Sycamore Row

“Sorry, Portia,” Lucien said. “No offense. That’s just the way it would be.” She understood, or at least tried to. She was too exhausted to say much. She had left her mother and sisters wrapped in their bathrobes, huddled by the fireplace, with the gun on the mantel, wondering whether they should send the children to school and what they should tell them. Kirk, a sophomore at Clanton High, knew the Roston boys and was swearing he would never return to the school. They were such nice boys. And he hated his father. His life was over. He wanted to get away, like Portia, join the Army and never come back.



Jake and Harry Rex had discussed ways to postpone the trial. Drag it out, burn some clock, give Harry Rex enough time to get the divorce final, give the system enough time to dispose of Simeon and ship him away, and give the county some distance between the horror of the moment, the two burials, and the fight over the estate of Seth Hubbard. Where would they all be in six months? Lettie would be divorced; she could even adopt her old name. Lettie Tayber. It sounded much better, though Portia reminded herself she would still be stuck with Lang. Simeon would be gone. Sistrunk would be all but forgotten. Surely, things would be more conducive to a fair trial in six months. His opponents would object vociferously, and with such momentum on their side, why not?



Jake was slightly optimistic he could have a chat with Judge Atlee, perhaps another late Friday afternoon meeting on the porch with whiskey sours, and after the edge was knocked off he could broach the notion of a delay or change of venue. It was worth a try. The only downside was the risk of angering the judge by such an overt attempt at earwigging, and what would the judge do other than to tell Jake to shut up? He wouldn’t do that, not after a couple of whiskey sours. He might not like the conversation, but he would never chastise Jake. A slight scolding maybe, but nothing close to permanent damage.



Let some time pass, Jake said. Let the rage and horror and sadness lose some of their sting, then die down. They would file the divorce on Monday, and in a week or so Jake would approach Judge Atlee.



Quince Lundy arrived for one of two weekly visits. He found them in the conference room, gathered glumly around the table, quiet, subdued, almost mournful as they stared at the walls and looked at a bleak future. He had heard the news on the Clanton radio station as he drove over from Smithfield. He wanted to ask what the tragedy meant for the trial, but after a few moments in the conference room he suspected the trial was in serious trouble.



Willie Hastings was one of four black deputies on Ozzie’s staff. His cousin was Gwen Hailey, wife of Carl Lee, mother of Tonya, who was now thirteen years old and doing well. He knocked on the front door of the Sappington house and waited as he heard feet shuffling hurriedly inside. Finally, the door cracked and Lettie peeked through it.



Willie said, “Mornin’ Miss Lang. Sheriff Walls sent me over.”



The door opened wider and she managed a smile. “That you, Willie?” she said. “Would you like to come in?”



He entered and found the children in the den watching television, obviously skipping school. He followed Lettie to the kitchen where Phedra fixed him a cup of coffee. He chatted with the women, made some notes about the threatening calls, noticed the phone was now off the hook, and said he would hang around for a while. He was parked in the driveway and would stay there in case they needed him, and to show a presence. Sheriff Walls sends his regrets. Simeon was in a cell by himself, pretty banged up, and still sleeping off his booze. Hastings did not know the Rostons and had not spoken with them, but he understood they were at home surrounded by family and friends. Lettie handed him a letter she had written during the early morning and asked if he could make sure it was delivered to the Rostons. “Just our way of saying how awful we feel,” she said.



Willie promised to have it in their hands before noon.



They topped off his coffee and he went outside. The temperature was still below freezing, but the heater worked well in his patrol car. Throughout the morning, he sipped coffee, watched the street, saw nothing, and tried to stay awake.



An early news show on the Tupelo station ran the story at 7:00 a.m. Stillman Rush was in the shower and missed it, but an associate did not. Phone calls were made; details verified; and an hour later Stillman called Wade Lanier in Jackson with the tragic but also promising news. Lightning had struck. No juror in Ford County would ever have a shot at Simeon Lang, but his wife had just become an easy target.



30



Early Thursday morning Simeon Lang was awakened, fed, handcuffed, and escorted out of his cell and down a hallway to a cramped meeting room where a stranger was waiting. He sat in a folding chair, still handcuffed, and listened as the stranger said, “My name is Arthur Welch and I’m a lawyer from Clarksdale, over in the Delta.”



“I know where Clarksdale is,” Simeon said. He had a large bandage taped across his nose. His left eye was shut with stitches around the edge.



“Good for you,” Welch said. “I’m here to represent you because no one else will take the case. You have a first appearance and bail hearing this morning at nine, and you’ll need a lawyer.”



“Why are you here?”



“A friend asked me to be here, okay? That’s all you need to know. Right now you need a lawyer, and I’m the only sonofabitch willing to stand beside you.”



Simeon nodded slightly.



At 8:30, he was transferred to the courthouse and hustled up the rear stairs to the main courtroom, where he entered the temporary domain of the Honorable Percy Bullard, County Court judge. His own courtroom was down the hall, and quite small, so he preferred to use the big room when it was vacant, which was at least half the time. He’d spent most of his sixteen years on the bench handling minor civil disputes and lighter felonies, but occasionally he was called upon to process and speed along a more serious case. With the county in mourning and tensions high, he decided to haul in Lang, rough him up a bit, and let folks know that the wheels of justice were turning.



Word had spread quickly and there were spectators in the courtroom. At 9:00 a.m. sharp, Simeon was led in, and a guiltier defendant had never been seen. His face was a mess. His orange county jail overalls were too big and bloodstained. He was handcuffed behind his back, and the bailiffs took their sweet time freeing him.



Judge Bullard looked at him and said, “State versus Simeon Lang. Over here.” He pointed to a spot in front of the bench. Simeon shuffled over, glancing around nervously as if he might get shot from behind. Arthur Welch stood beside him while somehow managing to keep his distance.



“You are Simeon Lang?” Judge Bullard asked.



Simeon nodded.



“Speak up!”



“I am.”



“Thanks. And you are?”



“Your Honor, my name is Arthur Welch and I practice law over in Clarksdale. I’m here to represent Mr. Lang.”



Bullard looked at him as if to say, “What the hell for?” Instead, he asked Simeon, “Mr. Lang, is Mr. Welch your lawyer?”



“He is.”



“Okay, now Mr. Lang, you have been charged with two counts of vehicular homicide and one count of driving under the influence. How do you plead?”



“Not guilty.”



“No surprise there. I’ll set a preliminary hearing in about thirty days. Mr. Welch, you will be notified by my clerk. I assume you’d like to discuss bail.”



As if reading from a script, Welch said, “Yes, Your Honor, we would like to request a reasonable bail at this time. Mr. Lang has a wife and family here in the county and has lived here his entire life. He is not a risk to flee and has assured me, and will assure you, that he always shows up in court when required to.”



“Thank you. Bail is hereby set at $2 million, one million for each count of vehicular homicide. Anything else, Mr. Welch?”



“No, Your Honor.”



“Very well. Mr. Lang you are remanded to the custody of the Ford County sheriff until you make bail or are called for by this court.” He tapped his gavel lightly and winked at Welch. Simeon was re-handcuffed and taken from the courtroom. Welch followed him, and outside, under the rear terrace, exactly where the criminal defendants were always photographed when they were newsworthy enough to be photographed, Dumas Lee clicked away and got plenty of shots of Lang and his lawyer. Later, he chatted with Welch, who had little to report but was nonetheless quite willing to talk. He was completely vague on his involvement in a case two hours from home.



Welch had been rolled out of bed at 5:00 that morning with a profane phone call from Harry Rex Vonner, an old roommate from law school. Welch had handled two of Harry Rex’s divorces and Harry Rex had handled two of Welch’s, and they owed each other so many favors and debts and IOUs that keeping score was impossible. Harry Rex needed him instantly in Clanton, and Welch, cursing for two hours, made the drive. He had no plans to represent Simeon Lang beyond the indictment and would punt the case in a month or so.



As Harry Rex explained, in some of the most colorful and abusive language imaginable, it was important for the local folks to see and realize that Simeon Lang was not represented by Jake Brigance, but rather by some scumbag they’d never heard of.



Welch understood perfectly. It was another clear example of what was never taught in law school.



It was early on Friday afternoon, the weather was cold and damp, and Jake was suffering through the weekly ritual of trying to tie up some of the week’s loose ends so they wouldn’t grow and fester and ruin his Monday. Among his many unwritten but nonetheless serious rules was one that required him to return every phone call by noon Friday. He preferred to avoid most of his phone calls, but that was not possible. Returning them was easy to put off. They often slid from one workday to the next, but he was determined not to drag them through the weekend. Another rule forbade him to take worthless cases that would pay little or nothing and turn his obnoxious clients into people he could choke. But, like every other lawyer, he routinely said yes to some deadbeat whose mother taught Jake in the fourth grade, or whose uncle knew his father, or the broke widow from church who couldn’t afford a lawyer but couldn’t live without one. Invariably, these matters turned into “fish files,” the ones that grew fouler the longer they sat in a corner, untouched. Every lawyer had them. Every lawyer hated them. Every lawyer swore he would never take another; you could almost smell them the first time the client walked in the door.



Freedom for Jake would be an office free from fish files, and he still approached every new year with the determination to say no to the deadbeats. Years ago, Lucien had said repeatedly, “It’s not the cases you take that make you, it’s the cases you don’t take.” Just say no. Nonetheless, his special drawer for fish files was depressingly full, and every Friday afternoon he stared at them and cursed himself.



Without knocking, Portia walked into his office, obviously upset. She was patting her chest as if she couldn’t breathe. “There’s a man here,” she said, almost in a whisper because she couldn’t speak any louder.



“Are you okay?” he asked, once again tossing aside a fish file.



She shook her head rapidly. “No. It’s Mr. Roston. The boys’ father.”