Текст книги "Sycamore Row"
Автор книги: John Grisham
Соавторы: John Grisham
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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 35 страниц)
“My wife just filed for divorce,” he said.
“Lucky you. I’ve had two of them already. They get kinda crazy when you’re in jail.”
“If you say so. You ever had a restrainin’ order?”
“No, but my brother did. Bitch convinced a judge he was dangerous, which he was, and a judge told him to stay away from the house and keep his distance in public. Didn’t bother him. Killed her anyway.”
“Your brother killed his wife?”
“Yep, but she had it coming. It was justifiable homicide, but the jury didn’t exactly see it that way. Found him guilty of second-degree.”
“Where is he?”
“Angola, Louisiana, twenty years. That’s about what you’ll get, accordin’ to my lawyer.”
“Your lawyer?”
“Yeah, I asked him this afternoon when I saw him. He knows about your case, said the whole town is talkin’ about it, said folks are really upset. Said your wife’s about to get rich from this big will contest but your ass’ll be locked away for the next twenty years. By the time you get out all the money’ll be gone, what with all the new friends she’s got. That true?”
“Ask your lawyer.”
“How’d your wife get herself into that old man’s will like that? Said he left behind twenty million bucks or so, that true?”
“Ask your lawyer.”
“I’ll do that. Didn’t mean to piss you off or anything.”
“I ain’t pissed. Just don’t want to talk about it, okay?”
“You got it, man.” Denny picked up his paperback and started reading.
Simeon stretched out on the bottom bunk and went back to page one. In twenty years he would be sixty-six. Lettie would have another husband and a much better life. She would have the children and grandchildren and probably great-grandchildren, and he would have nothing.
He wouldn’t fight the divorce. She could have it all.
Maybe he could see Marvis in prison.
32
Eight days after the Roston tragedy, and just as it was beginning to wind down and folks were discussing other matters, it bolted back onto center stage in the weekly edition of The Ford County Times. On the front page, under a bold headline—COUNTY MOURNS LOSS OF ROSTON BROTHERS—were large class photos of Kyle and Bo. Below that and beneath the fold were photos of their wrecked car, their coffins being carried out of their church, and their classmates holding candles at a vigil outside Clanton High School. Dumas Lee had missed little. His stories were long and detailed.
On page two was a large photo of Simeon Lang, his face ominously bandaged, leaving the courthouse in handcuffs the previous Thursday with his attorney of record, Mr. Arthur Welch of Clarksdale. The story that accompanied the photo made no mention of Jake Brigance, primarily because Jake had threatened Dumas and the newspaper with a libel suit if it even remotely implied that he represented Simeon. There was mention of the old but still pending DUI charge from the previous October, but Dumas did not pursue it or imply that it had been improperly handled. He was terrified of litigation and usually backed down quickly. The two obituaries were lengthy and heartbreaking. There was a story from the high school with glowing comments from classmates and teachers. There was one from the accident scene with Ozzie providing the details. The eyewitness had a lot to say and got his photo in the newspaper. The parents were silent. An uncle asked that their privacy be respected.
Jake had read every word by 7:00 a.m., and felt exhausted. He skipped the Coffee Shop because he was tired of the endless prattling about the tragedy. He kissed Carla good-bye at 7:30 and went to the office, hoping for a return to his normal routine. His goal was to spend most of the day working on cases other than Hubbard. He had a handful of clients in real need of some attention.
Just after 8:00, Stillman Rush called with the news that he had just been fired by Herschel Hubbard. Jake listened thoughtfully. On the one hand he was delighted to see Stillman hit the back door because he really didn’t care for the guy, but on the other hand he was bothered by Wade Lanier’s powers of manipulation. In his only other major trial, that of Carl Lee Hailey, Jake had gone toe-to-toe with Rufus Buckley, then an accomplished district attorney. And while Buckley was quite skilled in the courtroom and smooth on his feet, he was not overly bright, not a crafty manipulator or a clever schemer. Not at all like Wade Lanier, who seemed to be always one step ahead. Jake was convinced Lanier would do anything, lie, cheat, steal, cover up, whatever it took to win at trial, and he had the experience, quick wit, and bag of tricks to do so. Jake wanted Stillman in the courtroom, bungling things and strutting in front of the jury.
Jake sounded sufficiently sad to say good-bye, but forgot about the call within the hour.
Portia needed reassuring. They had fallen into the habit of having a morning coffee around 8:30, always in Jake’s office. The family had received four threatening calls in the days after the accident, but now the calls seemed to have stopped. A deputy still hung around the house, sitting in the driveway, checking the rear door at night, and the family was feeling safer. The Rostons had handled themselves with such grace and courage that the raw feelings had been contained, at least for now.
However, if Simeon decided he wanted a trial, then the entire nightmare would be replayed. Portia, Lettie, and the rest of the family were worried about the spectacle of a trial, of having to face the Roston family in court. Jake doubted that would ever happen, and if it did it would be at least a year away.
For three months, he had been prodding Lettie to get a job, any job. It would be important at trial for the jurors to know she was working and trying to support her family, not retired at forty-seven and expecting the windfall. But no white homemaker would hire her as a housekeeper, not with her baggage and controversies. She was too old for the fast-food joints; too black for anyone’s office staff.
“Momma got a job,” Portia said proudly.
“Excellent. Where?”
“The Methodist church. She’ll clean their preschool three days a week. Minimum wage but that’s all she can find right now.”
“Is she happy?”
“She filed for divorce two days ago, Jake, and her last name is pretty toxic around here. She has a son in prison, a houseful of deadbeat relatives, a twenty-one-year-old daughter with two unwanted kids. Life’s pretty tough for my mom. A job that pays three and a half bucks an hour is not likely to bring much happiness.”
“Sorry I asked.”
They were on his balcony, outside where the air was brisk but not too cold. Jake had a million things on his mind, and he’d already had a gallon of coffee.
“You remember Charley Pardue, my so-called cousin from Chicago?” she asked. “Met him at Claude’s a couple of months ago.”
“Sure. You called him a shyster who wants money for a new funeral home.”
“Yep, we’ve been talking on the phone, and he’s found a relative over near Birmingham. An old guy in a nursing home, last name of Rinds. He thinks this guy could be the link.”
“But Pardue is after money, right?”
“They’re all after money. Anyway, I’m thinking about driving over this Saturday to find the old guy and ask him some questions.”
“Is he a Rinds?”
“Yes, Boaz Rinds.”
“Okay. Have you told Lucien?”
“I have, and he thinks it’s worth the effort.”
“Saturday is your day off. I’m not in charge.”
“Just wanted you to know. And there’s something else, Jake. Lucien told me the county keeps some of the ancient courthouse records at Burley, the old black school.”
“Yes, that’s true. I went there once, looking for an old file, didn’t find it. The county stores a lot of junk there.”
“How far back do the records go?”
Jake thought for a moment. His phone rang in the distance. Finally, he said, “The land records are still in the courthouse because they get used. But a lot of stuff is basically worthless—marriage and divorce records, birth and death records, lawsuits, judgments, and so on. Most of it should be tossed out but no one wants to destroy court documents, not even from a hundred years ago. I heard once there are trial transcripts dating back to before the Civil War, all handwritten. Interesting, but of little value today. Too bad the fire didn’t destroy it all.”
“When was the fire?”
“Every courthouse burns at one time or another. Ours was severely damaged in 1948. A lot of records were lost.”
“Can I dig through the old files?”
“Why? It’s a waste.”
“Because I love the legal history, Jake. I’ve spent hours in the courthouse reading old court files and land records. You can learn a ton about a place and its people. Did you know that in 1915 they hung a man in front of the courthouse one month after his trial? He robbed Security Bank, shot a man but didn’t really hurt him, made off with $200, then got caught. They tried him on the spot, then strung him up.”
“That’s pretty efficient. I guess they didn’t worry about overcrowded prisons.”
“Or congested dockets. Anyway, I’m fascinated with this stuff. I’ve read an old will from 1847 where some white guy gave away his slaves; talked about how much he loved and treasured them, then gave them away like horses and cows.”
“Sounds depressing. You’ll never find a Brigance who owned a slave. We were lucky to have a cow.”
“Anyway, I need written permission from a member of the bar to get into the old files. County rule.”
“Done. Just do it after hours. You still digging for your roots?”
“Sure. I’m looking everywhere. The Rindses abruptly left this county in 1930 without a trace, without a clue, and I want to know why.”
Lunch in the rear of Bates Grocery was a selection of four vegetables chosen at random from a collection of ten pots and skillets simmering on a large gas stove. Mrs. Bates herself pointed, dipped, served, and commented as she loaded the plates and handed them over while Mr. Bates punched the cash register and collected $3.50, iced tea included, with corn bread. Jake and Harry Rex made the drive out once a month when they needed to eat and talk without being overheard. It was a rural crowd, farmers and farmworkers with a pulpwood cutter sometimes thrown in for balance. All white. Blacks would be served without incident but that had yet to happen. Blacks shopped up front in the grocery; in fact, Tonya Hailey had bought a sack of groceries there and was walking the mile back to her home when she was abducted three years earlier.
The two lawyers huddled around a small table as far away as possible from the others. The table rocked and the ancient floor squeaked, and just above them a rickety fan spun unevenly, though it was still wintertime and the entire building was drafty. In another corner a potbellied stove radiated a thick, pungent heat that kept the narrow room comfortable. After a few bites, Harry Rex said, “Dumas did a good job, for him anyway. That boy loves a good car wreck as much as any lawyer.”
“I had to threaten him, but, yes, he did us no harm. No more than was already done. Thanks for hauling in Arthur Welch for a cameo.”
“He’s an idiot, but my kind of idiot. The stories we could tell. We once spent two nights in a county jail when we were supposed to be in law school. Almost got kicked out.”
Jake knew better than to take the plunge but couldn’t help himself. “Why were you in jail?”
Harry Rex shoveled in a load of collard greens and began, “Well, we’d been to New Orleans for a long weekend, and we were trying to get back to Ole Miss. I was driving, drinking, and somewhere down in Pike County we got lost. Saw blue lights, and I said, ‘Shit, Welch, you gotta take the wheel. Here come the cops and I’m drunk.’ Welch said, ‘I’m drunk too big ass, you’re on your own.’ But we were in his car and I knew for a fact he was not as drunk as I was. I said, ‘Hey Welch, you ain’t had but a coupla beers. I’m stopping this thing right now and you get your ass over here.’ The blue lights were getting closer. He said, ‘No way. I been drunk since Friday. Plus, I already got one DUI and my old man’ll kill me if I get another.’ I hit the brakes and slid to a stop on the shoulder. The blue lights were right behind us. I grabbed Welch, who was quite a bit smaller back then, and tried to pull him over to the driver’s side, and this really pissed him off. He fought back. He grabbed his door handle and stuck his feet into the floorboard and I couldn’t budge him. I was really mad by now so I backhanded him, slapped the shit out of him right across the nose and this jolted him so bad he let go for a second. I grabbed his hair and yanked him over, but the car had a stick shift in the console and he got all caught up in it. We were both tangled up and mad as hell, cussing and clawing like a couple of cats. I had him in a death grip when the trooper said through the window, ‘ ’Scuse me fellas.’
“We froze. At the station, the trooper talked to both of us and declared us to be equally drunk. This was before Breathalyzers and such, back in the good old days.” He gulped some tea, then attacked a small heap of fried okra.
“So what happened?” Jake finally asked.
“I wouldn’t call my dad and Welch wouldn’t call his. A lawyer was visiting a client in jail and heard about the two drunk Ole Miss law students in a cell back there, sobering up and missing classes. He went to the judge, pulled some strings, and got us out. The dean was waiting on us at school, threatened to kill us or at least disbar us before we even graduated. With time we got it all dismissed. The dean knew I would be too valuable an addition to the state bar to give up on.”
“Of course.”
“Needless to say, Welch and I go way back. A lot of skeletons. He’ll take care of Simeon until the will contest is over, then get rid of him. Dude’s going down anyway, not much anybody can do for him.”
“How much damage to our case?”
Lucien, the pessimist, was convinced the damage was irreparable, but Jake wasn’t so sure. Harry Rex swiped his face with a cheap paper napkin and said, “You know how trials go, Jake. Once they start, the judge and lawyers and witnesses and jurors are all locked in the same room, all within spitting distance of each other. They hear everything, see everything, even feel everything. They tend to forget what’s on the outside, what happened last week, last year. They’re consumed with what’s happening before their eyes, and with the decisions they’ll have to make. My hunch is that they won’t be thinking about Simeon Lang and the Roston boys. Lettie certainly had nothing to do with that tragedy. She’s doing her best to get rid of Simeon, who’s about to leave the county for a long time.” A swig of tea, a bite of corn bread. “Right now it looks worrisome, but in a month or so it will be less so. I believe the jury will be so riveted by Seth Hubbard’s will they won’t spend much time thinking about a car wreck.”
“I don’t think they’ll forget that easily. Wade Lanier will be there to remind them.”
“You still plan to lobby Atlee for a change of venue?”
“That’s the plan. We’re meeting this Friday on his front porch, at my request.”
“That’s a bad sign. If he wants you to come over, fine. But if you have to ask, then it probably won’t go so well.”
“I don’t know. I saw him at church Sunday and he asked how I was handling the situation. He seemed genuinely concerned and even willing to talk about the case after the sermon. Very unusual.”
“Let me tell you something, Jake, about Atlee. I know you’re close to him, or as close as any lawyer can get, but there’s a darker side there. He’s from the old school, the old South, old family ties and traditions. I’d bet that deep inside he’s appalled at the notion of a white man taking the family money and leaving it to a black woman. We may one day understand why Seth Hubbard did what he did, or we may not, but regardless of why, Reuben Atlee doesn’t like it at all. He’s got what he’s got because his ancestors passed it down. His family owned slaves, Jake.”
“A thousand years ago. So did Lucien’s.”
“Yes, but Lucien’s crazy. He wandered off the reservation a long time ago. He doesn’t count. Atlee does, and don’t expect him to do you any favors. He’ll run a fair trial, but I’ll bet his heart is with the other side.”
“All we can ask for is a fair trial.”
“Sure, but a fair trial in another county sounds better right now than a fair trial here.”
Jake took a drink and spoke to a gentleman who passed by. He leaned in lower and said, “I still have to file a motion to change venue. It gives us something to argue on appeal.”
“Oh sure. File it. But Atlee is not moving the case.”
“Why are you so sure?”
“Because he’s an old man in bad health and he doesn’t want to drive a hundred miles every day. He’s still the presiding judge, Jake, regardless of where the trial takes place. Atlee’s lazy, like most judges, and he wants this spectacle of a case right here in his courtroom.”
“So do I, to be perfectly honest.”
“His days are filled with no-fault divorces and who gets the pots and pans. Like any other judge, he wants this case and he wants it at home. We can pick a jury here, Jake. I’m confident.”
“We?”
“Of course. You can’t do it by yourself. We proved that during the Hailey trial. You’re okay in the courtroom but it’s my brains that won the case.”
“Gee, I didn’t remember it that way.”
“Just trust me, Jake. You want some banana pudding?”
“Sure, why not?”
Harry Rex lumbered over to the counter and paid for two hefty servings of dessert, in paper cups. The floor shook as he waddled back to their table and sat violently into his chair. With a mouth full, he said, “Willie Traynor called last night. Wants to know what you’re thinking about that house.”
“Judge Atlee told me not to buy it, not now anyway.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.”
“Didn’t know His Honor was in the real estate business.”
“He thinks it might look bad, thinks the gossip will be that I’m clipping the estate for a chunk of money so I’m suddenly in the market for a fine old home.”
“Tell Atlee to kiss your ass. Since when is he in charge of your personal affairs?”
“Oh he’s very much in charge. He’s approving my legal fees these days.”
“Bullshit. Look, Jake, tell that old fart to take a hike, to mind his own business. You’re gonna screw around and lose this house and then for the rest of your life, and dear Carla’s too, ya’ll will kick yourselves for not buying it.”
“We cannot afford it.”
“You cannot afford not to buy it. They don’t build ’em like that anymore, Jake. Plus, Willie wants you to have it.”
“Then tell him to cut the price.”
“It’s already below market.”
“Not enough.”
“Look, Jake, here’s the deal. Willie needs the money. I don’t know what he’s up to, but evidently he’s stretched pretty thin. He’ll cut it from two fifty to two twenty-five. It’s a steal, Jake. Hell I’d buy it if my wife would move.”
“Get another wife.”
“I’m thinking about it. Look, dumbass, here’s what I’ll do for you. You got your arson case so screwed up it’ll never get settled. Why, because your client is yourself and they taught us in law school that a lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client, right?”
“Something like that.”
“So, I’ll take the case at no charge and get it settled. Who’s the insurance company?”
“Land Fire and Casualty.”
“Crooked sonofabitches! Why’d you buy a policy from them?”
“Is that really helpful at this point?”
“No. What was their last offer?”
“It’s a replacement value policy, for one fifty. Since we paid only forty thousand for the house, Land is claiming it was worth a hundred grand when it burned. I kept the receipts, invoices, contractors’ bills, everything, and I can prove we put another fifty into the house. This was over a three-year period. That, plus market appreciation, and I’m claiming the house was worth a hundred and fifty when it burned. They won’t budge. And they totally discount the sweat Carla and I poured into the house.”
“And that pisses you off?”
“Damned right it does.”
“See! You’re too emotionally attached to the case to do any good. You have a fool for a client.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. How much is the mortgage?”
“Mortgages, plural. I refinanced it when the renovation was complete. The first mortgage is eighty thousand, the second is just under fifteen.”
“So Land is offering you just enough to pay off both mortgages.”
“Basically, yes, and we’d walk away with nothing.”
“Okay, I’ll make some phone calls.”
“What kinda phone calls?”
“Settlement calls, Jake. It’s the art of negotiation, and you got a lot to learn. I’ll have them crooks on the run by five o’clock this afternoon. We’ll settle the case, walk away with some cash, for you, nothing for me, then we’ll put together a deal with Willie for the Hocutt House, and in the meantime you’ll tell the Honorable Reuben Atlee to kiss your ass.”
“I will?”
“Damned right you will.”
