Sycamore Row

The flight to Seattle was overbooked. Lucien got the last seat on one to San Francisco, where he would have twenty minutes to catch a nonstop to Chicago. If all went well, he would land in Memphis just after midnight. Nothing went well. He missed the connection in San Francisco, and while berating a ticket agent almost got himself handcuffed by a security guard. To get him out of the airport, they put him on a shuttle to L.A. with the promise he’d get a better connection to Dallas. En route to L.A., he drank three double bourbons on ice, and had the flight attendants glancing at each other. Upon landing, he went straight to a bar and continued drinking. He called Jake’s office four times but got only the recording. He called Harry Rex’s three times, but was told the lawyer was in court. When the nonstop to Dallas was canceled at 7:30, he cursed another ticket agent and threatened to sue American Airlines. To get him out of the airport, they put him on a four-hour flight to Atlanta, first class with free drinks.



Tully Still drove a forklift for a freight company in the industrial park north of town. He was working the night shift and easy to find. At 8:30 Wednesday night, Ozzie Walls gave him the nod and they walked outside into the darkness. Still lit a cigarette. The two were not related, but their mothers had been best friends since elementary school. Tully’s wife, Michele, was Juror Number Three. Front row, dead center, Jake’s prize.



“How bad is it?” Ozzie asked.



“Pretty bad. What happened? Things were rockin’ along fine, then the case blows up.”



“Couple of witnesses came outta nowhere. What are they sayin’ in there?”



“Ozzie, even Michele’s got doubts about Lettie Lang. The woman looks bad, man, sneakin’ round, gettin’ old white folks to change their wills. Michele and the Gaston woman’ll stick with her, don’t worry, but that means they got two votes. And the whites on the jury ain’t bad people, maybe a couple, but most were goin’ with Lettie until this mornin’. It’s not all black against white in there.”



“So there’s a lot of talk?”



“Didn’t say that. I think there’s a lot of whisperin’. Ain’t that pretty normal? You can’t expect folk to not say a word until the end.”



“I suppose.”



“What’s Jake gonna do?”



“I’m not sure he can do anything. He says he’s called his best witnesses.”



“Looks like he got blindsided, like those Jackson lawyers got the best of him.”



“We’ll see. Maybe it’s not over.”



“Looks bad.”



“Keep a lid on it.”



“Don’t worry.”



They were not celebrating with champagne at the Sullivan firm, though fine wine was being poured. Walter Sullivan, the retired partner who founded the firm forty-five years earlier, was a connoisseur who had recently discovered fine Italian Barolos. After a light working dinner in the conference room, he pulled some corks, brought in some fine crystal goblets, and a tasting came to life.



The mood was nothing short of triumphant. Myron Pankey had watched a thousand juries and had never seen one flip so quickly and so thoroughly. “You own them, Wade,” he said. Lanier was being revered as a courtroom magician, able to pull rabbits out of hats in spite of the rules of evidence. “Give the judge the credit,” he said modestly, and more than once. “He just wants a fair trial.”



“Trials are not about fairness, Wade,” Mr. Sullivan chided. “Trials are about winning.”



Lanier and Chilcott could almost smell the money. Eighty percent of the gross estate for their clients, less taxes and so forth, and their little ten-man litigation firm would net a fee in excess of $2 million. It could arrive quickly. After the handwritten will was declared void, they would move on to the prior will. The bulk of the money was in cash. A lengthy probate might be avoided.



Herschel was in Memphis, commuting to the trial with his two children. The Dafoe family was staying in the guesthouse of a friend near the country club. All were in fine spirits and eager to get the money and get on with their lives. After he finished his wine, Wade would call them and receive their accolades.



An hour after he spoke to Tully Still, Ozzie was leaning on the hood of his patrol car in front of Jake’s house, smoking a cigar with his favorite lawyer. Ozzie was saying, “Tully says it’s ten to two.”



Jake puffed and said, “No real surprise there.”



“Well, it looks like it’s time to fold up your chair and go home, Jake. This little party’s over. Get somethin’ for Lettie and get the hell out. She don’t need much. Settle this damned thing before it goes to the jury.”



“We’re trying, Ozzie, okay? Harry Rex approached Lanier’s guys twice this afternoon. They laughed at him. You can’t settle a case when the other side is laughing at you. I’d take a million bucks right now.”



“A million! How many black folk around here got a million bucks, Jake? You’re thinkin’ too much like a white man. Get half a million, get a quarter, hell, get somethin’.”



“We’ll try again tomorrow. I’ll see how the morning goes, then approach Wade Lanier during lunch. He knows the score and he obviously knows how to play the game. He’s been in my shoes before. I think I can talk to him.”



“Talk fast, Jake, and get out of this damned trial. You want no part of this jury. This ain’t nothin’ like Hailey.”



“No, it’s not.”



Jake thanked him and went inside. Carla was already in bed, reading and worrying about her husband. “What was that all about?” she asked as he undressed.



“Just Ozzie. He’s concerned about the trial.”



“Why is Ozzie out roaming around at this hour?”



“You know Ozzie. He never sleeps.” Jake fell across the end of the bed and rubbed her legs under the sheets.



“Neither do you. Can I ask you something? Here you are in the middle of another big trial. You haven’t slept four hours in the past week, and when you are asleep you fidget and have nightmares. You’re not eating well. You’re losing weight. You’re preoccupied, off in la-la land half the time. You’re stressed-out, jumpy, testy, sometimes even nauseous. You’ll wake up in the morning with a knot in your stomach.”



“The question?”



“Why in the world do you want to be a trial lawyer?”



“This might not be the best time to ask that question.”



“No, it’s the perfect time. How many jury trials have you had in the last ten years?”



“Thirty-one.”



“And you’ve lost sleep and weight during each one, right?”



“I don’t think so. Most are not quite this significant, Carla. This is exceptional.”



“My point is that trial work is so stressful. Why do you want to do it?”



“Because I love it. It’s what being a lawyer is all about. Being in the courtroom, in front of a jury, is like being in the arena, or on the field. The competition is fierce. The stakes are high. The gamesmanship is intense. There will be a winner and a loser. There is a rush of adrenaline each time the jury is led in and seated.”



“A lot of ego.”



“A ton. You’ll never meet a successful trial lawyer without an ego. It’s a requirement. You gotta have the ego to want the work.”



“You should do well, then.”



“Okay, I admit I have the ego, but it might get crushed this week. It might need soothing.”



“Now or later?”



“Now. It’s been eight days.”



“Lock the door.”



Lucien blacked out somewhere over Mississippi at thirty-five thousand feet. When the plane landed in Atlanta, the flight attendants helped him off. Two guards put him in a wheelchair and rolled him to the gate for the flight to Memphis. They passed several airport lounges, all of which he noticed. When the guards parked him he thanked them, then got up and staggered to the nearest bar and ordered a beer. He was cutting back, being responsible. He slept from Atlanta to Memphis, landing there at 7:10 a.m. They dragged him off the plane, called security, and security called the police.



Portia took the call at the office. Jake was upstairs frantically reviewing witness statements when she buzzed through with “Jake, it’s a collect call from Lucien.”



“Where is he?”



“Don’t know but he sounds awful.”



“Take the call and put him through.”



Seconds later, Jake picked up the receiver and said, “Lucien, where are you?”



With great effort, he was able to convey the message that he was in the Memphis City Jail and needed Jake to come get him. He was thick-tongued, erratic, obviously bombed. Sadly, Jake had heard it all before. He was suddenly angry and unsympathetic.



“They won’t let me talk,” Lucien mumbled, barely intelligible. Then he seemed to be growling at someone in the background. Jake could visualize it perfectly. He said, “Lucien, we’re leaving in five minutes for the courtroom. I’m sorry.” But he wasn’t sorry at all. Let him rot in jail.



“I gotta get there, Jake, it’s important,” he said, his words slurred so badly that he repeated himself three times.



“What’s important?”



“I got deposition. Ancil’s. Ancil Hubbard. Deposition. It’s important Jake.”



Jake and Portia hurried across the street and entered the courthouse through the rear doors. Ozzie was in the hallway on the first floor talking to a janitor. “Got a minute?” Jake asked with a look that was dead serious. Ten minutes later, Ozzie and Marshall Prather left town in a sprint to Memphis.



“Missed you yesterday,” Judge Atlee said when Jake entered his chambers. The lawyers were gathering for the morning’s pregame briefing.



“Sorry Judge, but I got tied up with trial details,” Jake replied.



“I’m sure you did. Gentlemen, any preliminary matters this morning?”



The lawyers for the contestants smiled grimly and shook their heads. No. Jake said, “Well, yes, Your Honor, there is one matter. We have located Ancil Hubbard in Juneau, Alaska. He is alive and well and unable to rush down here for the trial. He is an interested party to these proceedings and should be included. Therefore, I move for a mistrial and suggest we start over when Ancil can be here.”



“Motion denied,” Judge Atlee said without hesitation. “He would be of no assistance in determining the validity of this will. How did you find him?”



“It’s quite a long story, Your Honor.”



“Save it for later. Anything else?”



“Not from me.”



“Are your next witnesses ready, Mr. Lanier?”



“They are.”



“Then let’s proceed.”



With the jurors so deeply in his pocket, the last thing Wade Lanier wanted to do was to bore them. He had made the decision to streamline his case and get to the jury as soon as possible. He and Lester Chilcott had mapped out the rest of the trial. They would spend Thursday calling their remaining witnesses. If Jake had anything left, he would then be permitted to call rebuttal witnesses. Both lawyers would deliver their closing arguments mid-morning on Friday, and the jurors would get the case just after lunch. With the weekend looming, and with their minds already made up, they should finish and deliver a verdict long before the courthouse closed at five. Wade and Lester would be in Jackson in time for a late dinner with their wives.