Текст книги "Sycamore Row"
Автор книги: John Grisham
Соавторы: John Grisham
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Текущая страница: 31 (всего у книги 35 страниц)
“No surprise,” Lucien said. “I doubt if they’ve brought in the bloodhounds.”
They ate, took turns showering and dressing, and at 8:00 a.m. left the room. Ancil was wearing Lucien’s black suit, white shirt, paisley tie, and the same cap pulled low to hide his face. They hurriedly walked three blocks to the law office of Jared Wolkowicz, a lawyer referred by Bo Buck at the Glacier Inn bar. Lucien had visited Mr. Wolkowicz late the day before, retained him, and organized the deposition. A court reporter and a videographer were waiting in the conference room. At one end of the table, Mr. Wolkowicz stood, raised his right hand, repeated after the court reporter, and swore to tell the truth, then sat facing the camera. He said, “Good morning. My name is Jared Wolkowicz and I’m an attorney, duly licensed by the State of Alaska. Today is Wednesday, April 5, 1989, and I’m sitting here in my law office on Franklin Street in downtown Juneau, Alaska. Here with me is Lucien Wilbanks, of Clanton, Mississippi, and also a man by the name of Ancil F. Hubbard, who currently resides in Juneau. The purpose of the deposition is to record the testimony of Mr. Hubbard. I know nothing about the case that brings us here. My role is to simply vouch for the fact that this will be an accurate recording of what takes place here. If any of the lawyers or judges involved in this matter would like to speak to me, feel free to call.”
Wolkowicz left the chair and Lucien stepped forward. He was sworn by the court reporter, then likewise sat facing the camera. He said, “My name is Lucien Wilbanks and I’m well known to Judge Atlee and the lawyers involved in the contest over the last will and testament of Seth Hubbard. Working with Jake Brigance and others, I have been able to locate Ancil Hubbard. I have spent several hours with Ancil and there is no doubt in my mind that he is in fact the surviving brother of Seth Hubbard. He was born in Ford County in 1922. His father was Cleon Hubbard. His mother was Sarah Belle Hubbard. In 1928, his father, Cleon, hired my grandfather Robert E. Lee Wilbanks to represent him in a land dispute. That dispute is relevant today. Here is Ancil Hubbard.”
Lucien vacated the chair and Ancil took it. He raised his right hand and swore to tell the truth.
Wade Lanier began his toxic cross-examination by asking about Simeon. Why was he in jail? Had he been indicted? How often had she visited him? Was he contesting the divorce? It was a harsh but effective way to remind the jurors that the father of Lettie’s five children was a drunk who’d killed the Roston boys. After five minutes, Lettie was wiping tears, and Lanier looked like a prick. He didn’t care. With her emotions in play, and her judgment temporarily impaired, he quickly switched gears and laid his trap.
“Now, Ms. Lang, prior to being employed by Mr. Hubbard, where did you work?”
Lettie wiped a cheek with the back of a hand and tried to collect her thoughts. “Uh, that was Mr. and Mrs. Tingley, here in Clanton.”
“What type of work?”
“Housekeeper.”
“How long did you work for them?”
“I don’t know exactly, but about three years.”
“And why did you leave their employment?”
“They died. Both of them.”
“Did they leave you any money in their wills?”
“If they did, nobody ever told me.” This got a few smiles from the jurors.
Wade Lanier missed the humor. He continued, “And before the Tingleys, where did you work?”
“Uh, before that, I worked as a cook in the school in Karaway.”
“For how long?”
“Maybe two years.”
“And why did you leave there?”
“I got the job with the Tingleys and I’d rather work as a housekeeper than a cook.”
“Okay. Before the job at the school, where did you work?”
She was silent as she tried to remember. Finally, she said, “Before the school, I worked for Mrs. Gillenwater, here in Clanton, as a housekeeper.”
“And for how long?”
“About a year, then she moved away.”
“Before Mrs. Gillenwater, where did you work?”
“Ummm, that would be the Glovers, in Karaway.”
“And for how long?”
“Again, I can’t remember exactly, but it was three or four years.”
“Okay, I’m not trying to nail down specifics, Ms. Lang. Just remember things as best you can, all right?”
“Yes sir.”
“And before the Glovers, where did you work?”
“That was Miss Karsten, here in town. I worked for her six years. She was my favorite. I never wanted to leave her but she died suddenly.”
“Thank you.” Lanier scribbled on his legal pad as if he was learning something new. “Now, just to summarize, Ms. Lang, you worked for Mr. Hubbard for three years, the Tingleys three, the school two, Mrs. Gillenwater one, the Glovers three or four, and six years for Miss Karsten. According to my math, that’s approximately twenty years. Does that sound about right?”
“It does, give or take a year here, a year there,” Lettie said, confidently.
“And you’ve had no other employers in the past twenty or so years?”
She shook her head. No.
Lanier was going somewhere, but Jake couldn’t stop him. The inflections of his voice, the slight hints of suspicion, the arched eyebrows, the matter-of-factness of his sentences. He was trying to disguise all these, but to Jake’s trained ears and eyes they meant trouble.
“That’s six employers in twenty years, Ms. Lang. How many times were you fired?”
“None. I mean I was terminated after Mr. Hubbard died, and Miss Karsten got sick, and Mr. and Mrs. Tingley passed, but that was just because the job sorta played out, you know?”
“You’ve never been fired for doing a bad job, or for doing something wrong?”
“No sir. Never.”
Lanier abruptly backed away from the podium, looked up at Judge Atlee, and said, “That’s all, Judge. I reserve the right to recall this witness later in the trial.” He walked smugly to his table, and, at the last second, Jake saw him wink at Lester Chilcott.
Lettie had just lied, and Lanier was about to expose her. Jake, though, had no idea what was coming; thus, he had no way to prevent it. His instincts were to get her off the witness stand. He stood and said, “Your Honor, the proponents rest.”
Judge Atlee said, “Do you have some witnesses, Mr. Lanier?”
“Oh yes.”
“Then call the first one.”
“The contestants call Mr. Fritz Pickering.”
“Who?” Jake blurted.
“Fritz Pickering,” Lanier repeated loudly and sarcastically, as if Jake were hard of hearing.
“Never heard of him. He’s not on your witness list.”
“He’s out in the rotunda,” Lanier said to a bailiff. “Waiting.”
Jake was shaking his head at Judge Atlee and said, “He can’t testify if he’s not listed as a witness, Judge.”
“I’m calling him anyway,” Lanier said.
Fritz Pickering entered the courtroom and followed a bailiff to the witness stand.
“I object, Your Honor,” Jake said.
Judge Atlee removed his reading glasses, glared at Wade Lanier, and said, “All right, let’s take a fifteen-minute recess. I’ll see the lawyers in chambers. Lawyers only. No paralegals or staff.”
The jury was hurried out of the courtroom as the lawyers followed the judge into the rear hallway and into his cramped chambers. He did not remove his robe, but sat down and looked as confused as Jake. “Start talking,” he said to Lanier.
“Your Honor, this witness is not an evidentiary witness; thus he does not have to be made known to the other side. His purpose is to impeach the credibility of another witness, not to give evidence. I was not required to put him on the list or in any way divulge his name because I was never certain he would be called. Now, based on the testimony of Lettie Lang, and her inability to tell the truth, this witness is suddenly crucial to our case.”
Judge Atlee exhaled as every lawyer in the room racked his brain for bits and pieces of the rules of evidence and the rules of civil procedure. At the moment, there was little doubt Lanier had full command of the rules regarding witness impeachment. This was his ambush, one he and Lester Chilcott had planned perfectly. Jake wanted to gush forth in some cogent and sensible argument, but brilliance failed him miserably at the moment.
“What will the witness say?” Judge Atlee asked.
“Lettie Lang once worked for his mother, Mrs. Irene Pickering. Fritz and his sister fired Lettie when his sister found a handwritten will leaving fifty thousand in cash to Lettie. She just told at least three lies. Number one, she said she had worked for only those people I mentioned, over the past twenty or so years. Mrs. Pickering hired her in 1978, and they fired her in 1980. Number two, she has in fact been fired as a housekeeper. Number three, she said she has never seen a will. Fritz and his sister showed her the handwritten will the day they fired her. There may be another one or two, I can’t think of them all right now.”
Jake’s shoulders fell as his gut clenched, his vision blurred, and the color drained from his face. It was imperative that he say something intelligent, but everything was blank. Then lightning struck and he asked, “When did you find Fritz Pickering?”
“I didn’t meet him until today,” Lanier said smugly.
“That’s not what I asked. When did you find out about the Pickerings?”
“During discovery. Again, Jake, it’s another example of us outworking you. We found more witnesses. We’ve been out there beating the bushes, working our asses off. I don’t know what you’ve been doing.”
“And the rules require you to submit the names of your witnesses. Two weeks ago you dumped the names of forty-five new ones on the table. You’re not playing by the rules here, Wade. Judge, this is a clear violation of the rules.”
Judge Atlee raised a hand and said, “Enough. Allow me to think a moment.” He stood, walked to his desk, took one of a dozen pipes from a rack, stuffed it with Sir Walter Raleigh, lit up, blew a thick cloud of smoke toward the ceiling, and drifted away. On one side of the table, Wade Lanier, Lester Chilcott, Zack Zeitler, and Joe Bradley Hunt sat smugly, silently, waiting for a decision that would send the trial either north or south, with no return. On the other side, Jake sat alone, scribbling notes that not even he could decipher. He felt ill and couldn’t make his hands stop shaking.
Wade Lanier had pulled a masterful dirty trick, and it was infuriating. At the same time, Jake wanted to grab Lettie and lash out at her. Why had she not mentioned the Pickering matter? They had spent countless hours together since October.
His Honor blew more smoke and said, “This is too crucial to keep out. I’ll allow Mr. Pickering to testify, but within limits.”
Angrily, Jake said, “Trial by ambush. This will be automatically reversible. We’ll be back in two years to do this all over again.”
Angrily, Judge Atlee barked, “Don’t lecture, Jake. I’ve never been reversed by the Supreme Court. Never.”
Jake took a deep breath and said, “Sorry.”
Ancil’s narrative ran for fifty-eight minutes. When he finished, he wiped moisture from his eyes, said he was exhausted and couldn’t continue, and left the room. Lucien thanked Jared Wolkowicz for his accommodations. He had not told the lawyer that Ancil was a man on the run.
Walking back to the hotel, they saw several policemen loitering around a street corner and decided to duck into a coffee shop. They hid in a booth and tried to maintain small talk. Lucien was still rattled by the stories Ancil told, but neither was in the mood to pursue them.
Lucien said, “I’ve paid for two more nights at the hotel; it’s all yours. I’m leaving now. You can have the clothes, toothpaste, everything. There’s a pair of old khakis hanging in the closet with three hundred bucks in the front pocket. It’s yours.”
“Thanks, Lucien.”
“What are your plans?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t want to go to prison, so I’ll probably skip town, as usual. Just disappear. These clowns can’t catch me. This is pretty routine for me.”
“Where will you go?”
“Well, I might mosey on down to Mississippi since my dear old brother thought so highly of me. When might I see some of his estate?”
“Who knows? They’re fighting over it as we speak. Could be a month. Could be five years. You have my phone number. Call me in a few weeks and we’ll catch up.”
“I’ll do that.”
Lucien paid for the coffee and they left through a side door. In an alley, they said good-bye. Lucien was headed for the airport; Ancil, the hotel. When he got there, the detective was waiting.
In a crowded courtroom that was silent, even stunned, Fritz Pickering told his story, every devastating detail. Lettie absorbed it in total defeat, her head bowed, her eyes on the floor, then her eyes closed in agony. She shook her head from time to time as if she disagreed, but no one in the courtroom believed her.
Lies, lies, lies.
Fritz produced a copy of his mother’s handwritten will. Jake objected to its admission into evidence on the grounds that there was no way to prove Irene Pickering’s handwriting, but Judge Atlee barely heard him. It became evidence. Wade Lanier asked his witness to read the fourth paragraph, the one giving $50,000 to Lettie Lang. He read it slowly and loudly. A couple of the jurors shook their heads in disbelief.
Wade Lanier hammered away. “So, Mr. Pickering, you and your sister sat Lettie Lang down at the kitchen table and showed her the will handwritten by your mother, correct?”
“Correct.”
“And if she testified earlier that she had never seen a will, then she was lying, correct?”
“I suppose.”
“Objection,” Jake said.
“Overruled,” His Honor snarled from the bench.
It was apparent, at least to Jake, that Judge Atlee was now the enemy. He viewed Lettie as a liar, and in his world there was no greater sin. Over the years he had jailed several litigants when they were caught red-handed telling lies, but always in divorce cases. A night in jail worked wonders in the search for veracity.
Lettie was in no danger of going to jail; that would be far more preferable. At that dreadful moment, with the jurors squirming nervously and glancing around, she was in danger of losing about $20 million, give or take, before taxes of course.
When a witness is telling the truth, and the truth hurts, a trial lawyer has no alternative but to attack the witness’s credibility. Jake sat stone-faced as if he expected Fritz to say what he was saying, but just under the skin he was desperately searching for a soft spot. What did Fritz have to gain by testifying? Why would he waste his time?
“Mr. Brigance,” Judge Atlee said when Lanier tendered the witness.
Jake stood quickly and faked as much confidence as possible. The first rule every trial lawyer learns is to never ask a question if you don’t know the answer. But when you’re staring at certain defeat, toss the rules. Shooting wildly from the hip, Jake said, “Mr. Pickering, how much are you being paid to testify here today?”
The bullet landed between his eyes. He actually flinched as his jaw dropped, and he shot a desperate look at Wade Lanier. Lanier shrugged and nodded. Go ahead, it’s no big deal.
Fritz said, “Seventy-five hundred dollars.”
“And who’s paying you?” Jake demanded.
“The check came from Mr. Lanier’s office.”
“And what’s the date on the check?”
“I don’t remember exactly, but I got it about a month ago.”
“So about a month ago you guys closed the deal. You agreed to come here and testify, and Mr. Lanier sent you the money, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Didn’t you in fact demand more than seventy-five hundred?” Jake asked, still shooting wildly with no idea what the facts were. But he had a hunch.
“Well, yes, I did ask for more.”
“You wanted at least ten thousand, didn’t you?”
“Something like that,” Fritz admitted and looked at Lanier again. Jake was reading his mind.
“And you told Mr. Lanier that you would not testify unless you got paid, right?”
“At the time, I wasn’t talking to Mr. Lanier. It was one of his investigators. I didn’t meet Mr. Lanier until earlier this morning.”
“Regardless, you were not going to testify for free, right?”
“That’s right.”
“When did you drive over from Shreveport?”
“Late yesterday afternoon.”
“And when are you leaving Clanton?”
“Just as soon as I can.”
“So, a quick trip, say twenty-four hours?”
“Something like that.”
“Seventy-five hundred bucks for twenty-four hours. You’re an expensive witness.”
“Is that a question?”
Jake was getting lucky but he knew it couldn’t last. He looked at his notes, chicken scratch he could not read, and changed course. “Mr. Pickering, didn’t Lettie Lang explain to you that she had nothing to do with the preparation of your mother’s will?”
Jake had no idea what Lettie had done; he had yet to discuss the incident with her. That would be an ugly conversation, probably during lunch.
“That’s what she said,” Fritz replied.
“And didn’t she try to explain that your mother never said a word to her about the will?”
“That’s what she said.”
“Where did you get this copy of the will?”
“I kept it.” Actually, it had arrived anonymously in the mail, but who would ever know the difference?
“Nothing further,” Jake said as he sat down.
Judge Atlee announced, “We’ll be in recess until one thirty.”
44
Jake and Harry Rex fled town. With Jake driving, they raced deep into the countryside, putting distance between themselves and the nightmare in the courtroom. They wouldn’t risk bumping into Lettie or Portia, or the other lawyers, or anyone, for that matter, who had just witnessed the bloodletting.
Harry Rex was the eternal contrarian. When a day in trial went smoothly, he could always be counted on to see nothing but negatives. A bad day, and he could be unbelievably optimistic about tomorrow. As Jake drove and seethed, he kept waiting for his foxhole buddy to pass along an observation that might lift his spirits, if only for a moment. What he got was: “You’d better come off your high horse and settle this son of a bitch.”
A mile passed before Jake responded. “What makes you think Wade Lanier would talk settlement now? He just won the case. That jury wouldn’t give Lettie Lang fifty bucks for a sack of groceries. You saw their faces.”
“You know the bad part, Jake?”
“It’s all bad. It’s worse than bad.”
“The bad part is that it makes you question everything about Lettie. I’ve never thought for a minute that she manipulated Seth Hubbard into redoing his will. She’s not that slick and he wasn’t that stupid. But now, all of a sudden, when you realize she’s done it before, you say, ‘Okay, could this be a pattern.’ ‘Could this old gal know more about will and estate law than we give her credit for?’ I don’t know, it just rattles you.”
“And why would she cover it up? Hell, I’ll bet she’s never told Portia, never told anyone about getting caught at the Pickerings’. I guess I should’ve been smart enough to ask her six months ago—say, Lettie, have you talked anyone else into changing their wills and adding a nice provision for you?”
“Why didn’t you think of that?”
“Stupid I guess. I feel pretty stupid right now.”
Another mile passed, then another. Jake said, “You’re right. It makes you question everything. And if we feel this way, think about the jurors.”
“The jurors are gone, Jake, and you’ll never get ’em back. You’ve called your best witnesses, put on a near-perfect case, saved your star to go last, and she did a fine job, and then, in a matter of minutes, the case was totally destroyed by a surprise witness. You can forget this jury.”
Another mile passed. Jake said, “A surprise witness. Surely that’s grounds for a reversal.”
“Don’t bet on it. You can’t let it get that far, Jake. You gotta settle this case before it goes to the jury.”
“I’ll have to resign as the attorney.”
“Then so be it. You’ve made some money, now get out of the way. Think about Lettie for a moment.”
“I’d rather not.”
“I understand, but what if she walks out of that courtroom without a penny?”
“Maybe that’s what she deserves.”
They slid to a stop in the gravel parking lot of Bates Grocery. The red Saab was the only foreign car there; every other vehicle was a pickup truck, and not a one less than ten years old. They waited in line as Mrs. Bates patiently filled their plates with her vegetables and Mr. Bates collected $3.50 from each customer, sweet iced tea and corn bread included. The crowd was almost shoulder to shoulder and there were no empty chairs. “Over there,” Mr. Bates said, nodding, and Jake and Harry Rex sat at a small counter not too far from the massive gas stove that was covered with pots. They could talk, but carefully.
Not that it mattered. Not a single person having lunch knew a trial was under way in town, and they certainly didn’t know how badly the trial had turned against Jake. Perched on a stool and hunched over his plate, he sat forlornly and looked through the crowd.
“Hey, you gotta eat,” Harry Rex said.
“No appetite,” Jake said.
“Can I have your plate?”
“Maybe. I envy these people. They don’t have to go back into that courtroom.”
“Neither do I. You’re on your own, buddy. You’ve screwed up the case so bad it can never be rescued. I’m outta there.”
Jake pinched off a bite of corn bread and stuck it in his mouth. “Didn’t you go to school with Lester Chilcott?”
“I did. Biggest prick in law school. Nice enough guy when we started, but then he got a job with a big Jackson firm and, bam, just like that, he became a flaming asshole. I guess it happens. He’s not the first. Why?”
“Grab him this afternoon and whisper to him. See if they’ll talk settlement.”
“Okay. What kind of settlement?”
“I don’t know, but if they’ll come to the table, we’ll cut a deal. If I resign, I think Judge Atlee will take charge of the negotiations and make sure everyone gets something.”
“Now you’re talking. It’s worth a shot.”
Jake managed a bit of fried okra. Harry Rex was half-finished and eyeing Jake’s plate. He said, “Look, Jake, you played football, right?”
“I tried.”
“No, I remember when you were the quarterback for scrawny little Karaway, never had a winning season, as I recall. What was the worst ass-whipping you ever took on the field?”
“Ripley beat us fifty to nothing my junior year.”
“How bad was it at halftime?”
“Thirty-six to nothing.”
“And did you quit?”
“No, I was the quarterback.”
“Okay, you knew at halftime that you were not going to win, but you led the team back onto the field for the second half, and you kept playing. You didn’t quit then and you can’t quit now. A win looks pretty doubtful at this point, but you gotta drag your ass back onto the field. Right now you look thoroughly defeated, and the jury is watching every move you make. Eat your vegetables like a good boy, and let’s go.”
The jurors scattered for lunch and reconvened in the jury room at 1:15. In little pockets of whispered conversations, they talked about the case. They were surprised and confused. Surprised that the trial had turned so abruptly against Lettie Lang. Before Fritz Pickering showed up, the evidence was mounting and it was becoming clear that Seth Hubbard was a man who did whatever he wanted, and knew exactly what he was doing. That changed suddenly, and Lettie was now viewed with great suspicion. Even the two black jurors, Michele Still and Barb Gaston, appeared to be jumping ship. The confusion was about what was next. Who would Jake put on the stand to undo the damage? Could it be undone? And if they, the jurors, rejected the handwritten will, what would happen to all that money? There were many unanswered questions.
There was so much chatter about the case that the foreman, Nevin Dark, felt compelled to remind them that His Honor frowned on what they were doing. “Let’s talk about something else,” he said politely, not wanting to offend. He was not, after all, their boss.
At 1:30, the bailiff entered the room, counted heads, and said, “Let’s go.” They followed him into the courtroom. When they were seated, all twelve looked at Lettie Lang, who was not looking up from her note-taking. Nor did her lawyer glance over at the jury box for one of his cute little smiles. Instead, he sat low in his chair, chewing on a pencil, trying to appear relaxed.
Judge Atlee said, “Mr. Lanier, you may call your next witness.”
“Yes sir. The contestants call Mr. Herschel Hubbard.” He took the stand, smiled goofily at the jury, swore to tell the truth, then began answering a lot of mundane questions. Wade Lanier had groomed him well. Back and forth they went, covering all aspects of Herschel’s uneventful life. As always, the spin was in and Herschel recalled with great fondness his childhood, his parents, his sister, and the grand times they’d all had together. Yes, the divorce was quite painful, but the family struggled through it and persevered. He and his old man were very close: talked all the time, saw each other whenever they could, but, hey, both were living busy lives. Both were big fans of the Atlanta Braves. They followed the team religiously and talked about the games all the time.
Lettie stared at him, dumbfounded. She had never heard Seth Hubbard say one word about the Atlanta Braves, and she had never known him to watch a baseball game on television.
They tried to make it to Atlanta at least once each season to catch some games. Say what? This was news to Jake and everyone else who’d read Herschel’s depositions. He had never mentioned such a road trip with his father. But there was little Jake could do. It would take two days of hard digging to prove the trips to Atlanta never took place. If Herschel wanted to invent tales about him and his old man, Jake couldn’t stop him at this point. And Jake had to be careful. If he had any credibility left with the jury, he could seriously damage it by attacking Herschel. The man had lost his father, then he’d been cut out of his will in a very cruel and humiliating manner. It would be easy and only natural for the jurors to feel sympathy.
And how do you argue with a son who wasn’t close to his father, but now swears that he was? You don’t, and Jake knew it was an argument he could not win. He took notes, listened to the fiction, and tried to keep a poker face as if everything was going great. He could not bring himself to look at the jurors. There was a wall between him and them, something he’d never before experienced.
When they finally got around to Seth’s cancer, Herschel became somber and even choked back tears. It was just awful, he said, watching this active and vigorous man dry up and shrivel with the disease. He had tried to quit smoking so many times; father and son had engaged in long, heartfelt conversations about the smoking. Herschel quit when he was thirty, and he begged his father to quit also. In his final months, Herschel visited him as often as possible. And, yes, they talked about his estate. Seth was clear about his intentions. He might not have been too generous with Herschel and Ramona when they were younger, but he wanted them to have it all when he died. He assured them that he had prepared a proper will, one that would insulate them from financial worries and also secure the future for their children, Seth’s beloved grandchildren.
Seth was not himself toward the end. They talked all the time by phone, and at first Herschel noticed his father’s memory was fading. He couldn’t remember the score of last night’s baseball game. He repeated himself constantly. He would ramble on about the World Series, though the Braves were not in the Series last year. But to Seth they were. The old guy was slipping away. It was so heartbreaking.
Not surprisingly, Herschel was wary of Lettie Lang. She did a fine job cleaning the house, and cooking and caring for his father, but the longer she worked there, and the sicker Seth became, the more she seemed to protect him. She acted as though she didn’t want Herschel and Ramona in the house. Several times Herschel called his father, but she said he wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t come to the phone. She tried to keep him away from his family.
Lettie glared at the witness, slowly shaking her head.
It was quite a performance, and by the time it was over Jake was almost too stunned to think or move. Through skillful and no doubt exhaustive preparation, Wade Lanier had pieced together a fictional narrative that any father and son would envy.
Jake walked to the podium and asked, “Mr. Hubbard, on these trips to watch the Braves play, what hotel did you and your father usually stay in?”
Herschel squinted and his mouth opened but nothing came out. Hotels have records that can be checked. Finally, he recovered and said, “Uh, well, we stayed in different hotels.”
“Did you go to Atlanta last year?”
“No, Dad was too sick.”
“The year before?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Okay, so you went in eighty-seven. Which hotel?”
“I can’t remember.”
“All right. Who did the Braves play?”
Games and schedules are records that can be checked. “Well, gee, I’m not sure, you know. Maybe it was the Cubs.”
Jake said, “We can check on that. What was the date?”
“Oh, I’m terrible with dates.”
“Okay, in eighty-six. Did ya’ll make it to Atlanta for a game or two?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Which hotel?”
“Maybe the Hilton. Not sure.”
“Who’d the Braves play?”
“Well, let’s see. I can’t be sure, but I know we saw them play the Phillies one year.”
“In eighty-six, who played third base for the Phillies?”
Herschel swallowed hard and looked straight ahead, as if staring at headlights. His elbows were twitching and he kept glancing at the jurors. His lying had caught up with him. Lanier’s fictional masterpiece had holes in it.
Finally, “Don’t know.”
“You don’t recall Mike Schmidt, the greatest third baseman in the game. He’s still there and on his way to the Hall of Fame.”
“Sorry, no.”
“Who played center field for the Braves?”
Another painful pause. It was obvious Herschel didn’t have a clue.
“Ever hear of Dale Murphy?”
“Sure, that’s him. Dale Murphy.”
For the moment, Herschel gave every indication of being a liar, or at least a great embellisher. Jake could poke and prod around the rest of his testimony, but there was no guarantee he could score again. Instinctively, he decided to sit down.
Ramona was next, and she was crying not long after she was sworn in. She still couldn’t believe her beloved “daddy” had been so lost and distraught that he took his own life. With time, though, Lanier settled her down and they plowed through their scripted testimony. She had always been Daddy’s girl and she just couldn’t get enough of the old guy. He adored her and her children and came to visit them often down in Jackson.
