Текст книги "Sycamore Row"
Автор книги: John Grisham
Соавторы: John Grisham
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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 35 страниц)
The plan was for Fritz Pickering to receive the anonymous letter, notice it postmarked in Oxford, open it, recognize the old will, and wonder who in the world had sent it to him. He would probably have a hunch but he would never know for sure.
It was late Saturday night, the college bars were rocking, and the police were more concerned with that activity than with the petty break-in of a small law office. With Clapp in the alley watching things, agent Erby entered the rear door, and within five minutes had returned the Pickering file to its proper and long-neglected resting place.
28
On Monday, February 20, Judge Atlee assembled the players for a progress report. Since it was not an official hearing of any variety, he locked the courtroom to keep reporters and spectators away. Most of the litigants were present: the Hubbards on one side, Lettie and Phedra on the other. Still no sign of Ancil, though Judge Atlee was not quite ready to declare him dead.
He assumed the bench, in his robe, managed a gruff “Good morning,” and called the roll of lawyers. All present. It was soon obvious the judge was not in a good mood and probably felt bad. In a tired voice he said, “Gentlemen, this matter is scheduled for a jury trial six weeks from today. I am monitoring discovery and I see no reason why we can’t be ready to go on as planned on April 3. Am I missing something here? Any reason to delay the trial?”
Serious head shaking followed. No sir. No reason at all. As Jake had said, it was indeed a strange case in that every lawyer was eager for a trial. If anyone wanted to stall, it might be Jake. He had every reason to drag things along, at $150 an hour, but he had Judge Atlee breathing down his neck too. The case officially known as In re Estate of Henry Seth Hubbard was barreling down the docket at record speed.
The judge continued: “Now, Mr. Brigance has copies of the First Inventory for your perusal. As I have instructed in writing, this is to be kept as confidential as possible.” Portia began handing over copies to the other side. “I have sealed this section of the court file because nothing good can come from the dissemination of this sensitive material. You, as the attorneys, and your clients have the right to know what’s in the estate, so take a look.” The lawyers snatched the copies of the inventory and flipped through the pages. Some had heard the alleged value, but they still wanted to see it in black and white. Twenty-four million and change. It validated what they were doing, why they were fighting.
The courtroom was deathly silent for a few moments as it sank in. More money than any of them could ever hope to earn in a long career. Then there were some whispers, and a chuckle over a wisecrack.
Judge Atlee said, “I address the contestants now. In reviewing the discovery, it seems as though you may have plans to challenge the validity of the handwriting. You have listed two experts in this field, and I assume the proponents will need to employ their own. I’ve looked at the handwriting samples, specifically the will, the burial instructions, the letter Mr. Hubbard left behind on his kitchen table, and the letter he addressed to Mr. Brigance, dated October 1. I have also seen the other samples of his handwriting that have been filed. Now, Mr. Lanier and Mr. Rush, do you plan to seriously contend that this will was written by someone other than Seth Hubbard?” His tone left little doubt about how he felt.
Rush and Lanier stood slowly, neither eager to respond. Lanier said, “Your Honor, we’re still debating that point.”
“Well hurry up,” Judge Atlee said rudely. “It’s a waste and you’re wasting my time. A blind man can see it’s his handwriting. Any expert who saunters into this courtroom and says otherwise will be laughed at by the jury and scorned by the court.”
And with that, the handwriting issue was settled. They sat down. Lanier whispered to his sidekick, Lester Chilcott, “What else has he already decided?”
Judge Atlee looked at Jake and growled, “Mr. Brigance, any progress in the search for Ancil Hubbard? Five percent of this inventory is a lot of money.”
Well, no shit, Judge, Jake wanted to say as he was jolted out of another thought and stood properly, though rattled. “Not really, Your Honor. The search has turned up very little. It appears as though Ancil began using different names a long time ago. We’ve found no proof that he’s dead, and certainly nothing to prove he’s alive.”
“Very well. Next on my list is a discussion about the jury pool. It’s been over eight years since I presided over a trial involving a jury, and I admit to being a bit rusty. I’ve spoken to Judge Noose, Judge Handleford, and others, so I’m getting good advice. They seem to think a pool of one hundred will be sufficient. Gentlemen?”
Nothing.
“Good. I’ll instruct the clerk to pull that many names at random from the voter registration rolls, and I’ll make the list available two weeks before trial, the same procedure as in Circuit Court. There will be the standard precautions and warnings against unauthorized contact with the potential jurors. This is a high-profile case, gentlemen, and at times I’m almost convinced every person in this county already has an opinion.”
Jake stood and said, “In that case, Your Honor, perhaps we should consider a change of venue.”
“Requesting one is up to you, Mr. Brigance. I’ve seen nothing in writing.”
“I haven’t done so. I’m just speculating here. If most of our prospective jurors know about the case, then it seems like moving the case might be the proper thing to do.”
“Mr. Lanier,” Judge Atlee said, looking at the other lawyers. “Mr. Rush. Mr. Zeitler. Anybody?”
Wade Lanier straightened himself up with great frustration. “There’s never been a change of venue in a will contest in Mississippi. Not a single case. We’ve done the research.” Lester Chilcott was suddenly clawing his way through a thick briefcase. “And it seems a bit broad to declare that everyone in this county has formed an opinion before we’ve presented the evidence.” Chilcott handed him a thick brief. “Here it is, if the court would like to take a look. Not a single case.”
Jake was impressed with the research; Judge Atlee less so. He said, “I’ll take your word for it, for now. I’ll review the research later.”
Jake wasn’t serious about moving the case because he wanted it to stay in his courtroom, but there were advantages to having the trial in another county. These included (1) the possibility of more black jurors; (2) avoiding the lingering damage caused by Booker Sistrunk, his mouth, his race-baiting, and his black Rolls-Royce; (3) finding jurors who hadn’t gossiped about Lettie and her family, their problems, and their new rental home outside Lowtown; and (4) selecting a jury untainted with endless speculation about Lettie and Seth Hubbard and what they were really up to. These factors and issues had been debated by Jake, Lucien, and, increasingly, Portia, as the weeks passed. They could debate all they wanted, but it was a waste of time. Judge Atlee was not moving the case, and he had said as much to Jake. So Jake was bluffing, and enjoying the sight of his opponents scrambling in opposition. He said, “Judge, if you think every person in Ford County has an opinion, then I’ll file a motion to change venue.”
Judge Atlee said, “I have a better idea, Mr. Brigance. Let’s summon our pool and start the selection process. We should know immediately if we’re wasting our time here. If it looks as though we can’t pick an impartial jury, then we’ll just move the trial somewhere else. There are lots of courtrooms in this state, at least one in every county.”
Jake sat down, as did Lanier and Stillman Rush. Judge Atlee rustled some papers, then launched into a discussion about the remaining depositions. With the lawyers in a remarkably agreeable mood, scheduling posed few problems. A pretrial conference was set for March 20, two weeks before the trial.
The meeting was adjourned.
The meeting reconvened fifteen minutes later in Judge Atlee’s office down the hall. Lawyers only, no clients, paralegals, clerks, or anyone else who couldn’t be trusted. Just the lawyers and the judge, who’d taken off his robe and was puffing away on his pipe.
When they were seated, he said, “Gentlemen, for the next few minutes or so, we will at least have a discussion about settling this matter. I have no reservations about going forward with the trial; indeed, in many ways, I’m looking forward to it. Jury trials are rare for me, and seldom am I dealt facts as intriguing as those presented here. Nonetheless, I would be remiss in my role as the impartial referee not to explore ways to arrive at an outcome that will give all sides something, though less than what they would like. There’s a lot of money on the line here, gentlemen, surely there’s a way to slice the pie and make everyone happy.” A heavy pause as he sucked hard on the pipe stem. “May I make the first proposal?”
As if he needed approval. All lawyers nodded yes, though cautiously.
“Very well. Take the two smaller bequests of 5 percent each: pay the church in full; put Ancil’s in a trust until we figure what to do at a later date. Take the remaining 90 percent and split it three ways: one-third to Lettie Lang; one-third to Herschel Hubbard; one-third to Ramona Hubbard Dafoe. If we assume a tax bite of 50 percent, then each of the three will walk away with something in the neighborhood of three point six million. Far less than what each wants, but far more than each will get if the other side wins. What do you think?”
“I’m sure the church will take it,” Jake said.
“It kinda leaves us high and dry, Your Honor,” said Zack Zeitler, the attorney for Herschel’s children.
“Same here,” said Joe Bradley Hunt, the attorney for Ramona’s kids.
“Of course,” Judge Atlee said. “But it’s safe to assume the children will get no small benefit from such a settlement. Their parents get a windfall; surely it will trickle down. Perhaps, you could stipulate that a portion be held in trust for the kids. Just an idea.”
“Perhaps,” Zeitler said, cutting his eyes around at the other attorneys as if his throat was in danger.
“Interesting,” Wade Lanier mumbled. “I think my folks would consider it.”
“Same here,” said Stillman Rush.
His Honor chewed on his battered pipe stem and looked at Jake, who at the moment was stewing because of the ambush. He had not been forewarned of this impromptu settlement conference, and he certainly had no clue that his old pal was planning to throw some numbers on the table. Judge Atlee said, “Jake?”
Jake said, “You all have copies of the letter Seth Hubbard wrote to me when he mailed along his last will and testament. His instructions to me are rather explicit. His wishes and desires regarding his two adult children could not be clearer. I suggest you all read the letter again, and the will. I represent the estate, and I have my marching orders. My job is to uphold Mr. Hubbard’s will and see to it that his children get nothing. I have no choice. I will not be a part of any compromise or settlement.”
“Should you discuss this with your client?” Stillman said.
“My client is the estate, which is represented by Mr. Quince Lundy, the administrator.”
“I’m talking about Lettie Lang.”
“And I don’t represent Lettie Lang. We have the same interests—the validation of the handwritten will—but I’m not her lawyer. I’ve made that clear to everyone, especially to her. As an interested party she has the right to hire a lawyer, which she tried once but he wound up in jail.”
“I kinda miss ol’ Booker,” Wade Lanier said, and again got a few laughs.
Jake pressed on. “My point is that I’m not her lawyer.”
Stillman said, “Sure, Jake, technically, but right now you have more influence with her than anyone else. Hell, her daughter is your paralegal, or secretary, or whatever.”
“I have quite a staff.”
Wade Lanier said, “You can’t tell us, Jake, that if you went to Lettie and told her she could walk away with over three million bucks in two months, hell, two weeks, she wouldn’t grab the deal and run.”
“I don’t know what she would do. She’s a proud woman who feels scorned by the community. She wants her day in court.”
“Three million bucks might ease some of the scorn,” Lanier said.
“Perhaps, but I will not be a part of a compromise. If the court wishes, I will resign as the attorney for the estate, but as long as I’m here I’m not authorized to settle.”
Judge Atlee relit his pipe with a match and blew some more smoke. He leaned forward on his elbows and said, “Gentlemen, I think he’s right. If this will is proven to be valid, that is, if the jury believes Mr. Hubbard was of sound mind and not unduly influenced, then we have no choice but to follow the terms of the will. It is explicit. The adult children get nothing.”
Maybe, Wade Lanier thought to himself, but you don’t know what I know. You haven’t seen the Irene Pickering will. You don’t know that Ms. Lettie Lang has a history of worming her way into the private matters of her employers. And when the jury hears and sees this, the adult children of Seth Hubbard will do quite well.
Jake’s principled defense of his dead client’s last will, as well as his somewhat cocky belief that the trial should be held in Clanton, in his courtroom, was severely shaken by a tragedy that occurred later that night in an ice storm near the town of Lake Village, in the southern part of Ford County. Two brothers, Kyle and Bo Roston, were driving home after a high school basketball game. Kyle was Clanton High’s senior point guard. Bo was a sophomore substitute. An eyewitness in a car behind them said the driver, Kyle, was proceeding with caution, not in a hurry, and handling the road conditions with skill. Another vehicle topped a hill at a high rate of speed and began sliding. The witness watched in horror as a crash became inevitable. He estimated Kyle was driving about forty miles per hour; the other vehicle, an old pickup, much faster than that. The head-on collision sent the Rostons’ small Toyota flipping through the air and into a ditch. The pickup spun wildly into a field as debris littered the road. The witness was able to stop in time and give assistance.
Kyle died at the scene. Bo was extracted by rescue personnel and taken to the hospital in Clanton where he immediately went into surgery. The trauma to his head was severe and he was barely alive. The other driver was also hospitalized but his injuries were not serious. His blood alcohol content was twice the legal limit. A deputy was parked outside his room.
The other driver was Simeon Lang.
Ozzie called Jake just after midnight and awakened him from a deep sleep. Fifteen minutes later, Ozzie stopped in front of the house and Jake hustled outside and into the sheriff’s car. The ice was worse and the streets were slick, and as they crept through town Ozzie gave an update. The second boy was still in surgery but things looked grim. As far as Ozzie could tell at that point, Simeon had not been drinking in a local honky-tonk. According to Lettie, who was already at the hospital, he had not been home in over a week. She thought he was returning from a long haul, though he was not carrying cash or a paycheck. He had a broken nose but was otherwise unhurt.
“The drunks always walk away from their wrecks,” Ozzie said.
They found Lettie and Portia hiding at the end of a long hallway, not far from Simeon’s room. Both were crying, distraught, almost inconsolable. Jake sat with them while Ozzie left to check on other matters. After a few minutes with little conversation, Lettie walked away to find a restroom. As soon as she was gone, Portia said, “Ten years ago I was fourteen and in the ninth grade, and I begged her to leave him. He was hitting her back then. I saw it. I said, ‘Please Momma, let’s get away from him, go somewhere else.’ I think maybe she tried but she’s always been afraid of him. Now look what he’s done. What’ll happen to him, Jake?” She raked tears off her cheeks with the back of her hand.
Barely above a whisper, Jake said, “Nothing good. Assuming everything is his fault, and that he was drunk, he’s looking at vehicular homicide. One count, as of now.”
“What’s it carry?”
“Five to twenty-five. The judge has a lot of discretion.”
“And he can’t get out of it?”
“No. I see no way.”
“Hallelujah. He’ll finally be gone for a long time.” She cupped both hands over her mouth and nose and sobbed harder. “Those poor boys,” she kept saying.
The crowd continued to grow around the waiting area on the hospital’s main wing. Ozzie spoke to Jeff and Evelyn Roston, the parents, who were too stunned to say much. He talked to one of the boys’ uncles and explained that Simeon Lang was in custody and would be moved to the jail within hours. Yes, he was drunk, still is. I’m very sorry.
“You better get him outta here,” the uncle said, nodding to a group of men nearby. Angry, distraught men, rural types raised around guns and rifles and upset enough to do something drastic. Others joined them. The Rostons grew soybeans and chickens and were active in their country church. They had many relatives and friends, and they had never voted for Ozzie.
Every deputy on the payroll was at the hospital by 2:00 a.m. At three, they sneaked Simeon out of the hospital and took him to jail. Ozzie informed the uncle.
Lettie and Portia used the same side door and left the hospital. Jake accompanied them to their car. He returned to the main wing, avoided the waiting area, and found Ozzie chatting with two of his men. Dumas Lee approached them, camera around his neck, and they immediately went silent.
Dumas said, “Say, Jake, you got a minute?”
Jake hesitated, looked at Ozzie, who said, “No comment whatsoever,” then asked Dumas, “What’s on your mind?”
“Just a couple of questions.”
They walked away, side by side, down a long corridor. Dumas asked, “Can you confirm it’s Simeon Lang?”
It was senseless to deny it, so Jake said, “Yes.”
“And you’re his lawyer?”
“I am not.”
“Okay, but he’s had a drunk driving charge pending in city court for four months. Your name’s on the docket as his lawyer.”
Careful, Jake warned himself. He breathed deeply and felt a thick knot in his stomach. “I did that as a favor,” he said.
“I don’t care why you did it. Your name’s on the docket as his lawyer.”
“I’m not his lawyer, okay? Never have been. I can’t represent the estate of Seth Hubbard and also represent Simeon Lang, the husband of one of the beneficiaries.”
“Then why did you show up in court on October 19 to request a postponement of his drunk driving case?”
“It was a favor. I’m not his lawyer, okay Dumas?”
“Why has the case been postponed for four months?”
“I’m not the judge.”
“I’ll talk to him later,” Dumas fired back.
“You do that. No further comment.” Jake abruptly turned around and walked away. Dumas followed and kept talking, saying, “Look, Jake, you’d better talk to me because this is gonna look bad.”
Jake turned around again and they squared off in the center of the corridor. Jake caught himself, took a deep breath, and said, “Don’t draw any conclusions, Dumas. I haven’t touched the DUI case in four months because I’m not his lawyer. If you will recall, at the time he was represented by those clowns from Memphis. Not by me. So please be careful here.”
Dumas was scribbling furiously. Jake wanted to punch him. Everything was suddenly forgotten by screams from the other end of the building.
Bo Roston was pronounced dead at 4:15 a.m.
29
Jake and Carla sat at the kitchen table and waited for the coffee to brew. It was not yet 5:00 a.m. on Wednesday, February 22, a day that would undoubtedly be one of the saddest and darkest in the county’s history. Two teenagers—bright kids, strong students, athletes, church members, popular boys from a good family—slaughtered on an icy road by a drunk. The horrible news was spreading by the minute. The cafés would be packed as the early risers hurried in for the latest word. The churches would open for prayer. Clanton High School would be the worst place to be. Those poor kids.
Carla poured coffee and they spoke softly, in hushed tones so Hanna wouldn’t be awakened. Jake was saying, “I never opened a file. Ozzie called me on Monday, told me Simeon was arrested on Saturday morning and was due in court on Wednesday. When he sobered up, Ozzie drove him home and along the way told him to get rid of the Memphis lawyers. I thanked Ozzie and we agreed to meet later. He called back and asked if I would show up in court Wednesday to get the case continued. Ozzie thought he could use the DUI to pressure Simeon to get in line. I went to court that Wednesday, did the paperwork, asked for a continuance, got one, and forgot about it, for the most part. At the time, Simeon was still represented by Booker Sistrunk, and I told Simeon in court that I would not help him with the DUI. I didn’t like the guy; in fact, I despised him.”
“Did you see a conflict?” Carla asked.
“I thought about it. In fact, I even mentioned it to Ozzie. The truth was, there was no conflict. I’m the attorney for the estate. Simeon is not an interested party in the estate. His wife is, but he’s not.”
“That’s not real clear, Jake.”
“No, it’s not, and I should not have gotten involved. It was a huge mistake. I didn’t trust my instincts.”
“But no one can blame you for Simeon’s drunk driving.”
“Sure they can. If the case had been handled properly, he would have been convicted before now and his license pulled. He would not have been driving last night, in theory anyway. The truth is half the blacks and rednecks in this county do not have valid licenses.”
“It’s only four months, Jake. These cases drag on for longer, don’t they?”
“Sometimes.”
“What was that guy’s name, the roofer? You did a DUI for his son and the case lasted a year.”
“Chuck Bennett, but I didn’t want the boy in jail until they finished with our roof.”
“My point is that these cases can drag on.”
“Sure, but there’s always finger-pointing after a tragedy, the blame game. And since I’m in the Lang camp, I’ll get my share. It’s always easy to blame the lawyers. Ozzie’ll get hammered, too. He’ll be seen as the black sheriff trying to protect one of his own, and now two white kids are dead. It could be brutal.”
“Maybe not, Jake.”
“I’m not optimistic.”
“How will it affect the will contest?”
Jake slowly sipped his coffee and stared through a window into the blackness of his backyard. Softly, he said, “It’s devastating. Simeon Lang will be the most reviled person in this county for months to come. He’ll have his day in court, then get sent away to prison. Over time, he’ll be forgotten by most folks. But our trial is only six weeks away. The Lang name is toxic. Imagine trying to pick a jury with that baggage.” He took another sip, then rubbed his eyes. “Lettie has no choice but to file for divorce, and quickly. She has to cut all ties to Simeon.”
“Will she?”
“Why not? He’ll spend the next twenty or thirty years in Parchman, where he belongs.”
“I’m sure the Rostons will be pleased with that.”
“Those poor people.”
“Are you seeing her today, Lettie?”
“I’m sure I will. I’ll call Harry Rex first thing this morning and try to arrange a meeting. He’ll know what to do.”
“Will this make the Times?”
“No, the Times will be on the street in an hour. I’m sure Dumas will give it the entire front page next week, with photos of the wrecked vehicles, as much gore as possible. And he’d love to grind me up too.”
“What’s the worst he can say about you, Jake?”
“Well, first, he can label me as Simeon’s lawyer. Then he can slant and twist and imply that I’ve somehow stalled the October DUI case, and that if I had not done so, then Simeon’s driver’s license would have been yanked by the court and he wouldn’t be driving. Thus, the Roston boys wouldn’t be dead.”
“He can’t do that. That’s assuming far too much.”
“He can and he will.”
“Then talk to him. Damage control here, Jake. Today is Wednesday, so the funerals will probably be over the weekend. Wait until Monday, and file the divorce. What do you call that restraining thing?”
“TRO—temporary restraining order.”
“That’s it. Get the judge to sign one of those so Simeon can’t get near Lettie. Sure he’s in jail, but if she wants a TRO it makes her look good. A clean break, she’s running from the guy. In the meantime, talk to Dumas and make sure he gets the facts straight. Do some research and show him that some DUI cases drag on for more than four months. You never opened a file and you certainly weren’t paid a dime. See if you can convince Ozzie to take some heat. If I recall correctly, he got about 70 percent of the vote the last time he ran. He’s bulletproof. Plus, he wants Lettie to win the will contest. If you’re getting hit with baggage, get Ozzie to shoulder some. He can handle it.”
Jake was nodding along, even smiling. Go girl!
She said, “Look, dear, right now you’re shell-shocked and you’re scared. Shake it off. You’ve done nothing wrong, so don’t get blamed for anything. Control the damage, then control the spin.”
“Can I hire you? My office needs some help.”
“You can’t afford me. I’m a schoolteacher.”
Hanna was coughing. Carla went to check on her.
The real damage control began about an hour later when Jake stormed into the Coffee Shop, ready to convince one and all that he was not the lawyer for Simeon Lang and never had been. So many rumors began there, over eggs and bacon. In the shower, Jake decided to go straight to the source.
Marshall Prather was there in uniform behind a stack of pancakes, waiting, it seemed. He’d been up all night too and looked as bleary-eyed as Jake. During the lull that was caused by Jake’s entry, Marshall said, “Hey Jake, saw you at the hospital a few hours ago.” This was a deliberate effort to start the spin because Ozzie was also controlling damage.
“Yeah, just awful,” Jake said somberly. At full volume he asked, “Did ya’ll take Lang to jail?”
“Yep. He’s still sobering up.”
“You his lawyer, Jake?” asked Ken Nugent from three tables over. Nugent drove the Pepsi truck and spent his days hauling cases of beverages into country stores. Dell had once said, in his absence, that no one spread more gossip than Nugent.
“Never have been,” Jake said. “I don’t represent him, nor do I represent his wife.”
“What the hell you doin’ in the case then?” Nugent fired back.
Dell poured coffee into Jake’s cup and bumped him with her rear end, part of the routine. “Mornin’ sweetie,” she whispered. Jake smiled at her, then looked back at Nugent. Things went mute as all other conversations stopped. Jake said, “Under the law, I actually represent Mr. Seth Hubbard, who’s no longer with us, of course, but just before he died he selected me as the attorney for his estate. My job is to follow his wishes, present his last will, and protect his estate. My contract of representation is with the administrator of the estate, and no one else. Not Lettie Lang, and certainly not her husband. Frankly, I can’t stand the guy. Don’t forget he hired those Memphis clowns who tried to steal the case.”
Dell, always loyal, piped in, “That’s what I tried to tell ’em.” She placed Jake’s toast and grits in front of him.
“So who’s his lawyer?” Nugent asked, ignoring her.
“I have no idea. Probably one appointed by the court. I doubt if he can afford his own.”
“What will he get, Jake?” asked Roy Kern, a plumber who’d worked on Jake’s previous home.
“A lot. Two counts of vehicular homicide at five to twenty-five a pop. Don’t know how it’ll go down, but Judge Noose is tough in these cases. I wouldn’t be surprised if he got twenty or thirty years.”
“Why not the death penalty?” asked Nugent.
“It’s not a death case because—”
“The hell it ain’t. You got two dead kids.”
“There was no deliberate effort to kill, nothing premeditated. A death penalty case requires murder plus something else: murder plus rape; murder plus robbery; murder plus kidnapping. This could never be a death case.”
This was not well received by the crowd. When stirred up, the gang at the Coffee Shop could resemble the beginnings of a lynch mob, but it always settled down after breakfast. Jake sprinkled Tabasco on his grits and began buttering his toast.
Nugent asked, “Can the Rostons get any of the money?”
The money? As if Seth’s estate were now available and thus vulnerable.
Jake laid down his fork and looked at Nugent. He reminded himself that these were his people, his clients and friends, and they just needed reassuring. They did not understand the ins and outs of the law and of probate, and they were concerned that an injustice might be in the works. “No,” Jake said pleasantly, “there’s no way. It will be months, probably years before Mr. Hubbard’s money is finally disbursed, and as of right now we really don’t know who’ll get it. The trial will help settle things, but its verdict will certainly be appealed. And even if Lettie Lang eventually gets all the money, or 90 percent of it, her husband doesn’t get a dime. He’ll be locked away anyway. The Rostons will not have the right to make a claim against Lettie.”
He took a bite of toast and chewed quickly. He wanted to control the spin and not waste time with his mouth full.
“He won’t get out on bond, will he Jake?” asked Bill West.
“I doubt it. A bond will be set, but it’ll probably be too high. My guess is he’ll stay in jail until he either pleads under an agreement or goes to trial.”
“What kinda defense could he use?”
Jake shook his head as if there could be no defense. “He was drunk and there’s an eyewitness, right Marshall?”
“Yep. Guy saw it all.”
Jake continued, “I see a plea bargain and a long sentence.”
“Ain’t he got a boy in prison?” asked Nugent.
“He does. Marvis.”
“Maybe he can bunk with his boy, join the same gang, have all sorts of fun at Parchman,” Nugent said and got some laughs. Jake laughed too, then attacked his breakfast. He was relieved the conversation had moved away from any connection he might have to Simeon Lang.
They would leave the Coffee Shop and go to their jobs, where all day long they would talk about nothing but the Roston tragedy, and they would have the inside scoop because they’d had breakfast with Jake, the man in the middle. They would assure their co-workers and listeners that their pal Jake was not the lawyer for Simeon Lang, the most hated man in Ford County. They would assuage their fears and promise them that Lang was headed to prison for a long time.
