Текст книги "Sycamore Row"
Автор книги: John Grisham
Соавторы: John Grisham
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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 35 страниц)
6
The parking lot of the Irish Road Christian Church was half-full when Ozzie’s relatively unmarked car turned in to it at five minutes before four on Tuesday afternoon. There were no words or numbers painted boldly on the car—Ozzie preferred a lower profile—but one glance and you knew it was the high sheriff. A collection of antennas; a small round blue light on the dash, partially hidden; a big brown Ford with four doors and black wheels, same as virtually every other high sheriff in the state.
He parked it next to the red Saab, which was parked away from the other cars. Ozzie got out as Jake was getting out and together they crossed the parking lot. “Anything new?” Jake asked.
“Nothing,” Ozzie said. He was wearing a dark suit with black cowboy boots. Jake, the same, minus the boots. “You?”
“Nothing. I guess the shit’ll hit the fan tomorrow.”
Ozzie laughed and said, “I can’t wait.”
The church, originally, was a redbrick chapel with a squatty steeple above a set of double front doors. Over time, though, the congregation had added the obligatory metal buildings—one beside the chapel that dwarfed it, and one behind it where the youth played basketball. On a small knoll nearby there was a cemetery under shady trees, a quiet and pretty place to be buried.
A few smokers were getting their last-minute drags, country men in old suits reluctantly worn. They were quick to speak to the sheriff. They nodded politely to Jake. Inside, there was a respectable crowd scattered throughout the dark-stained oak pews. The lights were low. An organist softly played a mournful dirge, priming the crowd for the sorrow to come. Seth’s closed casket was draped in flowers and situated below the pulpit. His pallbearers sat grim-faced and shoulder to shoulder off to the left near the piano.
Jake and Ozzie sat alone on a back row and began looking around. Grouped together not far away were some black folks, five in total.
Ozzie nodded at them and whispered, “Green dress, that’s Lettie Lang.”
Jake nodded and whispered back, “Who are the others?”
Ozzie shook his head. “Can’t tell from here.”
Jake stared at the back of Lettie’s head and tried to imagine the adventures they were about to share. He had yet to meet this woman, had never heard her name until the day before, but they were about to become well acquainted.
Lettie sat unknowing, her hands folded in her lap. That morning she had worked for three hours before being asked by Herschel to leave. On her way out, he informed her that her employment would be terminated as of 3:00 p.m. Wednesday, the following day. At that point, the house would be locked up and deserted until further orders from the court. Lettie had $400 in her checking account, one she kept away from Simeon, and she had $300 in a pickle jar hidden in the pantry. Beyond that, she was broke and had slim prospects for meaningful work. She had not spoken to her husband in almost three weeks. Occasionally, he would return home with a paycheck or some cash; usually, though, he was just drunk and needed to sleep it off.
Soon to be unemployed, with bills and people to feed, Lettie could have sat there listening to the organ and fretted over her future, but she did not. Mr. Hubbard had promised her more than once that when he died, and he knew his death was imminent, he would leave a little something for her. How little, or how much? Lettie could only dream. Four rows behind her, Jake thought to himself, If she only knew. She had no idea he was there, or why. She would later claim she recognized his name because of the Hailey trial, but she had never actually seen Mr. Brigance.
In the center, on the row directly in front of the casket, Ramona Dafoe sat with Ian to her left and Herschel to her right. None of their children, Seth’s grandchildren, had been able to make the drive. Their lives were just too busy; not that their parents had pushed too hard. Behind them was a row of relatives so distant they had to introduce themselves in the parking lot, and their names were quickly forgotten. Seth Hubbard’s parents had been dead for decades. His only sibling, Ancil, was long gone. There had never been much family to begin with and the years had decimated the rest.
Behind the family, and throughout the dim sanctuary, there were several dozen other mourners—employees of Seth’s, friends, fellow church members. When Pastor Don McElwain stepped to the pulpit precisely at 4:00 p.m., he and everyone else knew the service would be brief. He led them in prayer and recited a quick obituary: Seth was born May 10, 1917, in Ford County, where he died on October 2, 1988. Preceded in death by parents so-and-so; two surviving children, some grandchildren, et cetera.
Jake spotted a familiar profile several rows up and to his left, a man in a nice suit. Same age, same law class. Stillman Rush, attorney-at-law, third-generation prick from a family of same, blue bloods from the big leagues of corporate and insurance law, or as big as they could possibly be in the rural South. Rush & Westerfield, the largest firm in north Mississippi, based in Tupelo with offices coming soon to a shopping center near you. Seth Hubbard mentioned the Rush firm in his letter to Jake, and also in his handwritten will, so there was little doubt Stillman Rush and the other two well-dressed gentlemen with him had come to check on their investment. Typically, the insurance boys worked in pairs. It took two to perform even the most mundane legal tasks: two to file papers in court; two to answer a docket call; two for an uncontested hearing; two to drive here and there; and, of course, two to jack up the billing and pad the file. Big law firms vigorously worshipped inefficiencies: more hours meant more fees.
But three? For a quick funeral out in the boonies? This was impressive, and exciting. It meant money. There was no doubt in Jake’s hyperactive mind that the three had turned on their meters when they’d left their offices in Tupelo and were now sitting over there pretending to mourn at $200 an hour per man. According to Seth’s final words, a Mr. Lewis McGwyre had drafted a will in September of 1987, and Jake figured he was one of the three. Jake did not know McGwyre, but then the firm had so many lawyers. Since they prepared the will, they naturally assumed they would probate it.
Tomorrow, he thought, they’ll drive over again, at least two but maybe another trio, and they’ll take their paperwork to the offices of the Chancery Court clerk, on the second floor of Jake’s courthouse, and they’ll smugly inform either Eva or Sara that they have arrived for the purposes of opening the estate of Mr. Seth Hubbard for probate. And either Eva or Sara will suppress a grin while appearing confused. Papers will be shuffled, questions asked, then a big surprise—you’re a bit late, sirs. That estate has already been opened!
Either Eva or Sara will show them to the new filings, where they will gawk at the thin, handwritten will, one that specifically revoked and denounced the thick one they so cherished, and the war will begin. They will curse Jake Brigance, but once they settle down they will realize that the war could be profitable for all the lawyers.
Lettie wiped a tear and realized she was probably the only person crying.
In front of the lawyers were some business types, one of whom turned around and whispered something to Stillman Rush. Jake thought this might be one of the higher-ups who worked for Seth. He was particularly curious about Mr. Russell Amburgh, described in the handwritten will as once the vice president of Seth’s holding company and the man with the knowledge of the assets and liabilities.
Mrs. Nora Baines sang three stanzas of “The Old Rugged Cross,” a somber, surefire tearjerker at any funeral, but at Seth’s it failed to provoke emotion. Pastor McElwain read from Psalms and dwelled on the wisdom of Solomon, then two teenage boys with pimples and a guitar strummed and hummed through something contemporary, a strained song Seth would not have appreciated. Ramona finally broke down and was comforted by Ian. Herschel just stared at the floor in front of the casket, never blinking, never moving. Another woman sobbed loudly in response.
Seth’s cruel plan was to withhold knowledge of his last will until after the funeral. In his letter to Jake, his exact words were: “Do not mention my last will and testament until after the funeral. I want my family to be forced to go through all the rituals of mourning before they realize they get nothing. Watch them fake it—they’re very good at it. They have no love for me.” As the service dragged on, it became apparent that there was little faking going on. What was left of his family didn’t care enough to even fake it. What a sad way to go, thought Jake.
At Seth’s instructions, there were no eulogies. No one spoke but the pastor, though it was easy to get the impression there might be no volunteers if they opened up the mike. The pastor finished with a marathon of a prayer, one obviously designed to burn some clock. Twenty-five minutes after he started, he dismissed them with the invitation to walk next door to the cemetery for the interment. Outside, Jake managed to dodge Stillman Rush and the lawyers. Instead, he bumped into the nearest man in a business suit and said, “Excuse me, but I’m looking for a Russell Amburgh.”
The man politely pointed and said, “Right there.”
Russell Amburgh was standing ten feet away, lighting a cigarette, and he heard Jake’s inquiry. The two shook hands grimly and gave their names. Jake said, “Could I have a moment alone?”
Mr. Amburgh half shrugged and said softly, “Sure, what’s up?”
The crowd was drifting slowly in the general direction of the cemetery. Jake had no plans to watch the burial; he was on another mission. When he and Amburgh were far enough away not to be heard, he said, “I’m a lawyer in Clanton, never met Mr. Hubbard, but I received a letter from him yesterday. A letter, along with his last will and testament in which he names you as his executor. It is imperative that we talk as soon as possible.”
Amburgh stopped cold and jammed the cigarette into a corner of his mouth. He glared at Jake, then glanced around to make sure they were alone. “What kinda will?” he said, exhaling smoke.
“Handwritten, last Saturday. He was clearly contemplating his death.”
“Then he was probably out of his mind,” Amburgh said, sneering, the first rattle of a saber in the coming war.
Jake had not expected this. “We’ll see. I guess that will be determined later.”
“I was a lawyer once, Mr. Brigance, a long time ago before I found honest work. I know the game.”
Jake kicked a rock and looked around. The first mourners were nearing the front entrance of the cemetery. “Can we talk?”
“What’s in the will?”
“I can’t tell you now but I can tell you tomorrow.”
Amburgh cocked his head back and glared down along his nose. “How much do you know about Seth’s business?”
“Let’s say nothing. In his will he writes that you have a good knowledge of his assets and liabilities.”
Another draw, another sneer. “There are no liabilities, Mr. Brigance. Only assets, and plenty.”
“Please, let’s meet and have a chat. All secrets are about to be revealed, Mr. Amburgh, I just need to know where it’s going. Under the terms of his will, you’re the executor and I’m the lawyer for the estate.”
“That doesn’t sound right. Seth hated the lawyers in Clanton.”
“Yes, he made that very clear. If we can meet in the morning, I’ll be happy to show you a copy of his will and shed some light.”
Amburgh started walking again and Jake tagged along, for a few steps anyway. As they approached the cemetery, Ozzie was waiting by the gate. Amburgh stopped again and said, “I live in Temple. There’s a café on Highway 52, west of town. Meet me there at 7:30 in the morning.”
“Okay. What’s the name of the café?”
“The Café.”
“Got it.”
Amburgh disappeared without another word. Jake looked at Ozzie, shook his head in disbelief, then pointed to the parking lot. Both of them eased away from the cemetery. They’d had enough of Seth Hubbard for one day. Their farewell was complete.
Twenty minutes later, at exactly 4:55 p.m., Jake jogged into the offices of the Chancery Court clerk and smiled at Sara. “Where you been?” she snapped, waiting.
“It’s not even five o’clock,” he shot back as he zipped open his briefcase.
“Yes, but we stop working at four, on Tuesdays anyway. Five on Monday. Three on Wednesday and Thursday. On Friday you’re lucky if we show up.” The woman talked nonstop and had a quick tongue. After twenty years of daily give-and-take with a bunch of lawyers, she had honed her retorts and one-liners.
Jake laid the papers on the counter in front of her and said, “I need to open the estate of Mr. Seth Hubbard.”
“Testate or intestate?”
“Oh, he has a will, more than one. That’s where the fun’s coming from.”
“Didn’t he just kill himself?”
“You know damned well he just killed himself because you work in this courthouse where rumors fly and gossip is created and nothing is secret.”
“I’m offended,” she said, stamping the petition. She flipped a few pages, smiled and said, “Ooh, nice, a handwritten will. A boon to the legal profession.”
“You got it.”
“Who gets everything?”
“My lips are sealed.” As Jake bantered he pulled more papers from his briefcase.
“Well, Mr. Brigance, your lips may be sealed but this court file certainly is not.” She stamped something dramatically and said, “It is now officially a public record, under the laws of this great state, unless of course you have a written motion requesting the file to be sealed.”
“I do not.”
“Oh good, so we can talk about all the dirt. There is some dirt, right?”
“Don’t know. I’m still digging. Look, Sara, I need a favor.”
“Anything you want, baby.”
“This is a race to the courthouse and I’ve just won. Sometime soon, perhaps tomorrow, I expect two or three pompous-ass lawyers in dark suits to show up and hand over their version of a petition to open Mr. Hubbard’s estate. More than likely they’ll be from Tupelo. There’s another will, you see.”
“I love it.”
“So do I. Anyway, you’re not required to inform them they’ve just finished second, but it might be fun to watch their faces. Whatta you think?”
“I can’t wait.”
“Great, show them the court file, have a laugh, then call me with a full report. But please, bury this until tomorrow.”
“You got it, Jake. This could be fun.”
“Well, if things unfold the way I expect, this case could keep us amused for the next year.”
As soon as he left, Sara read the handwritten will that was attached to Jake’s petition. She summoned the other clerks to her desk where they read it too. A black lady from Clanton said she’d never heard of Lettie Lang. No one seemed to know Seth Hubbard. They chatted awhile, but it was now after 5:00 p.m. and everyone had places to go. The file was put in its place, the lights were turned off, and the clerks quickly forgot things related to work. They would resume their speculation the following day and get to the bottom of the matter.
Had the petition and will been filed during the morning, the entire courthouse would have been buzzing by noon; the entire town by late afternoon. Now, though, the gossip would have to wait, but not for long.
Simeon Lang was drinking but he was not drunk, a distinction that was often blurred but generally understood by his family. Drinking meant behavior that was somewhat controlled and not threatening. It meant he was slowly sipping beer with glassy eyes and a thick tongue. Being drunk meant harrowing times with people running from the house and hiding in the trees. And, to his credit, he was often cold sober, the preferred state, even for Simeon.
After three weeks on the road, hauling loads of scrap iron throughout the Deep South, he had returned with a paycheck intact, tired and clear-eyed. He offered no explanation of where he had been; he never did. He tried to appear content, even domesticated, but after a few hours of bumping into other people, and of listening to Cypress, and of deflecting the rejections of his wife, he ate a sandwich and moved outdoors with his beer, to a spot under a tree beside the house where he could sit in peace and watch the occasional car go by.
Returning was always a struggle. Out there, on the open road, he would dream for hours of a new life somewhere, always a better life alone and unbothered. He’d been tempted a thousand times to keep driving, to drop his freight at its destination and never slow down. His father left them when he was a kid, left a pregnant wife and four children and was never heard from. For days Simeon and his older brother sat on the porch, hiding tears, waiting. As he grew, he hated his father, still did, but now he too was feeling the urge to run away. His kids were much older; they would survive.
On the road he often asked himself why he felt the pull of home. He hated living in a cramped rental house with his mother-in-law, two rotten grandkids he didn’t ask for, and a wife who nagged him for more out of life. Lettie had threatened divorce a hundred times in the past twenty years, and to him it was a miracle they were together. You wanna split, then let’s have a split, he said as he took a sip. But he’d said that a hundred times too.
It was almost dark when she stepped out of the house onto the rear patio and slowly made her way across the grass to his tree. He sat in one of two mismatched lawn chairs, his feet propped on an old milk crate, his beer cooler next to him. He offered her the other chair but she declined.
“How long you home?” she asked softly as she stared at the road, like him.
“I just got home and you’re ready for me to leave.”
“I didn’t mean it that way, Simeon. Just curious, that’s all.”
He wasn’t about to answer the question so he took another sip. They were rarely alone together, and when they were they couldn’t remember how to talk. A car passed slowly on the county road and they watched it as though fascinated. Finally, she said, “I’m probably gonna lose my job tomorrow. I told you Mr. Hubbard killed himself, and his family don’t want me around past tomorrow.”
Simeon had mixed feelings about this. It made him feel superior because once again he would be the principal breadwinner, the head of the house. He despised the way Lettie took on airs when she was earning more than he was. He resented her bitching and chirping when he was out of work. Even though she was only a housekeeper, she could get arrogant when acting like a white man trusted her so thoroughly. But, the family needed the money, and losing her wages would inevitably lead to trouble.
He struggled to say “I’m sorry.”
There was another long, silent gap. They could hear voices and noise from inside the house. “Any word from Marvis?” he asked.
She dropped her head and said, “No, it’s been two weeks and no letter.”
“Did you write him?”
“I write him every week, Simeon, you know that. When’s the last time you wrote him?”
Simeon seethed but held his fire. He was proud of himself for coming home sober, and he wouldn’t ruin it with a fight. Marvis Lang, age twenty-eight, two years in the pen with at least ten to go. Drug trafficking, assault with a deadly weapon.
A car approached and slowed, then slowed some more as if the driver wasn’t sure. It moved a few feet, then turned in to their driveway. There was enough sunlight left to reveal it to be an odd make, definitely foreign, and red in color. The engine was turned off and a young white man got out, alone. He was wearing a white shirt with a loosened tie. He carried nothing, and after walking a few feet seemed uncertain of where he was.
“Over here,” Simeon called out, and the young man stiffened as if scared. He had not seen them under the tree. He proceeded cautiously across the small front yard. “Looking for Ms. Lettie Lang,” he said loud enough for them to hear.
“I’m over here,” she said as he came into view. He walked to within ten feet and said, “Hello, my name is Jake Brigance. I’m a lawyer in Clanton and I need to speak to Lettie Lang.”
“You were at the funeral today,” she said.
“I was, yes.”
Simeon reluctantly climbed to his feet and the three exchanged awkward handshakes. Simeon offered him a beer, then returned to his seat. Jake declined the beer, though he would have enjoyed one. He was, after all, there on business.
Lettie said, without being edgy, “I’m sure you’re not just passin’ through our little corner of the world.”
“No, no I’m not.”
“Brigance,” Simeon said, sipping. “Didn’t you represent Carl Lee Hailey?”
Aw, the old icebreaker, at least with black folks. “I did,” Jake said modestly.
“I thought so. Good job. Great job.”
“Thanks. Look, I’m actually here on business, and, well, I need to speak with Lettie here in private. No offense or anything, but I have to tell her something confidential.”
“What is it?” she asked, confused.
“Why is it private?” Simeon asked.
“Because the law says it is,” Jake replied, fudging a bit. The law had nothing to do with this situation. In fact, as he muddled through this encounter he began to realize that his big news perhaps wasn’t so confidential after all. There was no doubt Lettie would tell her husband everything before Jake pulled out of the driveway. The last will and testament of Seth Hubbard was now a public record and would be scrutinized by every lawyer in town within twenty-four hours. Where was the privacy, the confidentiality?
Simeon angrily tossed a beer can against the tree, sending a line of foam across the trunk. He bolted to his feet, growling, “All right, all right,” as he kicked the milk crate. He reached into the cooler, grabbed another beer, and stomped away, mumbling and cursing under his breath. The shadows consumed him as he moved deeper into the trees, no doubt watching and listening.
Lettie, almost whispering, said, “Very sorry about that, Mr. Brigance.”
“No problem. Look, Ms. Lang, there is a very important matter we need to discuss as soon as possible, preferably tomorrow in my office. It’s about Mr. Hubbard and his last will and testament.”
Lettie bit her bottom lip as she stared wild-eyed at Jake. Tell me more.
Jake continued: “The day before he died, he made a new will, one that he dropped in the mail so I would receive it after his death. It appears to be a valid will, but I’m sure it will be contested by his family.”
“Am I in his will?”
“You certainly are. In fact, he left a sizable portion of his estate to you.”
“Oh God.”
“Yes. He wants me to be the lawyer for his estate, and I’m sure that will be contested too. That’s why we need to talk.”
Her right hand covered her mouth as she mumbled, “Oh my Lord.”
Jake looked at the house where the light from its windows cut through the darkness. A shadow moved beyond it, probably Simeon circling around. Jake had the sudden desire to hop in the old Saab and cut a trail quickly back to civilization.
She asked, nodding, “Should I tell him?”
“That’s up to you. I would have included him but I’ve heard stories about his drinking. Didn’t know what shape he’s in right now. But, to be honest, Ms. Lang, he’s your husband and he should come with you tomorrow. That is, if he’s in good shape.”
“He’ll be in good shape, I promise.”
Jake handed her a business card and said, “Anytime tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be in my office waiting.”
“We’ll be there, Mr. Brigance. And thank you for comin’ here.”
“It’s very important, Ms. Lang, and I felt like I needed to meet you. We could be in for a long, hard fight together.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“I know. I’ll explain it tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Mr. Brigance.”
“Good night.”
