Текст книги "Sycamore Row"

Автор книги: John Grisham

Соавторы: John Grisham
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Текущая страница: 32 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

Once again, Jake grudgingly admired Wade Lanier. He had prepared Ramona well for her deposition back in December and taught her the art of sandbagging. He knew that at trial there was no way Jake could rebut her testimony, so offer a few crumbs during the deposition, just enough to vaguely answer the questions, then load up the fiction for the jury.

Her testimony was a dramatic blend of emotion, bad acting, lying, and exaggerating. Jake began stealing glances at the jury to see if anyone was suspicious. As she bawled again, Tracy McMillen, number two, met Jake’s look and frowned as if to say, “Can you believe this?”

At least that was Jake’s reading. He could be wrong. His instincts had been rattled and he didn’t fully trust them. Tracy was his favorite juror. Their eyes had been meeting for two days now, and things had been elevated almost to the point of flirting. It wasn’t the first time Jake had used his good looks to win over a juror, nor would it be the last. Another glance over and he caught Frank Doley shooting one of his patented “I can’t wait to burn you” looks.

Wade Lanier wasn’t perfect. He kept her on direct far too long and began to lose people. Her voice was grating and her crying was a tired old act. Those watching suffered along with her, and when Lanier finally said, “I tender the witness,” Judge Atlee quickly tapped the gavel and said, “Let’s recess for fifteen minutes.”

The jurors left and the courtroom cleared out. Jake stayed at his table, as did Lettie. It was time to acknowledge each other. Portia moved her chair closer so the three of them could speak softly in a small huddle. Lettie began with “Jake, I’m so sorry. What have I done?” Her eyes were instantly wet.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Lettie? If I had known about the Pickerings, I could have been prepared.”

“It didn’t happen that way at all, Jake. I swear I never discussed no will with Miss Irene. Never. Not before she wrote it, not after. I didn’t even know about it until I came to work that mornin’ and all hell broke loose. I swear, Jake. You gotta let me explain this to the jury. I can do it. I can make them believe me.”

“It’s not that simple. We’ll talk about it later.”

“We need to talk, Jake. Herschel and Ramona are lyin’ through their teeth. Can’t you make ’em stop?”

“I don’t think the jury is buying much of this.”

Portia said, “They don’t like Ramona.”

“I can understand that. I need to run to the restroom. Any word from Lucien?”

“No, I checked the phone messages during lunch. Some lawyers, some reporters, and one death threat.”

“A what?”

“Some dude said they gonna burn your house again if you win all that money for them niggers.”

“How nice. I sort of like it. It brings back fond memories of the Hailey trial.”

“I saved it. You want me to tell Ozzie?”

“Sure.”

Harry Rex caught Jake outside the restroom and said, “Spoke with Chilcott. No deal. No interest in talking settlement. In fact, he almost laughed in my face, said they have another surprise or two.”

“What?” Jake asked in a panic.

“Well, of course he wouldn’t tell me. That would ruin the ambush, right?”

“I can’t take another ambush, Harry Rex.”

“Just keep your cool. You’re doing fine. I don’t think Herschel and Ramona impressed too many jurors.”

“Should I go after her?”

“No. Take it easy. If you pin her down, she’ll just start crying again. The jury’s sick of her.”

Five minutes later, Jake walked to the podium and said, “Now, Mrs. Dafoe, your father died on October 2 of last year, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Before he died, when was the last time you saw him?”

“I didn’t keep notes, Mr. Brigance. He was my daddy.”

“Isn’t it true that you last saw him in late July, over two months before he died?”

“No, that’s not true at all. I saw him all the time.”

“The last time, Mrs. Dafoe. When was the last time?”

“Again, I didn’t keep up with the dates. Probably a couple of weeks before he died.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Well, no, I’m not positive. Do you make a note every time you visit your parents?”

“I’m not the witness, Mrs. Dafoe. I’m the lawyer who’s asking the questions. Are you sure you saw your father a couple of weeks before he died?”

“Well, uh, I can’t be positive.”

“Thank you. Now, what about the children, Will and Leigh Ann? When was the last time they saw their grandfather before he died?”

“Oh, heavens, Mr. Brigance. I have no idea.”

“But you testified they saw him all the time, right?”

“Of course, yes. They loved their granddaddy.”

“Did he love them?”

“He adored them.”

Jake smiled and walked to the small table where the exhibits were kept. He picked up two sheets of paper and looked at Ramona. “This is the will your father wrote the day before he died. It’s in evidence and the jury has already seen it. In paragraph six, your father writes, and I quote: ‘I have two children—Herschel Hubbard and Ramona Hubbard Dafoe—and they have children, though I don’t know how many because I haven’t seen them in some time.’ End quote.”

Jake placed the will back on the table and asked, “By the way, how old is Will?”

“Fourteen.”

“And how old is Leigh Ann?”

“Twelve.”

“So it’s been twelve years since you had a child?”

“Yes, that’s very true.”

“And your own father didn’t know if you’d had any more kids?”

“You can’t believe that will, Mr. Brigance. My daddy wasn’t in his right mind when he wrote that.”

“I guess that’s up to the jury. No further questions.” Jake sat down and got a note from Quince Lundy that read, “Brilliant. You killed her.” At that moment in the trial, in his career, in his life for that matter, Jake needed a boost. He leaned over and whispered, “Thank you.”

Wade Lanier stood and said, “Your Honor, the contestants call Mr. Ian Dafoe, husband of Ramona Hubbard.” Ian slinked to the stand, no doubt primed and ready to fabricate another trip down memory lane. Halfway through his testimony, Quince Lundy slipped over another note. It read, “These people are trying way too hard to convince the jury. Don’t think it’s working.”

Jake nodded as he looked for an opening, a stray word that he might seize and turn against the witness. In the wake of his wife’s over-the-top drama, Ian came across as harmlessly dull. He gave many of the same answers, but without the emotion.

Through sources and back channels, Jake, Harry Rex, and Lucien had picked up some dirt on Ian. His marriage had been on the rocks for some time. He preferred to stay away from home and blamed his absences on business. He ran the women hard. His wife drank too much. And, some of his deals were in trouble.

On cross, Jake’s first question was, “You say you’re a commercial real estate developer, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“Do you own all or part of a company called KLD Biloxi Group?”

“I do.”

“And is that company attempting to renovate the Gulf Coast Mall in Biloxi, Mississippi?”

“It is.”

“Would you say that company is financially sound?”

“Depends on how you define ‘financially sound.’ ”

“Okay, let’s define it like this: Two months ago, was your company, KLD Biloxi Group, sued by the First Gulf Bank for the nonpayment of a $2 million line of credit?” Jake was holding and waving some papers clipped together. He had the proof.

“Yes, but there’s a lot more to the story.”

“I didn’t ask for more. Was your company also sued last month by a New Orleans bank known as Picayune Trust for $2.6 million?”

Ian took a deep breath and finally said, “Yes, but these cases are still pending, and we countersued.”

“Thank you. Nothing further.”

Ian stepped down at 4:45, and for a moment Judge Atlee considered recessing until Thursday morning. Wade Lanier offered to help by saying, “Judge, we can put on a witness that won’t take long.”

If Jake had an inkling of what was coming, he would have stalled some more with Ian, burned some clock, and dodged another ambush, at least until the next day. As it turned out, however, the jury left for the night with an even lower opinion of Seth Hubbard and his proclivities.

Lanier said, “We call Julina Kidd.”

Jake immediately recognized the name as one of the forty-five Lanier had dumped on his desk two weeks earlier. Jake had tried twice to phone her, but got nowhere. She was fetched from a witness room and led to the stand by a bailiff. Per Wade Lanier’s rather clear and firm instructions, she wore a cheap, blue dress that was similar to what Lettie had on. Nothing tight, nothing sexy, nothing to show off a figure that usually commanded a second look. No jewelry, nothing fancy. She tried her best to look plain, though that would have been impossible.

The message was subtle: if Seth would chase this attractive black woman, then he would also chase Lettie.

She took the stand and smiled nervously at the jury. Lanier walked her through some preliminaries, then got right to the point. He handed her some paperwork and asked, “Can you please identify this?”

She took a quick look and said, “Yes, this is a claim for sexual harassment I filed against Seth Hubbard about five years ago.”

Jake was on his feet, practically yelling, “Objection, Your Honor. Unless counsel can explain to us why this is relevant, it should not be admitted.” Lanier was standing too, ready to rumble. “Oh, it’s very relevant, Your Honor,” he said loudly.

Judge Atlee raised both hands and said, “Silence.” He glanced at his watch, looked at the jurors, paused for a second, and said, “Let’s keep everyone right here and take a five-minute break. Counsel, meet me in chambers.” They hurriedly marched back into his chambers. Jake was bitter enough to throw a punch and Lanier seemed willing to mix it up. When Lester Chilcott closed the door, Judge Atlee said, “What’s her testimony?”

Lanier said, “She worked for one of Seth Hubbard’s companies in south Georgia. They met there, he came on strong, forced her to have sex, then fired her when she decided she didn’t want any more. They reached an out-of-court settlement on the harassment suit.”

“And this was five years ago?” Jake asked.

“It was.”

“How is it relevant to our issues today?” Judge Atlee asked.

“Oh, it’s very relevant, Your Honor,” Lanier said casually and with the benefit of months of preparation. Jake was thoroughly blindsided and almost too angry to think. Lanier continued, “It goes to the issue of undue influence. Ms. Kidd was an employee, as was Ms. Lang. Seth had a propensity to seduce women who worked for him, regardless of color. This weakness led him to make decisions that were not financially sound.”

“Jake?”

“Bullshit. First, Judge, she should not be allowed to testify because she was not listed as a witness until two weeks ago, in clear violation of the rules. Second, what Seth did five years ago has nothing to do with his testamentary capacity last October. And, obviously, there is not one shred of proof that he was intimate with Lettie Lang. I don’t care how many women, black or white, he was screwing five years ago.”

Lanier said, “We think it’s probative.”

Jake said, “Bullshit, everything’s probative.”

“Your language, Jake,” Judge Atlee warned.

“Sorry.”

Judge Atlee held up a hand and all was quiet. He lit a pipe, exhaled mightily, paced to the window and back, then said, “I like your point, Wade. Both women were his employees. I’ll allow the testimony.”

Jake said, “Who needs a rule book?”

“See me after court today, Jake,” Judge Atlee said sternly, then blew some more smoke. He laid down his pipe and said, “Let’s carry on.”

The lawyers reassembled in the courtroom. Portia leaned forward and whispered to Jake, “What happened?”

“The judge has lost his mind, that’s all.”

Julina told her story to a breathless crowd. Her sudden promotion, the new passport, the trip to Mexico City with the boss, the luxury hotel with adjoining rooms, then the sex and the guilt. Back home, he fired her immediately and had her escorted out of the building. She sued, and Seth quickly settled out of court.

The testimony was not relevant to the will contest. It was scandalous and certainly memorable, but as Jake listened to it he became convinced Judge Atlee had blundered badly. The trial was lost, but the appeal was looking stronger by the hour. Jake would have a grand time exposing Wade Lanier’s trickery to the Supreme Court of Mississippi. He would take great satisfaction in finally getting Reuben V. Atlee reversed.

Jake admitted to himself that it was a lost cause if he was already thinking about the appeal. He quizzed Julina Kidd for a few minutes, just long enough to extract the admission that she was being paid to testify. She would not say how much—Lanier had obviously talked to her in time.

“So you swapped sex for money, and now it’s testimony for money, right, Ms. Kidd?” he asked. It was a harsh question, and as soon as he uttered it he wished he could take it back. She was only telling the truth.

She shrugged but didn’t respond, perhaps the classiest answer of the day.

At 5:30, Judge Atlee adjourned until Thursday morning. Jake stayed in the courtroom until long after everyone had left. He chatted quietly with Portia and Lettie, and tried in vain to assure them things were not as bad as they really were. It was a hopeless exercise.

He finally left as Mr. Pate was turning off the lights.

He did not stop by Judge Atlee’s office, as directed. Instead he went home. He needed some quiet time with the two people he loved the most, the two who would always think of him as the greatest lawyer in the world.

45

The flight to Seattle was overbooked. Lucien got the last seat on one to San Francisco, where he would have twenty minutes to catch a nonstop to Chicago. If all went well, he would land in Memphis just after midnight. Nothing went well. He missed the connection in San Francisco, and while berating a ticket agent almost got himself handcuffed by a security guard. To get him out of the airport, they put him on a shuttle to L.A. with the promise he’d get a better connection to Dallas. En route to L.A., he drank three double bourbons on ice, and had the flight attendants glancing at each other. Upon landing, he went straight to a bar and continued drinking. He called Jake’s office four times but got only the recording. He called Harry Rex’s three times, but was told the lawyer was in court. When the nonstop to Dallas was canceled at 7:30, he cursed another ticket agent and threatened to sue American Airlines. To get him out of the airport, they put him on a four-hour flight to Atlanta, first class with free drinks.

Tully Still drove a forklift for a freight company in the industrial park north of town. He was working the night shift and easy to find. At 8:30 Wednesday night, Ozzie Walls gave him the nod and they walked outside into the darkness. Still lit a cigarette. The two were not related, but their mothers had been best friends since elementary school. Tully’s wife, Michele, was Juror Number Three. Front row, dead center, Jake’s prize.

“How bad is it?” Ozzie asked.

“Pretty bad. What happened? Things were rockin’ along fine, then the case blows up.”

“Couple of witnesses came outta nowhere. What are they sayin’ in there?”

“Ozzie, even Michele’s got doubts about Lettie Lang. The woman looks bad, man, sneakin’ round, gettin’ old white folks to change their wills. Michele and the Gaston woman’ll stick with her, don’t worry, but that means they got two votes. And the whites on the jury ain’t bad people, maybe a couple, but most were goin’ with Lettie until this mornin’. It’s not all black against white in there.”

“So there’s a lot of talk?”

“Didn’t say that. I think there’s a lot of whisperin’. Ain’t that pretty normal? You can’t expect folk to not say a word until the end.”

“I suppose.”

“What’s Jake gonna do?”

“I’m not sure he can do anything. He says he’s called his best witnesses.”

“Looks like he got blindsided, like those Jackson lawyers got the best of him.”

“We’ll see. Maybe it’s not over.”

“Looks bad.”

“Keep a lid on it.”

“Don’t worry.”

They were not celebrating with champagne at the Sullivan firm, though fine wine was being poured. Walter Sullivan, the retired partner who founded the firm forty-five years earlier, was a connoisseur who had recently discovered fine Italian Barolos. After a light working dinner in the conference room, he pulled some corks, brought in some fine crystal goblets, and a tasting came to life.

The mood was nothing short of triumphant. Myron Pankey had watched a thousand juries and had never seen one flip so quickly and so thoroughly. “You own them, Wade,” he said. Lanier was being revered as a courtroom magician, able to pull rabbits out of hats in spite of the rules of evidence. “Give the judge the credit,” he said modestly, and more than once. “He just wants a fair trial.”

“Trials are not about fairness, Wade,” Mr. Sullivan chided. “Trials are about winning.”

Lanier and Chilcott could almost smell the money. Eighty percent of the gross estate for their clients, less taxes and so forth, and their little ten-man litigation firm would net a fee in excess of $2 million. It could arrive quickly. After the handwritten will was declared void, they would move on to the prior will. The bulk of the money was in cash. A lengthy probate might be avoided.

Herschel was in Memphis, commuting to the trial with his two children. The Dafoe family was staying in the guesthouse of a friend near the country club. All were in fine spirits and eager to get the money and get on with their lives. After he finished his wine, Wade would call them and receive their accolades.

An hour after he spoke to Tully Still, Ozzie was leaning on the hood of his patrol car in front of Jake’s house, smoking a cigar with his favorite lawyer. Ozzie was saying, “Tully says it’s ten to two.”

Jake puffed and said, “No real surprise there.”

“Well, it looks like it’s time to fold up your chair and go home, Jake. This little party’s over. Get somethin’ for Lettie and get the hell out. She don’t need much. Settle this damned thing before it goes to the jury.”

“We’re trying, Ozzie, okay? Harry Rex approached Lanier’s guys twice this afternoon. They laughed at him. You can’t settle a case when the other side is laughing at you. I’d take a million bucks right now.”

“A million! How many black folk around here got a million bucks, Jake? You’re thinkin’ too much like a white man. Get half a million, get a quarter, hell, get somethin’.”

“We’ll try again tomorrow. I’ll see how the morning goes, then approach Wade Lanier during lunch. He knows the score and he obviously knows how to play the game. He’s been in my shoes before. I think I can talk to him.”

“Talk fast, Jake, and get out of this damned trial. You want no part of this jury. This ain’t nothin’ like Hailey.”

“No, it’s not.”

Jake thanked him and went inside. Carla was already in bed, reading and worrying about her husband. “What was that all about?” she asked as he undressed.

“Just Ozzie. He’s concerned about the trial.”

“Why is Ozzie out roaming around at this hour?”

“You know Ozzie. He never sleeps.” Jake fell across the end of the bed and rubbed her legs under the sheets.

“Neither do you. Can I ask you something? Here you are in the middle of another big trial. You haven’t slept four hours in the past week, and when you are asleep you fidget and have nightmares. You’re not eating well. You’re losing weight. You’re preoccupied, off in la-la land half the time. You’re stressed-out, jumpy, testy, sometimes even nauseous. You’ll wake up in the morning with a knot in your stomach.”

“The question?”

“Why in the world do you want to be a trial lawyer?”

“This might not be the best time to ask that question.”

“No, it’s the perfect time. How many jury trials have you had in the last ten years?”

“Thirty-one.”

“And you’ve lost sleep and weight during each one, right?”

“I don’t think so. Most are not quite this significant, Carla. This is exceptional.”

“My point is that trial work is so stressful. Why do you want to do it?”

“Because I love it. It’s what being a lawyer is all about. Being in the courtroom, in front of a jury, is like being in the arena, or on the field. The competition is fierce. The stakes are high. The gamesmanship is intense. There will be a winner and a loser. There is a rush of adrenaline each time the jury is led in and seated.”

“A lot of ego.”

“A ton. You’ll never meet a successful trial lawyer without an ego. It’s a requirement. You gotta have the ego to want the work.”

“You should do well, then.”

“Okay, I admit I have the ego, but it might get crushed this week. It might need soothing.”

“Now or later?”

“Now. It’s been eight days.”

“Lock the door.”

Lucien blacked out somewhere over Mississippi at thirty-five thousand feet. When the plane landed in Atlanta, the flight attendants helped him off. Two guards put him in a wheelchair and rolled him to the gate for the flight to Memphis. They passed several airport lounges, all of which he noticed. When the guards parked him he thanked them, then got up and staggered to the nearest bar and ordered a beer. He was cutting back, being responsible. He slept from Atlanta to Memphis, landing there at 7:10 a.m. They dragged him off the plane, called security, and security called the police.

Portia took the call at the office. Jake was upstairs frantically reviewing witness statements when she buzzed through with “Jake, it’s a collect call from Lucien.”

“Where is he?”

“Don’t know but he sounds awful.”

“Take the call and put him through.”

Seconds later, Jake picked up the receiver and said, “Lucien, where are you?”

With great effort, he was able to convey the message that he was in the Memphis City Jail and needed Jake to come get him. He was thick-tongued, erratic, obviously bombed. Sadly, Jake had heard it all before. He was suddenly angry and unsympathetic.

“They won’t let me talk,” Lucien mumbled, barely intelligible. Then he seemed to be growling at someone in the background. Jake could visualize it perfectly. He said, “Lucien, we’re leaving in five minutes for the courtroom. I’m sorry.” But he wasn’t sorry at all. Let him rot in jail.

“I gotta get there, Jake, it’s important,” he said, his words slurred so badly that he repeated himself three times.

“What’s important?”

“I got deposition. Ancil’s. Ancil Hubbard. Deposition. It’s important Jake.”

Jake and Portia hurried across the street and entered the courthouse through the rear doors. Ozzie was in the hallway on the first floor talking to a janitor. “Got a minute?” Jake asked with a look that was dead serious. Ten minutes later, Ozzie and Marshall Prather left town in a sprint to Memphis.

“Missed you yesterday,” Judge Atlee said when Jake entered his chambers. The lawyers were gathering for the morning’s pregame briefing.

“Sorry Judge, but I got tied up with trial details,” Jake replied.

“I’m sure you did. Gentlemen, any preliminary matters this morning?”

The lawyers for the contestants smiled grimly and shook their heads. No. Jake said, “Well, yes, Your Honor, there is one matter. We have located Ancil Hubbard in Juneau, Alaska. He is alive and well and unable to rush down here for the trial. He is an interested party to these proceedings and should be included. Therefore, I move for a mistrial and suggest we start over when Ancil can be here.”

“Motion denied,” Judge Atlee said without hesitation. “He would be of no assistance in determining the validity of this will. How did you find him?”

“It’s quite a long story, Your Honor.”

“Save it for later. Anything else?”

“Not from me.”

“Are your next witnesses ready, Mr. Lanier?”

“They are.”

“Then let’s proceed.”

With the jurors so deeply in his pocket, the last thing Wade Lanier wanted to do was to bore them. He had made the decision to streamline his case and get to the jury as soon as possible. He and Lester Chilcott had mapped out the rest of the trial. They would spend Thursday calling their remaining witnesses. If Jake had anything left, he would then be permitted to call rebuttal witnesses. Both lawyers would deliver their closing arguments mid-morning on Friday, and the jurors would get the case just after lunch. With the weekend looming, and with their minds already made up, they should finish and deliver a verdict long before the courthouse closed at five. Wade and Lester would be in Jackson in time for a late dinner with their wives.

As seasoned lawyers, they should have known better than to plan the rest of the trial.

Their first witness Thursday morning was a retired oncologist from Jackson, a Dr. Swaney. For decades he had worked as a practicing physician while teaching at the medical school. His résumé was impeccable, as were his manners, and he spoke with a deep backcountry drawl that carried no pretensions. He was thoroughly credible and believable. Using as few medical terms as possible, Dr. Swaney explained to the jury the type of cancer that was killing Seth Hubbard, with emphasis on the tumors that metastasized to his spinal cord and ribs. He described the intense pain involved with such tumors. He had treated hundreds of patients with a similar condition, and it created some of the worst pain imaginable. Demerol was certainly one of the most effective drugs available. An oral dosage of a hundred milligrams every three to four hours was not uncommon and would alleviate some of the pain. It usually rendered the patient drowsy, sluggish, dizzy, often nauseous, and unable to carry out many routine functions. Driving was certainly out of the question. And, obviously, important decisions should never be made while under the influence of that much Demerol.

As a younger lawyer, Jake had learned the futility of arguing with a true expert. A bogus expert often provided the opportunity for some real carnage before the jury, but not so with witnesses like Dr. Swaney. On cross, Jake made it clear that Seth Hubbard’s own treating physician, Dr. Talbert, was not certain how much Demerol Seth was taking in the days before his death. The witness agreed it was all speculation, but politely reminded Jake that patients rarely buy more of an expensive drug if they’re not using it.

The next expert was another medical doctor, a Dr. Niehoff, from the medical school at UCLA. Small-town juries are easily impressed with experts who travel great distances to spend time with them, and no one knew this better than Wade Lanier. An expert from Tupelo would have their attention, while one from Memphis would be even more believable. But bring in the same guy from California and the jury would hang on every word.

For $10,000 of Wade Lanier’s money, plus expenses, Dr. Niehoff explained to the jury that he had spent the last twenty-five years researching and treating pain in cancer victims. He was well acquainted with the tumors under discussion and did a thorough job of describing their effects on the body. He had seen patients cry and scream for prolonged periods of time, turn deathly pale, vomit uncontrollably, beg for medications, pass out, and even beg for death. Thoughts of suicide were quite common. Actual suicide was not rare. Demerol was one of the more popular and effective treatments. Here, Dr. Niehoff ventured off script when he lapsed into a bit of technical jargon, as happened so often when experts couldn’t resist the temptation to impress their listeners. He referred to the drug as meperidine hydrochloride, said it was a narcotic analgesic, an opiate pain reliever.

Lanier stopped him and brought his vocabulary back in line. Dr. Niehoff told the jury that Demerol was a powerful pain reliever and highly addictive. He had worked with the drug for his entire career and had written numerous articles about it. Doctors prefer to dispense it in the hospital or in their clinics; however, in a case like Seth Hubbard’s, it was not unusual to allow the patient to take it orally at home. The drug was easy to abuse, especially for a person in severe pain like Seth.

Jake rose and said, “Objection, Your Honor. There is not a shred of evidence that Seth Hubbard abused this drug.”

“Sustained. Stick with the facts, Doctor.”

Jake sat down, relieved to have finally received a favorable ruling on something.

Dr. Niehoff was an excellent witness. His descriptions of the tumors, the pain, and the Demerol were detailed, and after forty-five minutes on the stand it was easy to believe Seth was suffering greatly and his pain was relieved only by massive doses of Demerol, a drug that practically knocked him out. In his expert opinion, Seth Hubbard’s judgment was so adversely affected by the daily dosages and cumulative effects of the drug that he could not have been thinking clearly in his final days.

On cross, Jake lost even more ground. When he tried to make the point that Dr. Niehoff had no idea how much of the drug Seth was taking, the expert “guaranteed” Jake that anyone suffering like Seth would be desperate for Demerol.

“If he had access to a prescription, then he was taking the pills, Mr. Brigance.”

After a few more pointless questions, Jake sat down. The two doctors had accomplished precisely what Wade Lanier had intended. At that moment, in the minds of the jurors, and practically everyone else in the courtroom, Seth had been disoriented, dizzy, drowsy, lightheaded, and unable to drive so he asked Lettie to do it.

In summary, he lacked testamentary capacity.

After a ten-minute recess, Lanier continued when he called Lewis McGwyre as a witness. Because the Rush firm had made such an ungraceful exit from the case, and was thus cut out of the fees, McGwyre at first refused to testify. So Wade Lanier did the unthinkable: he subpoenaed another lawyer. In short order, Lanier established that McGwyre had prepared a thick will for Seth in September 1987. That will was admitted into evidence, and McGwyre stepped down. As much as he wanted to hang around and watch the trial, his pride wouldn’t allow it. He and Stillman Rush hurried from the courtroom.

Duff McClennan took the stand, took the oath, and proceeded to explain to the jury that he was a tax lawyer with a three-hundred-man firm in Atlanta. For the past thirty years he had specialized in estate planning. He drafted wills, thick ones, for wealthy people who wanted to avoid as much of the death taxes as possible. He had reviewed the inventory of assets filed by Quince Lundy, and he had reviewed the handwritten will signed by Seth Hubbard. Lanier then flashed onto a large screen a series of calculations, and McClennan launched into a windy explanation of how federal and state death taxes gobbled up the unprotected estate. He apologized for the intricacies, the contradictions, the mind-numbing banalities of “our dear tax code,” and apologized for its complexities. Twice he said, “I didn’t write this. Congress did.” Lanier knew perfectly well that the jury would be bored if not repulsed by this testimony, so he labored diligently to skip along, hitting the high points and leaving much of the code in the dust.