Sycamore Row (Jake Brigance 2)

“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.

38

Before his wife died, Judge and Mrs. Atlee once went eight consecutive years without missing Sunday worship at the First Presbyterian Church. Fifty-two Sundays in a row, for eight years. A flu virus halted the streak. Then she passed on, and the judge lost some focus and actually missed once or twice a year. But not often. He was such a presence in the church that his absence was always noted. He wasn’t there the Sunday before the trial began, and when Jake realized it he allowed his mind to wander during the sermon. Could the old guy be sick? If so, might the trial be postponed? How would this affect his strategy? A dozen questions and no answers.

After church, Jake and his girls returned to the Hocutt House where Willie was preparing a brunch on the back porch. He insisted on hosting the new owners, claiming he wanted to meet Hanna and show her around. All top secret of course. Jake and Carla would have preferred to keep their daughter out of it for the moment, but they could hardly suppress their excitement. Hanna promised to keep this rather significant secret. After a tour, which included Hanna’s tentative selection of her new bedroom, they settled around a plank farm table on the porch and had French toast and scrambled eggs.

Willie moved the conversation away from the house and to the trial. Fluidly, he became a journalist again, probing and nibbling around the edges of sensitive material. Twice Carla shot warning glances at Jake, who realized what was happening. When Willie asked if they could expect any evidence that Seth Hubbard had been intimate with Lettie Lang, Jake politely said he couldn’t answer that question. The brunch became a little awkward as Jake grew quieter while his host kept chatting on about rumors he was chasing. Was it true Lettie had offered to split the money and settle the case? Jake replied firmly that he could not comment. There was so much gossip. When Willie pursued another question about “intimacy,” Carla said, “Please, Willie, there’s a seven-year-old present.”

“Yes, sorry.”

Hanna was not missing a word.

After an hour, Jake looked at his watch and said he had to get to the office. It would be a long afternoon and night. Willie poured some more coffee as they thanked him and placed their napkins on the table. It took fifteen minutes to gracefully say good-bye. As they drove away, Hanna stared at the house through the car’s rear window and said, “I like our new house. When can we move in?”

“Soon, honey,” Carla said.

“Where’s Mr. Willie going to live?”

“Oh, he has several houses,” Jake said. “Don’t worry about him.”

“He’s such a nice man.”

“Yes, he is,” Carla said.

Lucien followed the detective into the room where Lonny sat waiting expectantly with a stout nurse at his side, sentry-like. She was not smiling and seemed irritated by this intrusion. One of the doctors had reluctantly acceded to the request for a few questions. Lonny’s condition had improved overnight and he was feeling better, but his team was still protective. They didn’t like lawyers anyway.

“This is the guy I told you about, Lonny,” the detective said, without the slightest attempt at an introduction. Lucien, in his black suit, stood down by Lonny’s feet and offered a phony smile. “Mr. Clark, my name is Lucien Wilbanks, and I work for a lawyer in Clanton, Mississippi,” he said.