Sycamore Row
“What do you think about that?”
“Sistrunk? He wants to be in jail right now. Got his picture in the paper with a nice headline. Another black man wrongfully jailed by the racists in Mississippi. It’s perfect for him. He could not have scripted it any better.”
Jake nodded and smiled. This woman could see around corners.
“I agree,” he said. “It was all an act. By Sistrunk, at least. I can assure you Rufus Buckley had no plans to go to jail.”
“How did we end up with these clowns?” she asked.
“I was planning to ask you the same question.”
“Well, from what I gather, my dad went to Memphis and met with Sistrunk, who, no surprise, smelled a big payday. So he hustled down here to Ford County, put on his show, and my mother fell for it. She really likes you, Jake, and she trusts you, but Sistrunk convinced her no white people can be trusted in this case. For some reason, he brought in Buckley.”
“If those guys stay in the case, we’re going to lose. Can you imagine them before a jury?”
“No, I cannot, and that’s what the fight was all about. My momma and I argued that we’re screwing up the case right now. Simeon, always the expert, argued that Sistrunk will take the case to federal court and win it there.”
“There’s no way, Portia. There’s no federal question here.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“How much is Sistrunk getting?”
“Half. And the only reason I know this is because it spilled out during the fight. My momma said giving half of her share to Sistrunk was ridiculous. My dad said, ‘Well, half of nothing is nothing.’ ”
“Have they borrowed money from Sistrunk?”
“You don’t mind asking questions, do you?”
Jake smiled and shrugged, said, “It will all come out eventually, believe me.”
“Yes, there was a loan. I don’t know how much.”
Jake took a sip of cold coffee as both pondered the next question. “This is serious business, Portia. There’s a fortune at stake, and our side is losing right now.”
She smiled and said, “A fortune? When word got out that this poor black woman in rural Mississippi was about to inherit twenty million, the lawyers went crazy. Had one call from Chicago, making all kinds of promises. Sistrunk was on board by then and he fought them back, but they’re still calling. White lawyers, black lawyers, everybody’s got a better deal.”
“You don’t need them.”
“Are you sure?”
“My job is to enforce the provisions of Mr. Hubbard’s last will, plain and simple. That will is under attack from his family, and that’s where the fight should be. When we go to trial, I want her to be sitting right there, at my table, with Mr. Quince Lundy, the administrator of the estate. He’s white and I’m white, and between us will be Lettie, looking pretty and happy. This is about money, Portia, but it’s also about race. We don’t need a courtroom that’s black on one side and white on the other. I’ll take the case all the way to the jury, and—”
“And you’ll win?”
“Only an idiot lawyer predicts what a jury might do. But I’ll swear that my chances of winning the case are far greater than Booker Sistrunk’s. Plus, I’m not getting a cut of Lettie’s inheritance.”
“How do you get paid?”
“You don’t mind asking questions, do you?”
“Sorry. There’s just so much I don’t know.”
“I’m working by the hour and my fees come from the estate. All reasonable and court approved.”
She nodded as if she heard this all the time. She coughed and said, “My mouth is dry. Do you have a soft drink or something?”
“Sure. Follow me.” They went downstairs to the small kitchen where Jake found a diet soda. To impress her, he took her into the small conference room and showed her where Quince Lundy was currently doing his work and digging through the Hubbard records. Lundy had not yet arrived for the day. “How much of the money is in cash?” she asked timidly, as if she might be out-of-bounds. She stared at the boxes of records as if they were filled with cash.
“Most of it.”
She admired the shelves packed with thick law books and treatises, few of which had been touched in years. “You have a nice office here, Jake,” she said.
“It’s a hand-me-down. It belongs to a man named Lucien Wilbanks.”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“Most people have. Have a seat.”
She eased into a thick, leather chair at the long table as Jake closed the door. Roxy, of course, was nearby and on full radar alert.
Jake sat across from her and said, “So, tell me, Portia, how do you get rid of Sistrunk?”
In the best military tradition, she instantly blurted, “Keep his big ass in jail.”
Jake laughed and said, “That’s only temporary. Your mother has to fire him. Your father doesn’t matter; he’s not a party.”
“But they owe him money.”
“They can pay him later. If she’ll listen to me, I’ll walk her through it. But, first, she has to tell Sistrunk he’s fired. And Buckley too. In writing. I’ll draft a letter if she’ll sign it.”
“Give me some time, okay?”
“There’s not much time. The longer Sistrunk hangs around the more damage he does. He’s a publicity hound and loves the attention. Unfortunately, he’s getting the attention of all the white people in Ford County. Those will be our jurors, Portia.”
“An all-white jury?”
“No, but at least eight or nine of the twelve.”
“Wasn’t the Hailey jury all white?”
“Indeed it was, and it seemed to grow whiter each day. But that was a different trial.”
She took a sip from the can and looked again at the rows of important books covering the walls. “It must be pretty cool being a lawyer,” she said in awe.
“Cool” was not an adjective Jake would use. He was forced to admit to himself that it had been a long time since he viewed his profession as something other than tedious. The Hailey trial had been a great triumph, but for all the hard labor, harassment, physical threats, and raw emotions, he had been paid $900. For that, he’d lost his home and almost his family.
“It has its moments,” he said.
“Tell me, Jake, are there any black female lawyers in Clanton?”
“No.”
“How many black lawyers are there?”
“Two.”
“Where’s the nearest black woman with her own law office?”
“There’s one over in Tupelo.”
“Do you know her? I’d like to meet her.”
“I’ll be happy to make the phone call. Her name is Barbara McNatt, a nice lady. She was a year ahead of me in law school. Does primarily family law but also mixes it up with the cops and prosecutors. She’s a good lawyer.”
“That’d be great, Jake.”
She took another sip as they waited through an uncomfortable gap in the conversation. Jake knew where he wanted to go but couldn’t be in a hurry. “You mentioned law school,” he said, and this grabbed her attention. They talked about it at length, with Jake careful not to make his description as dreadful as the three-year ordeal itself. Occasionally, like all lawyers, Jake was asked by students if he would recommend the law as a profession. He had never found an honest way to say no, though he had many reservations. There were too many lawyers and not enough good jobs. They were packed along Main Streets in countless small towns, and they were stacked on top of each other in the tall buildings downtown. Still, at least half of all Americans who need legal help can’t afford it, so more lawyers are needed. Not more corporate lawyers or insurance lawyers, and certainly not more small-town street lawyers like himself. He had a hunch that if Portia Lang became a lawyer, she would do it the right way. She would help her people.
Quince Lundy arrived and broke up the conversation. Jake introduced Portia to him, and then walked her to the front door. Outside, under the terrace, he invited her to supper.
The hearing on Kendrick Bost’s petition for habeas corpus relief was held on the second floor of the federal courthouse in Oxford, as scheduled at 1:00 that afternoon. By then, the Honorable Booker F. Sistrunk had been wearing the county-jail coveralls for over twenty-four hours. He was not present at the hearing, nor was his presence expected.
A U.S. magistrate presided and did so with little interest. There was no precedent, at least not in the Fifth Circuit, for a federal court to get involved in a contempt ruling in state court. The magistrate asked repeatedly for some authority, from anywhere in the nation, but there was none.
Bost was permitted to rant and pant for half an hour, but said almost nothing of substance. His ill-grounded claim was that Mr. Sistrunk was the victim of some vague plot by the authorities in Ford County to remove him from the will contest, and so on. What was not said was the obvious: Sistrunk expected to be released simply because he was black and felt mistreated by a white judge.
The petition was denied. Bost immediately prepared an appeal to the Fifth Circuit in New Orleans. He and Buckley had also filed an appeal challenging the contempt order to the Mississippi Supreme Court.
Meanwhile, Mr. Sistrunk played checkers with his new cell mate, a hot-check artist.
The maternal side of Carla’s family claimed some German roots, and for this reason she studied German in high school and for four years at Ole Miss. Clanton rarely provided the opportunity to practice the language, so she was delighted to welcome Portia to their modest rental home, even though Jake forgot to tell her about his invitation until almost 5:00 p.m. “Relax,” he’d said. “She’s a nice girl who might play a crucial role, plus she’s probably never been invited to a white person’s house for dinner.” As they had this discussion, a bit tense at first, they finally realized and admitted that they had never invited a black person to dinner.
Their guest arrived promptly at 6:30, and she brought a bottle of wine, one with a cork. Though Jake had stressed that the evening was “as casual as possible,” Portia had changed and was wearing a long, loose, cotton dress. She greeted Carla in German, but quickly switched to English. She apologized for the bottle of wine—a cheap red from California—and they had a good laugh over the paltry selections in the local liquor stores. Jake explained that all wine and booze in the state were in fact purchased by the State, then doled out to privately owned liquor stores. This led to a lively discussion about the ridiculous liquor laws in Mississippi, where in some towns you can buy 180-proof rum but not a single can of beer.
Jake, holding the bottle, said, “We don’t keep alcohol in the house.”
“Sorry,” Portia said, embarrassed. “I’ll be happy to take it home.”
“Why don’t we just drink it?” Carla asked. A great idea. As Jake rummaged for a corkscrew, the women moved to the stove and looked at dinner. Portia said she’d rather eat than cook, though she had learned a lot about food in Europe. She had also grown fond of Italian wines, bottles of which were scarce in Ford County. “You’ll have to go to Memphis,” Jake said, still searching. Carla had thrown together a pasta sauce with spicy sausage, and as it simmered she began practicing with a few elementary sentences in German. Portia responded slowly, sometimes repeating, often correcting. Hanna heard the strange words and came from the rear of the house. She was introduced to their guest, who greeted her with “Ciao.”