Текст книги "Sycamore Row"
Автор книги: John Grisham
Соавторы: John Grisham
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 35 страниц)
Jake took his morning stroll around the Clanton square, passing banks and insurance agencies and realty offices, shops and cafés, all tucked neatly together, all closed at this early hour. With a few exceptions, the buildings were two-story redbrick with wrought-iron laced terraces overhanging the sidewalks that ran in a perfect square around the courthouse and its lawn. Clanton wasn’t exactly prospering, but it wasn’t dying either like so many small towns in the rural South. The 1980 census put the population at just over eight thousand, four times that much for the entire county, and the numbers were expected to increase slightly after the next head count. There were no empty storefronts, nothing boarded up, no “For Lease” signs hanging sadly in the windows. He was from Karaway, a small town of twenty-five hundred eighteen miles west of Clanton, and Main Street there was decaying as merchants retired, cafés closed, and the lawyers gradually packed their books and moved to the county seat. There were now twenty-six around the Clanton square, and the number was growing, the competition steadily choking itself. How many more can we stand? Jake often asked himself.
He relished walking past the other law offices and gazing at their locked doors and dark reception rooms. It was a victory lap of sorts. In his smugness he was ready to tackle the day while his competition was still asleep. He walked past the office of Harry Rex Vonner, perhaps his closest friend in the bar, and a warrior who rarely arrived before 9:00, often with a reception filled with edgy divorce clients. Harry Rex had been through several wives and knew a chaotic home life, and for this reason he preferred to work late into the night. Jake walked past the hated Sullivan firm, home of the largest collection of lawyers in the county. Nine at last count, nine complete assholes Jake tried to avoid, but this was partly out of envy. Sullivan had the banks and insurance companies and its lawyers earned more than all the rest. He walked past the troubled and padlocked office of an old pal named Mack Stafford, unseen and unheard from now for eight months after apparently fleeing in the middle of the night with money belonging to his clients. His wife and two daughters were still waiting, as was an indictment. Secretly, Jake hoped Mack was on a beach somewhere, sipping rum drinks and never coming back. He’d been an unhappy man in an unhappy marriage. “Keep running, Mack,” Jake said each morning as he touched the padlock without breaking stride.
He passed the offices of The Ford County Times, the Tea Shoppe, which was only now coming to life, a haberdashery where he bought his suits on sale, a black-owned café called Claude’s where he ate every Friday with the other white liberals in town, an antiques store owned by a crook Jake had sued twice, a bank still holding the second mortgage on his home and tied up in the same lawsuit, and a county office building where the new district attorney worked when he was in town. The old one, Rufus Buckley, was gone, banished last year by the voters and permanently retired from elective office, or at least Jake and many others hoped so. He and Buckley had almost choked each other during the Hailey trial, and the hatred was still intense. Now the ex-DA was back in his hometown of Smithfield, in Polk County, where he was licking his wounds and scrambling to make a living on a Main Street crammed with other law offices.
The loop was over, and Jake unlocked the front door to his own office, which was generally considered to be the finest in town. The building, along with many others on the square, had been built by the Wilbanks family a hundred years earlier, and for almost that long a Wilbanks had practiced law there. The streak ended when Lucien, the last remaining Wilbanks and no doubt the craziest, had been disbarred. He had just hired Jake, fresh out of law school and full of ideals. Lucien wanted to corrupt him, but before he had the chance the State Bar Association yanked his license for the last time. With Lucien gone and no other Wilbanks around, Jake inherited a magnificent suite of offices. He used only five of the ten rooms available. There was a large reception area downstairs where the current secretary did her work and greeted clients. Above it, in a splendid room thirty feet by thirty, Jake spent his days behind a massive oak desk that had been used by Lucien, his father, and grandfather. When he was bored, a common occurrence, he walked to the double French doors, opened them and stepped onto the terrace, where he had a fine view of the courthouse and the square.
At 7:00 a.m., on schedule, he sat behind his desk and took a sip of coffee. He looked at his calendar for the day and admitted to himself that it did not look promising or profitable.
3
The current secretary was a thirty-one-year-old mother of four who’d been hired by Jake only because he could find no one more suitable. When she began five months earlier he had been desperate, and she had been available. She went by Roxy, and on the plus side Roxy showed up for work each morning around 8:30, or a few minutes thereafter, and did a somewhat passable job of answering the phone, greeting the clients, chasing away the riffraff, typing, filing, and keeping her turf somewhat organized. On the negative, and heavier, side of the ledger, Roxy had little interest in the job, viewed it as only temporary until something better came along, smoked on the back porch and smelled like it, nagged about the low salary, made vague but loaded comments as to how she thought all lawyers were rich, and in general was an unpleasant person to be around. She was from Indiana, had been dragged south in an Army marriage, and like many from the North had little patience with the culture around her. She’d had a superior upbringing and was now living in a backward place. Though Jake did not inquire, he strongly suspected her marriage was less than fulfilling. Her husband had lost his job due to dereliction. She wanted Jake to sue on his behalf but Jake declined, and this was still festering. Plus, there was about $50 missing from petty cash, and Jake suspected the worst.
He would have to fire her, something he hated to think about. Each morning during his quiet time, he said his daily prayer and asked God to give him the patience to coexist with this latest woman in his life.
There had been so many. He had hired young ones because they were more plentiful and worked cheaper. The better of those got married and pregnant and wanted six months off. The bad ones flirted, wore tight miniskirts, and made suggestive comments. One threatened a bogus action for sexual harassment when Jake fired her, but she was arrested for bad checks and went away.
He had hired more mature women to negate any physical temptation, but, as a rule, they had been bossy, maternal, menopausal, and they had more doctors’ appointments, as well as aches and pains to talk about and funerals to attend.
For decades the place had been ruled by Ethel Twitty, a legendary presence who ran the Wilbanks firm in its heyday. For over forty years Ethel had kept the lawyers in line, terrified the other secretaries, and fought with the younger associates, none of whom lasted more than a year or two. But Ethel was now retired, forced out by Jake during the Hailey circus. Her husband had been beaten by thugs, probably Klansmen, though the case was unsolved and its investigation going nowhere. Jake had been thrilled when she left; now, though, he almost missed her.
At precisely 8:30 he was downstairs in the kitchen, pouring more coffee, then puttering around a storage room as if searching for an old file. When Roxy eased through the rear door at 8:39, Jake was standing by her desk, flipping through the pages of a document, waiting, establishing the fact that she was, once again, late for work. That she had four young children, an unemployed and unhappy husband, a job she didn’t like with a salary she deemed meager, and a host of other problems—all this mattered little to Jake. If he liked her he could find some sympathy. But, as the weeks passed, he liked her less and less. He was building a file, handing out silent demerits, piling on the points so that when he sat her down for the dreaded talk he would have his facts. Jake despised being in the position of plotting to unload an undesirable secretary.
“Good morning, Roxy,” he said, glancing at his wristwatch.
“Hello, sorry I’m late, had to take the kids to school.” He was sick of the lying too, however small it was. Her unemployed husband hauled the kids to school and back. Carla had verified this.
“Uh-huh,” Jake mumbled as he picked up a stack of envelopes she had just placed on her desk. He grabbed the mail before she could open it and shuffled through it in search of something interesting. It was the usual pile of junk mail and lawyerly crap—letters from other firms, one from a judge’s office, thick envelopes with copies of briefs, motions, pleadings, and so on. He did not open these—that job belonged to the secretary.
“Looking for something?” she asked as she dropped her purse and bag and began settling in.
“No.”
Typically, she looked pretty rough—no makeup and a mess of hair. She hurried off to the restroom to put on her face and improve her looks, a project that often took fifteen minutes. More silent demerits.
At the bottom of the stack, on the very last regular-sized envelope of the day, Jake glanced at his name written in blue ink, cursive. The return address stunned him, and he almost dropped everything. He tossed the other mail into the middle of her desk, then hurried up the stairs to his office. He locked his door. He sat down at a rolltop in one corner, under a portrait of William Faulkner that had been purchased by Mr. John Wilbanks, Lucien’s father, and inspected the envelope. Generic, plain, white, letter-sized, cheap paper, probably purchased in a box of a hundred for five bucks, adorned with a twenty-five-cent stamp honoring an astronaut, and thick enough to contain several sheets of paper. It was addressed to him: “The Hon. Jake Brigance, Attorney at Law, 146 Washington Street, Clanton, Mississippi.” No zip code.
The return address was “Seth Hubbard, P.O. Box 277, Palmyra, Mississippi, 38664.”
The envelope had been stamped with a postmark on October 1, 1988, the previous Saturday, at the Clanton post office. Jake took a deep breath and deliberately considered the scenario. If the Coffee Shop gossip could be believed, and Jake had no reason to doubt it, not at that moment anyway, Seth Hubbard had hung himself less than twenty-four hours earlier, on Sunday afternoon. It was now 8:45 Monday morning. For the letter to be postmarked in Clanton last Saturday, Seth Hubbard, or someone acting on his behalf, dropped the letter into the Local Delivery slot inside the Clanton post office either late Friday or Saturday before noon when the facility closed. Only local mail was postmarked in Clanton; all other was trucked to a regional center in Tupelo, sorted, marked, then dispersed.
Jake found a pair of scissors and meticulously cut a thin ribbon of paper from one end of the envelope, the end opposite the return address, close to the stamp but far enough away to preserve everything. There was the possibility he was holding evidence. He would copy everything later. He squeezed the envelope slightly and shook it until the folded papers fell out. He was aware of an increased heart rate as he carefully unfolded the sheets. Three of them, all plain white, nothing fancy, no letterhead. He pressed the creases and laid the papers flat on the desk, then he picked up the top one. In blue ink, and in a neat, cursive hand impressive for a man, the author wrote:
Dear Mr. Brigance:
To my knowledge we have never met, nor will we. By the time you read this I will be dead and that awful town you live in will be buzzing with its usual gossip. I have taken my own life but only because my death by lung cancer is imminent. The doctors have given me only weeks to live and I’m tired of the pain. I’m tired of a lot of things. If you smoke cigarettes, take the advice of a dead man and stop immediately.
I chose you because you have the reputation of being honest and I admired your courage during the trial of Carl Lee Hailey. I strongly suspect you are a man of tolerance, something sadly missing in this part of the world.
I despise lawyers, especially those in Clanton. I will not name names at this point in my life but I will die with a tremendous amount of unresolved ill will aimed at various members of your profession. Vultures. Bloodsuckers.
Enclosed herein you will find my last will and testament, every word written by me and signed and dated by me. I’ve checked the law of Mississippi and am satisfied that it is a proper holographic will, thus entitled to full enforcement under the law. No one witnessed me signing this will because, as you know, witnesses are not required for holographic wills. A year ago I signed a thicker version in the offices of the Rush law firm in Tupelo, but I have renounced that document.
This one is likely to start some trouble and that’s why I want you as the attorney for my estate. I want this will defended at all costs and I know you can do it. I specifically cut out my two adult children, their children, and my two ex-wives. These are not nice people and they will fight, so get ready. My estate is substantial—they have no idea of its size—and when this is made known they will attack. Fight them, Mr. Brigance, to the bitter end. We must prevail.
With my suicide note I left instructions for my funeral and burial. Do not mention my last will and testament until after the funeral. I want my family to be forced to go through all the rituals of mourning before they realize they get nothing. Watch them fake it—they’re very good at it. They have no love for me.
I thank you in advance for your zealous representation. It will not be easy. I am comforted in knowing I will not be there to suffer through such an agonizing ordeal.
Sincerely, Seth Hubbard
October 1, 1988
Jake was too nervous to read the will. He took a deep breath, stood, walked around the office, opened the French doors to the terrace and had the morning’s first good look at the courthouse and the square, then returned to the rolltop. He read the letter again. It would be used as evidence to establish Seth Hubbard’s testamentary capacity, and for a moment Jake was paralyzed with indecision. He wiped his hands on his pants. Should he leave the letter, the envelope, and the other sheets of paper exactly where they were, and run fetch Ozzie? Should he call a judge?
No. The letter was mailed to him, in confidence, and he had every right to examine its contents. Still, he felt as though he was handling a ticking bomb. Slowly, he moved the letter aside and stared at the next sheet of paper. With a laboring heart and trembling hands, he looked at the blue ink and knew full well that these words would consume the next year of his life, or maybe two.
It read:
LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF HENRY SETH HUBBARD
I, Seth Hubbard, being 71 years old and of good mind but decaying body, do hereby make this my last will and testament:
1. I am a resident of the State of Mississippi. My legal address is 4498 Simpson Road, Palmyra, Ford County, Mississippi.
2. I renounce all previous wills signed by me, specifically one dated September 7, 1987, and prepared by Mr. Lewis McGwyre of the Rush law firm in Tupelo, Mississippi. And that will specifically renounced one I signed in March of 1985.
3. This is intended to be a holographic will, with every word written by me, in my handwriting, with no help from anyone. It is signed and dated by me. I prepared it alone, in my office, on this day, October 1, 1988.
4. I am of clear mind and have full testamentary capacity. No one is exerting or attempting to exert influence over me.
5. I appoint as executor of my estate Russell Amburgh of 762 Ember Street, Temple, Mississippi. Mr. Amburgh was vice president of my holding company and has a working knowledge of my assets and liabilities. I direct Mr. Amburgh to retain the services of Mr. Jake Brigance, Attorney At Law, in Clanton, Mississippi, to provide all necessary representation. It is my directive that no other lawyer in Ford County touch my estate or earn a penny from its probate.
6. I have two children—Herschel Hubbard and Ramona Hubbard Dafoe—and they have children, though I don’t know how many because I haven’t seen them in some time. I specifically exclude both of my children and all of my grandchildren from any inheritance under my estate. They get nothing. I do not know the precise legal language necessary to “cut out” a person from an inheritance, but my intention here is to completely prohibit them—my children and grandchildren—from getting anything from me. If they contest this will and lose, it is my desire that they pay all attorneys’ fees and court costs incurred as a result of their greed.
7. I have two ex-wives who I will not name. Since they got virtually everything in the divorces, they get nothing more here. I specifically exclude them. May they perish in pain, like me.
8. I give, devise, transfer, leave behind (whatever the hell it takes) 90% of my estate to my friend, Lettie Lang, as thanks for her dedicated service and friendship to me during these past few years. Her full name is Letetia Delores Tayber Lang, and her address is 1488 Montrose Road, Box Hill, Mississippi.
9. I give, devise, etc., 5% of my estate to my brother, Ancil F. Hubbard, if he’s still alive. I have not heard from Ancil in many years, though I have thought of him often. He was a lost boy who deserved better. As children, he and I witnessed something no human should ever see, and Ancil was forever traumatized. If he’s dead by now, his 5% share remains in my estate.
10. I give, devise, etc., 5% of my estate to the Irish Road Christian Church.
11. I direct my executor to sell my house, land, real property, personal property, and lumber yard near Palmyra, for market value, as soon as practical, and place the proceeds into my estate.
Seth Hubbard
October 1, 1988
The signature was small and neat and quite legible. Jake wiped his hands again on his pants and reread the will. It covered two pages, and the handwriting was in near perfect lines, as though Seth had meticulously used a straightedge of some variety.
A dozen questions clamored for attention, with the most obvious being—Who in the world is Lettie Lang? A close second was—What, exactly, did she do to deserve 90 percent? Then—How big is the estate? If it is indeed sizable, how much will be eaten up in death taxes? This question was quickly followed with—How much might the attorney’s fees run?
But before he got greedy, Jake took another walk around the office, his head spinning and his adrenaline rising. What a wondrous legal brawl. With money on the line, there was little doubt Seth’s family would lawyer up and attack the last will with a fury. Though Jake had never handled a full-blown will contest, he knew such cases were tried in Chancery Court and often before juries. It was rare for a dead person in Ford County to leave much behind, but occasionally someone with a measure of wealth would pass on without proper estate planning, or with a suspicious will. These occasions were a bonanza to the local bar as the lawyers raged in and out of court and the assets evaporated in legal fees.
He gently placed the envelope and the three sheets of paper into a file, and carried it downstairs to Roxy’s desk. By now her looks had improved, somewhat, and she was opening the mail. “Read this,” he said. “And slowly.”
She did as he instructed, and when she finished she said, “Wow. Great way to start the week.”
“Not so for old Seth,” Jake said. “Please note that this arrived in the mail this morning, October 3.”
“So noted. Why?”
“The timing could be crucial one day in court. Saturday, Sunday, Monday.”
“I’m going to be a witness?”
“Maybe, maybe not, but we’re just taking precautions, okay?”
“You’re the lawyer.”
Jake ran four copies of the envelope, the letter, and the will. He gave Roxy a copy to enter into the firm’s newest case file, and he tucked two away in a locked drawer in his desk. He waited until 9:00 a.m. and left the office with the original and one copy. He told Roxy he was headed for the courthouse. He walked next door to Security Bank, where he placed the original in his firm’s lockbox.
Ozzie Walls’s office was at the county jail, two blocks off the square in a low-slung concrete bunker built on the cheap a decade earlier. A tumorlike appendage had been added later to house the sheriff and his staff and deputies, and the place was crammed with cheap desks, folding chairs, and stained carpet fraying at the baseboards. Monday mornings were usually hectic as the weekend’s fun and games were tidied up. Angry wives arrived to bail their hungover husbands out of jail. Other wives stormed in to sign papers to get their husbands thrown into jail. Frightened parents waited for details of the drug bust that caught their kids. The phones rang more than usual and often went unanswered. Deputies milled about choking down doughnuts and sipping strong coffee. Add to the usual frenzy the bizarre suicide of a mysterious man, and the cluttered outer office was especially busy that Monday morning.
In the rear of the appendage, down a short hallway, there was a thick door covered in white hand-painted lettering that read: OZZIE WALLS, HIGH SHERIFF, FORD COUNTY. The door was closed; the sheriff was in early on Monday, and on the phone. The caller was an emotional woman from Memphis whose child had been caught driving a pickup truck that was hauling, among other things, a sizable quantity of marijuana. This had happened the previous Saturday night near Lake Chatulla, in an area of a state park where illicit behavior was known to be common. The child was innocent, of course, and the mother was eager to drive down and retrieve him from Ozzie’s jail.
Not so fast, Ozzie cautioned. There was a knock at his door. He covered the receiver and said, “Yes!”
The door opened a few inches and Jake Brigance stuck his head through the crack. Ozzie smiled immediately and waved him in. Jake closed the door behind himself and eased into a chair. Ozzie was explaining that even though the kid was seventeen, he had been caught with three pounds of pot; thus, he could not be released on bond until a judge said so. As the mother railed, Ozzie frowned and moved the receiver a few inches from his ear. He shook his head, smiled again. Same old crap. Jake had heard it too, many times.
Ozzie listened some more, promised to do what he could, which was obviously not much, and finally got off the phone. He half stood, shook Jake’s hand, said, “Good mornin’, Counselor.”
“Mornin’ to you, Ozzie.”
They chatted about this and that and finally got around to football. Ozzie had played briefly for the Rams before blowing out a knee, and he still followed the team religiously. Jake was a Saints fan, like the majority of Mississippians, so there was little to talk about. The entire wall behind Ozzie was covered with football memorabilia—photos, awards, plaques, trophies. He’d been an all-American at Alcorn State in the mid-1970s and, evidently, had been meticulous about preserving his memories.
On another day, another time, preferably with more of an audience, say around the courtroom in a recess when other lawyers were listening, Ozzie might be tempted to tell the story of the night he broke Jake’s leg. Jake had been a skinny sophomore quarterback playing for Karaway, a much smaller school that for some reason kept the tradition of getting stomped each year in the season finale against Clanton. Billed as a backyard brawl, the game was never close. Ozzie, the star tackle, had terrorized the Karaway offense for three quarters, and late in the fourth he rushed hard third and long. The fullback, already wounded and frightened, ignored Ozzie, who crushed Jake as he desperately tried to scramble. Ozzie had always claimed he heard the fibula snap. In Jake’s version, he heard nothing but Ozzie’s growling and snarling as he pounced for the kill. Regardless of the version, the story managed to get retold at least once a year.
It was Monday morning, though, and the phones were ringing and both men were busy. It was obvious Jake was there for a reason. “I think I’ve been hired by Mr. Seth Hubbard,” he said.
Ozzie narrowed his eyes and studied his friend. “His hiring days are over. They got him down at Magargel’s, on the slab.”
“Did you cut him down?”
“Let’s say we lowered him to the ground.” Ozzie reached for a file, opened it, and took out three eight-by-ten color photos. He slid them across his desk and Jake picked them up. Front, back, right side—all the same image of Seth, sad and dead, hanging in the rain. Jake was shocked for a second but didn’t show it. He studied the grotesque face and tried to place him. “I never met the man,” he mumbled. “Who found him?”
“One of his workers. Looks like Mr. Hubbard planned it all.”
“Oh yes.” Jake reached into a coat pocket, pulled out the copies and slid them over to Ozzie. “This arrived in the morning’s mail. Hot off the press. The first page is a letter to me. The second and third pages purport to be his last will and testament.”
Ozzie lifted the letter and read it slowly. Showing no expression, he read the will. When he finished, he dropped it on the desk and rubbed his eyes. “Wow,” he managed to say. “Is this thing legal, Jake?”
“On its face, yes, but I’m sure the family will attack it.”
“Attack it how?”
“They’ll make all sorts of claims: the old guy was out of his mind; this woman exerted undue influence over him and convinced him to change his will. Believe me, if money’s at stake, they’ll unload both barrels.”
“This woman,” Ozzie repeated, then smiled and began to slowly shake his head.
“You know her?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Black or white?”
“Black.”
Jake suspected this and was not at all surprised, nor disappointed; rather, at that moment, he began to feel the early rumblings of excitement. A white man and his money, a last-minute will leaving it all to a black woman he was obviously quite fond of. A bitter will dispute played out before a jury, with Jake in the middle of it all.
“How well do you know her?” Jake asked. It was well known that Ozzie knew every black person in Ford County: those registered to vote and those still lagging; those who owned land and those who were on welfare; those who had jobs and those who avoided work; those who saved money and those who broke into houses; those who went to church every Sunday and those who lived in honky-tonks.
“I know her,” he said, careful as always. “She lives out from Box Hill in an area called Little Delta.”
Jake nodded, said, “I’ve driven through it.”
“In the boondocks, all black. She’s married to a man named Simeon Lang, pretty much of a deadbeat who comes and goes, off and on the wagon.”
“I’ve never met any Langs.”
“You don’t want to meet this one. When he’s sober, I think he drives a truck and runs a bulldozer. I know he worked offshore once or twice. Unstable. Four or five kids, one boy in prison, I think there’s a girl in the Army. Lettie’s about forty-five, I’d guess. She’s a Tayber, and there aren’t many of them around. He’s a Lang, and the woods are full of Langs, unfortunately. I did not know she was workin’ for Seth Hubbard.”
“Did you know Hubbard?”
“Somewhat. He gave me $25,000 under the table, cash, for both of my campaigns; wanted nothin’ in return; in fact, he almost avoided me my first four years. I saw him last summer when I was up for reelection and he gave me another envelope.”
“You took the cash?”
“I don’t like your tone, Jake,” Ozzie said with a smile. “Yes, I took the cash because I wanted to win. Plus, my opponents were takin’ cash. Politics is a tough business around here.”
“Fine with me. How much money did the old man have?”
“Well, he says it’s substantial. Personally, I don’t know. It’s always been a mystery. The rumor has been that he lost everything in a bad divorce—Harry Rex cleaned him out—and because of that he’s kept his business buried under a rock.”
“Smart man.”
“He owns some land and has always dabbled in timber. Beyond that, I don’t know.”
“What about his two adult children?”
“I talked to Herschel Hubbard around five yesterday afternoon, broke the bad news. He lives in Memphis, but I didn’t get much information. He said he would call his sister, Ramona, and they would hustle on over. Seth left a sheet of paper with some instructions on how he wanted to be handled. Funeral tomorrow at 4:00 p.m., at church, then a burial.” Ozzie paused and reread the letter. “Seems kinda cruel, doesn’t it, Jake? Seth wants his family to suffer through a proper mourning before they know he’s screwed ’em in his will.”
Jake chuckled and said, “Oh, I think it’s beautiful. You wanna go to the funeral?”
“Only if you’ll go.”
“You’re on.”
They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the voices outside, to the ringing of the phones, and they both knew they had things to do. But there were so many questions, so much high drama just around the corner.
“I wonder what those boys saw,” Jake said. “Seth and his brother.”
Ozzie shook his head, no clue. He glanced at the will and said, “Ancil F. Hubbard. I can try and find him if you want; run his name through the network; see if he’s got a record anywhere.”
“Do that. Thanks.”
After another heavy pause, Ozzie said, “Jake, I have a lot on my plate this mornin’.”
Jake jumped to his feet and said, “Me too. Thanks. I’ll call later.”
