,” she said, her voice low and hoarse.



“Did he discuss this will with you?”



“No.”



“Have you seen this before?”



She was shaking her head. “No, no.”



“Has he ever mentioned his will to you?”



A pause as she tried to unscramble her thoughts. “Twice, maybe, in the past few months, he said he would leave a little something behind for me, but he never said what. Of course I was hoping he would, but I never brought it up. I never had no will. My momma never had one. Not something we think about, you know, Mr. Brigance?”



“Please call me Jake.”