Текст книги "Sycamore Row"
Автор книги: John Grisham
Соавторы: John Grisham
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Текущая страница: 26 (всего у книги 35 страниц)
The update revealed little. An infection was causing his brain to swell and Lonny was not in the mood to talk. His doctors wanted things quiet and the detective had not spoken to him that day. He showed Lucien the fake paperwork they found in the flophouse, along with the naval discharge. Lucien showed the detective two enlarged photos of Seth Hubbard. Maybe there was a vague resemblance, maybe not. It was a long shot. The detective called the owner of the bar and insisted he come to the hospital. Since he knew Lonny well, he could look at the photos. He did, and saw nothing.
After the owner left, and with little else to do, Lucien explained to the detective the purpose of his visit. They had been looking for Ancil for six months, but it had been a cold trail. His brother, the one in the photos, had left him some money in a will. Not a fortune, but certainly enough to scramble Lucien from Mississippi to Alaska overnight.
The detective had little interest in a lawsuit so far away. He was more concerned with the cocaine. No, he did not believe Lonny Clark was a drug dealer. They were about to crack a syndicate out of Vancouver, and they had a couple of informants. The buzz was that Lonny was simply hiding the stuff for a fee. Sure, he would serve some time, but time measured in months and not years. And no, he would not be allowed to travel back to Mississippi for any reason, if in fact his name was really Ancil Hubbard.
After the detective left, Lucien roamed around the hospital to familiarize himself with the maze of corridors and annexes and split-levels. He found Lonny’s room on the third floor and saw a man standing nearby, flipping through a magazine, trying to stay awake. He assumed he was an officer.
After dark, he returned to his hotel, called Jake for the update, and went to the bar.
It was either his fifth or sixth night in this damp, dark room with windows that never opened and somehow blocked out all light during the day. The nurses came and went, sometimes tapping softly on the door as they pushed it open, and other times appearing at his bedside without making a sound to warn him. He had tubes in both arms and monitors above his head. He’d been told he wouldn’t die, but after five or six days and nights with virtually no food but plenty of meds and too many doctors and nurses, he wouldn’t mind a prolonged blackout. His head pounded in pain and his lower back was cramping from the inactivity, and at times he wanted to rip off all the tubes and wires and bolt from the room. A digital clock gave the time as 11:10.
Could he leave? Was he free to walk out of the hospital? Or were the goons waiting just outside his door to take him away? No one would tell him. He had asked several of the friendlier nurses if someone was waiting, but all responses had been vague. Many things were vague. At times the television screen was clear, and then it would blur. There was a constant ringing in his ears that made him mumble. The doctors denied this. The nurses just gave him another pill. There were shadows at all hours of the night, observers sneaking into his room. Maybe they were students looking at real patients; maybe they were just shadows that did not really exist. They changed his meds frequently to see how he would react. Try this one for the pain. This one for the blurred vision. This one for the shadows. This one is a blood thinner. This is an antibiotic. Dozens and dozens of pills, and at all hours of the day and night.
He dozed off again, and when he awoke it was 11:17. The room was pitch-black, the only light a red haze cast off from a monitor above his head, one he could not see.
The door opened silently, but no light entered from the dark hallway. But it wasn’t a nurse. A man, a stranger, walked straight to the side of the bed: gray hair, long hair, a black shirt, an old man he’d never seen before. His eyes were squinted and fierce, and as he leaned down even closer the smell of whiskey almost slapped Lonny in the face.
He said, “Ancil, what happened to Sylvester Rinds?”
Lonny’s heart froze as he stared in horror at the stranger, who gently placed a hand on his shoulder. The whiskey smell grew stronger. He repeated, “Ancil, what happened to Sylvester Rinds?”
Lonny tried to speak but words failed him. He blinked his eyes to refocus, but he was seeing clearly enough. The words were clear too, and the accent was unmistakable. The stranger was from the Deep South.
“What?” Lonny managed to whisper, almost in a gasp.
“What happened to Sylvester Rinds?” the stranger repeated, his laser-like eyes glowing down at Lonny.
There was a button on the bedstead that summoned a nurse. Lonny quickly punched it. The stranger withdrew, became a shadow again, then vanished from the room.
A nurse eventually arrived. She was one of his least favorites and didn’t like to be bothered. Lonny wanted to talk, to tell her about the stranger, but this gal was not a listener. She asked what he wanted, and he said he couldn’t go to sleep. She promised to check back later, the same promise as always.
He lay in the dark, frightened. Was he frightened because he’d been called by his real name? Because his past had caught up with him? Or was he frightened because he wasn’t sure he’d actually seen and heard the stranger? Was he finally losing his mind? Was the brain damage becoming permanent?
He faded away, drifting in and out of blackness, sleeping for only a moment or two before thinking of Sylvester.
37
Jake walked into the Coffee Shop at five minutes after seven on Saturday morning, and, as usual, the conversation lagged for a few seconds as he found a seat and swapped a few insults. The trial started in two days, and, according to Dell, the early morning chatter was dominated by rumors and endless opinions about the case. The subject was changed the moment Jake walked in each morning, and as soon as he left it was as if someone flipped a switch and Seth’s will was again front and center. Though her customers were all white, they seemed to be divided into several camps. There were strong opinions that a man in his right mind should be able to give away his property as he pleased, regardless of his family. Others argued he wasn’t in his right mind. Lettie had her share of detractors. She was widely believed to be a loose woman who took advantage of poor old Seth.
Jake stopped by at least once a week when the café was empty and got the lowdown from Dell. Of particular interest was a regular named Tug Whitehurst, a state meat inspector. His brother was on the jury list, though she was certain Tug had not mentioned this. He wasn’t much of a talker, but during one conversation he did side with Kerry Hull when Hull declared it was no one’s business how he left his estate. Hull was notoriously broke and in debt and everyone knew his estate would be a disaster, but this was allowed to pass without comment. At any rate, Dell thought Tug Whitehurst would be okay with Jake, but who knew about his brother?
At this point in the case, Jake was desperate for any information about the chosen ninety-seven.
He sat at a table with a couple of farmers and waited on his grits and toast. Bass fishing dominated the conversation, so Jake had little to offer. For at least the last three years, a great debate had raged in certain circles over whether the large-mouth bass population in Lake Chatulla was declining or increasing. Opinions were strong and loud and there appeared to be no room for compromise. Experts were plentiful. Just as the tide shifted in favor of a dwindling population, someone would land a trophy and the debate would fire up again. Jake was weary of the topic but now thankful for it nonetheless; it kept attention away from the Hubbard case.
As he was eating, Andy Furr asked, “Say, Jake, is the trial still a go for Monday?”
“It is.”
“So no chance of a postponement or anything like that?”
“I don’t see one. The prospective jurors will be there at nine and we should get started soon after. You coming?”
“Naw, gotta work. Ya’ll expectin’ a crowd?”
“You never know. Civil trials tend to be fairly dull. We may start off with some spectators, but I suspect they’ll disappear quickly.”
Dell topped off his coffee and said, “The place’ll be packed and you know it. We haven’t had this much excitement since the Hailey trial.”
“Oh, I forgot about that one,” Jake said and got a few laughs.
Bill West said he’d heard the FBI had just raided the offices of two supervisors down in Polk County, a notoriously corrupt place, and this ignited a round of condemnation from almost everyone but Jake and Dell. It also changed the subject, and for that Jake was grateful. At that moment, facing a long weekend at the office, all he wanted was breakfast.
Portia arrived around 9:00, and they had a coffee together on the balcony as the town came to life around them. She reported that she’d had an early breakfast with Lettie, who was nervous, even fragile, and terrified of the trial. Lettie was exhausted from the strain of living in a house packed with relatives, and of trying to work part-time, and of trying to ignore the fact that her husband was in jail for killing two boys. Add a pending divorce and a gut-wrenching will contest, and Lettie was understandably a wreck.
Portia admitted she was exhausted too. She was working long hours at the office and sleeping little. Jake was sympathetic, but only to a point. Litigation often required eighteen-hour days and lost weekends, and if Portia was serious about becoming a lawyer she needed a good dose of the pressure. In the past two weeks, they had pushed each other into memorizing all ninety-seven names on the jury list. If Jake said “R,” then Portia responded, “Six. Rady, Rakestraw, Reece, Riley, Robbins, and Robard.” If Portia said “W,” then Jake responded, “Three. Wampler, Whitehurst, Whitten.” Back and forth, the mental contests raged throughout each day.
Jury selection in Mississippi was normally a one-day ordeal, at most. Jake was continually fascinated by trials in other states where it took two weeks or a month to pick a jury. He could not fathom such a system; neither could Mississippi judges. They were dead serious about selecting fair and impartial panels; they just didn’t waste time.
Speed would be crucial. Quick decisions would be required. The lawyers on both sides would not have much time to think about names or to look them up in some batch of research. It was imperative that they know the names and quickly put them with faces. Jake was determined to know every single juror, and their ages, addresses, jobs, education, churches, as much info as they could gather.
Once the ninety-seven names were filed away, Portia was given the task of wading through the courthouse records. She spent hours in the deed books and land records searching for transactions over the past ten years. She combed the court dockets, looking for plaintiffs and defendants, winners and losers. Of the ninety-seven, sixteen had gone through a divorce in the past ten years. She wasn’t sure what that meant in the course of a trial over a will, but she had the knowledge anyway. One gentleman, a Mr. Eli Rady, had filed four lawsuits and lost them all. She checked the lien books and found dozens of claims for unpaid taxes, unpaid supplies, unpaid subcontractors. A few of their prospective jurors owed the county money for property taxes. In the tax assessor’s office, she dug through property tax receipts and made a register of which jurors owned what make and model of vehicles. Not surprisingly, there were a lot of pickup trucks.
The work was tedious and often mind-numbing, but she never slowed down, never thought of quitting. After two weeks of living with these people, she was confident she knew them.
After coffee, they grudgingly went back to work. Jake began roughing out an outline for his opening statement. Portia returned to the conference room and to her ninety-seven new friends. At ten, Harry Rex finally rolled in with a sackful of greasy sausage biscuits straight from Claude’s. He handed one to Jake, insisted he take it, then slid across an envelope.
“It’s a check from your insurance company, Land Fire and Casualty, a bunch of crooked morons, so don’t ever buy another policy from them, understand? A hundred and thirty-five thousand bucks. Settlement in full. And not a dime of it siphoned off for attorney’s fees, so you owe me big-time, buddy.”
“Thanks. Since your fees are so cheap, get busy.”
“I’m really tired of this case, Jake. On Monday, I’m gonna help you pick the jury, then I’m outta there. I got my own cases to lose.”
“Fair enough. Just be there for the selection.” Jake knew Harry Rex would in fact miss little of the actual courtroom testimony, then he would park himself in the downstairs conference room each evening as they ate pizza and sandwiches and argued about what went wrong and what might happen the following day. He would second-guess every move Jake made; excoriate Wade Lanier with scathing criticism; curse the negative rulings made by Judge Atlee; offer unsolicited advice at every turn; maintain the constant gloom of losing an unwinnable case; and at times be so unbearable Jake would want to throw something at him. But he was seldom wrong. He knew the law and its intricacies. He read people like others read magazines. Without being obvious, he watched the jurors as they watched Jake. And his advice would be invaluable.
Despite Seth Hubbard’s rather explicit command that no other lawyer in Ford County profit from his estate, Jake was determined to find a way to channel some fees to Harry Rex. Seth wanted his last-minute, handwritten will to survive all challenges, and whether he liked it or not, Harry Rex Vonner was crucial to the effort.
The phone on Jake’s desk started a muted ringing. He ignored it. Harry Rex said, “Why have ya’ll stopped answering the phones around here? I’ve called ten times this week and nobody answered.”
“Portia’s been in the courthouse. I’ve been busy. Lucien doesn’t answer the phone.”
“Think of all the car wrecks and divorces and shoplifting cases you’re missing. All the human misery out there trying like hell to get through.”
“I’d say we’re tied up right now.”
“Any word from Lucien?”
“Nothing this morning, but then it’s only six in Alaska. I doubt if he’s up and about yet.”
“He’s probably just now getting in. You’re an idiot, Jake, for sending Lucien on a road trip. Hell, he gets drunk between here and his house. Put him on the road, in airport lounges, hotel bars, you name it, and he’ll kill himself.”
“He’s cutting back. He plans to study for the bar and get reinstated.”
“Cutting back for that old goat means stopping at midnight.”
“When did you get so clean and sober, Harry Rex? You’ve been drinking Bud Light for breakfast.”
“I know how to pace myself. I’m a professional. Lucien’s just a drunk, that’s all.”
“Are you going to perfect those jury instructions or just sit here and bad-mouth Lucien all morning?”
Harry Rex stood and began lumbering away. “Later. You got a cold Bud Light?”
“No.” When he was gone, Jake opened the envelope and studied the check from the insurance company. On the one hand, he was sad because the check represented the end of their first home. Sure it went up in flames more than three years earlier, but the lawsuit against the insurance company gave Carla and him hope that it might be rebuilt. That was still possible, but unlikely. On the other hand, the check meant cash in the bank; not much by any means, but after paying off the two mortgages they would net close to $40,000. It wasn’t exactly unrestricted, but it did take some pressure off.
He called Carla and said a small celebration was in order. Find a babysitter.
Lucien sounded normal on the phone, though normal for him meant the usual scratchy voice and the pained delivery of a drunk trying to shake off cobwebs. He said their man Lonny Clark had a rough night; the infection would not subside; the doctors were more concerned than the day before; and, most important, he was not receiving visitors.
“What are your plans?” Jake asked.
“Hang around for a while, maybe take a road trip. You ever been out here, Jake? Pretty spectacular, with mountains on three sides and the Pacific right here at the door. The town’s not a big place and not that pretty, but, man, what scenery. I like it. I think I’ll get out and explore.”
“Do you think it’s him, Lucien?”
“I know less than I did when I left Clanton. Still a mystery. The cops don’t care who he is or what’s happening back there; they’ve got a drug ring to break up. I like it here, Jake. I might stay awhile. I’m in no hurry to get back. You don’t need me in that courtroom.”
Jake certainly agreed but said nothing.
Lucien continued, “It’s cool and there’s no humidity. Imagine that, Jake, a place with no humidity. I like it here. I’ll keep an eye on Lonny and chat with him when they let me.”
“Are you sober, Lucien?”
“I’m always sober in the morning. It’s ten at night when I run into trouble.”
“Keep in touch.”
“You got it, Jake. Don’t worry.”
They dropped off Hanna at Jake’s parents in Karaway and drove an hour to Oxford, where they drove through the Ole Miss campus and soaked in the sights and memories of another lifetime. It was a warm, clear spring day, and the students were out in shorts and bare feet. They slung Frisbees across The Grove, sneaked beer from coolers, and soaked up the sun as it was disappearing. Jake was thirty-five, Carla thirty-one, and their college days seemed so recent, yet so long ago.
A walk through campus always triggered a wave of nostalgia. And disbelief. Were they really in their thirties? It seemed like they were students just last month. Jake avoided walking near the law school—that nightmare was not distant enough. At dusk they drove to the Oxford square and parked by the courthouse. They browsed for an hour in the bookstore, had a coffee on the balcony upstairs, then went to dinner at the Downtown Grill, the most expensive restaurant within eighty miles. With money to burn, Jake ordered a bottle of Bordeaux—sixty bucks.
Returning, at almost midnight, they took their customary turns and slowly drove by the Hocutt House. Some of its lights were on, and the grand old place beckoned them. Parked in the driveway was Willie Traynor’s Spitfire with Tennessee plates. Still a bit loose from the wine, Jake said, “Let’s check on Willie.”
“No, Jake! It’s too late,” Carla protested.
“Come on. Willie won’t care.” He’d stopped the Saab and was shifting into reverse.
“Jake, this is so rude.”
“For anyone else, yes, but not for Willie. Plus he wants us to buy this place.” Jake parked behind the Spitfire.
“What if he has company?”
“Now he has more. Let’s go.”
Carla reluctantly got out. They paused for a second on the narrow sidewalk and took in the sweeping front porch. The air was rife with the fragrant aromas of tree peonies and irises. Pink and white azaleas burst forth from the flower beds.
“I say we buy it,” Jake said.
“We can’t afford it,” she replied.
“No, but the bank can.”
They stepped onto the porch, rang the bell, and heard Billie Holiday in the background. Willie eventually came to the door, in jeans and a T-shirt, and pulled it open with a big smile. “Well, well,” he said, “if it’s not the new owners.”
“We were just in the neighborhood and wanted a drink,” Jake said.
“I hope we’re not intruding,” Carla said, somewhat embarrassed.
“Not at all. Come in, come in,” Willie insisted as he waved them in. They went to the front parlor where he had a bottle of white wine on ice. It was almost empty, and he quickly grabbed another and uncorked it. As he did so he explained that he was in town to cover the trial. His latest venture was the launch of a monthly magazine devoted to southern culture, and its inaugural issue would have an in-depth story about Seth Hubbard and the fortune he’d left to his black housekeeper. Willie had not mentioned this before.
Jake was thrilled at the idea of some publicity outside Ford County. The Hailey trial had given him a dose of notoriety, and it was intoxicating. “Who’s on the cover?” he asked, joking.
“Probably not you,” Willie said as he handed over two glasses filled to the top. “Cheers.”
They talked about the trial for a moment or two, but all three were having other thoughts. Finally, Willie broke the ice by saying, “Here’s what I propose. Let’s shake hands tonight on the house, a verbal contract, just the three of us.”
“Verbal contracts for real estate are not enforceable,” Jake said.
“Don’t you just hate lawyers?” Willie said to Carla.
“Most of them.”
Willie said, “It’s enforceable if we say it’s enforceable. Let’s shake hands tonight on a secret deal, then after the trial we’ll find a real lawyer who can draft a proper contract. You guys go to the bank and line up a mortgage, and we’ll close in ninety days.”
Jake looked at Carla who looked right back. For a moment they froze, as if the idea was entirely new. In reality, they had discussed the Hocutt House until they were weary of it.
“What if we can’t qualify for a mortgage?” Carla asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Any bank in town will loan you the money.”
“I doubt it,” Jake said. “There are five in town and I’ve sued three of them.”
“Look, this place is a bargain at two fifty and the banks know it.”
“I thought it was two twenty-five,” Jake said, glancing at Carla.
Willie took a sip of his wine, smacked his lips with satisfaction, and said, “Well, yes, it was, briefly, but you didn’t take the bait at that price. Frankly, the house is worth at least $400,000. In Memphis—”
“We’ve had that conversation, Willie. This is not midtown Memphis.”
“No, it’s not, but two fifty is a more reasonable price. So, it’s two fifty.”
Jake said, “That’s a strange way to sell, Willie. If you don’t get your price, you keep raising it?”
“I’m not raising it again, Jake, unless some doctor comes along. It’s two fifty. That’s fair. You guys know it. Now let’s shake hands.”
Jake and Carla stared at each other for a moment, then she slowly reached over and shook Willie’s hand. “Atta girl,” Jake said. The deal was closed.
The only sound was the faint hum of a monitor, somewhere above and behind him. The only light was the red glow of digital numbers that recorded his vitals. His lower back was cramping and Lonny tried to shift slightly. An IV drip kept the clear but potent meds in his blood, and for the most part kept the pain away. In and out, in and out, he came and went, barely awake for a few moments, then dead again. He’d lost track of the days and hours. They had turned off his television and taken away his remote. The meds were so strong that not even the worrisome nurses could awaken him at all hours of the night, though they tried.
When awake, he could feel movement in the room—orderlies, housekeepers, doctors, lots of doctors. He occasionally heard them speak in low, grave voices, and Lonny had already decided he was dying. An infection he couldn’t pronounce or remember was now in control, and the doctors were struggling. In and out.
A stranger appeared without a sound and touched the guardrail. “Ancil,” he said in a low but strong voice. “Ancil, are you there?”
Lonny’s eyes opened wide at the sound of his name. It was an old man with long gray hair and a black T-shirt. It was the same face, back again. “Ancil, can you hear me?”
Lonny did not move a muscle.
“Your name’s not Lonny, we know that. It’s Ancil, Ancil Hubbard, brother of Seth. Ancil, what happened to Sylvester Rinds?”
Though terrified, Lonny remained frozen. He smelled whiskey and remembered it from the night before.
“What happened to Sylvester Rinds? You were eight years old, Ancil. What happened to Sylvester Rinds?”
Lonny closed his eyes and breathed deeply. For a second he was gone, then he jerked his hands and opened his eyes. The stranger was gone.
He called the nurse.
