Sycamore Row jb-2 Read online

  “Testamentary capacity,” Dewayne said from deep within the menthol fog.

  “That’s it-testamentary capacity. He made it sound like Seth was crazy.”

  Stunned, Jake managed to maintain a grim face and give away nothing. His first reaction was anger-how dare another lawyer step into his case, tell lies, and tamper with witnesses. There were so many ethical violations Jake couldn’t think of them all. His second reaction, though, was more restrained-this lawyer was a fraud, a fake. No one would do this.

  He kept his cool and said, “Well, I’ll have a talk with this lawyer and tell him to butt out.”

  “What’s in the other will, the real one?” Dewayne asked.

  “I haven’t seen it. It was prepared by some lawyers in Tupelo, and they have not yet been required to show it.”

  “Do you think we’re in it?” Kamila asked without the slightest effort at subtlety.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Can we find out?” she asked.

  “I doubt it.” Jake wanted to ask if such knowledge might affect their testimony, but he decided to say as little as possible.

  Arlene said, “He asked a lot of questions about Seth and how he was acting that Friday. He wanted to know how he was feeling and all about his medications.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “Not much. To be honest, he was not the kind of person I wanted to talk to. He was shifty-eyed and-”

  “A real fast talker,” Dewayne added. “Too fast. At times I couldn’t understand him and I kept thinking, This guy’s a lawyer? Hate to see him in court, in front of a jury.”

  Kamila said, “He got pretty aggressive, too, almost demanding that we tell our stories a certain way. He really wanted us to say that Seth was unbalanced because of all the drugs.”

  Dewayne, smoke pouring from his nostrils, said, “At one point he placed his briefcase on Arlene’s desk, upright, in an odd position, and made no effort to open it. He’s trying to tape this, I said to myself. He’s got a recorder in there.”

  “No, he wasn’t too smooth,” Arlene said. “We believed him at first, you know. Guy comes in wearing a nice dark suit, says he’s a lawyer, hands over his card, and seems to know a lot about Seth Hubbard and his business. He insisted on talking to the three of us at the same time, and we didn’t know how to say no. So we talked, or, rather, he talked. We did most of the listening.”

  “How would you describe this guy?” Jake asked. “Age, height, weight, so on.”

  The three looked at each other with great reluctance, certain that there would be little agreement. “How old?” Arlene asked the others. “I’d say forty.”

  Dewayne nodded and Kamila said, “Yes, maybe forty-five. Six feet, thick, I’d say two hundred pounds.”

  “At least two hundred,” Dewayne said. “Dark hair, real dark, thick, kinda shaggy-”

  “Needed a haircut,” Arlene said. “Thick mustache and sideburns. No glasses.”

  “He smoked Camels,” Dewayne said. “Filters.”

  “I’ll track him down and find out what he’s up to,” Jake said, though by then he was fairly certain there was no lawyer named Reed Maxey. Even the dumbest of lawyers would know that such a visit would lead to sure trouble and an ethics investigation. Nothing added up.

  “Should we talk to a lawyer?” Kamila asked. “I mean, this is something new for me, for us. It’s kinda scary.”

  “Not yet,” Jake said. He planned to get them one-on-one and hear their stories. A group talk might sway the narrative. “Perhaps later, but not now.”

  “What’ll happen to this place?” Dewayne asked, then noisily filled his lungs.

  Jake walked across the open space and roughly yanked open a window so he could breathe. “Why can’t you smoke outside?” Kamila hissed at the vice president. It was obvious the smoking issue had been roiling for some time. Their boss had been dying of lung cancer and his office suite smelled like burned charcoal. Of course smoking was permitted.

  Jake walked back, stood before them, and said, “Mr. Hubbard, in his will, directed his executor to sell all of his assets for fair value and reduce everything to cash. This business will continue operating until someone buys it.”

  “When will that happen?” Arlene asked.

  “Whenever the right offer comes along. Now, or two years from now. Even if the estate gets bogged down in a will contest, Mr. Hubbard’s assets will be protected by the court. I’m sure word is out in these parts that this business will go on the block. We might get an offer in the near future. Until then, nothing changes. Assuming, of course, that the employees here can continue to run things.”

  “Dewayne’s been running it for five years,” Arlene said graciously.

  “We’ll carry on,” he said.

  “Good. Now, if there’s nothing else, I need to get back into the records.” The three thanked him and left.

  Thirty minutes later, as Arlene puttered at her desk, Jake walked over and said, “I’d like to see his office.” She waved her arm and said, “It’s unlocked.” Then she stood and opened the door for Jake. It was a long narrow room, with a desk and chairs at one end and a cheap conference table at the other. Not surprisingly, there was a lot of wood on display: heart-pine walls and flooring, stained to a bronze-like finish; darker oak bookshelves along the walls, many of them empty. There was no ego wall-no diplomas because Seth had earned none; no civic club awards; no photos with politicians. In fact, there was not a single photo anywhere in the office. The desk appeared to be a custom-made table with drawers, and the top of it was virtually bare. One stack of papers and three empty ashtrays.

  On the one hand, it was what you would expect from a country boy who had managed to put together some assets in his later years. On the other hand, it was hard to believe that a man worth $20 million wouldn’t have a nicer office.

  “Everything’s neat and tidy,” Jake said, almost to himself.

  “Seth liked things in order,” Arlene said. They walked to the far end where Jake pulled a chair away from the conference table and said, “Got a minute?” She sat down too as if she had been expecting a conversation and was looking forward to it.

  Jake pulled over a phone and said, “Let’s call this Reed Maxey guy, okay?”

  “Okay. Whatever.” You’re the lawyer.

  Jake dialed the number on the business card, and to his surprise got a receptionist, who announced the name of a large, well-known Jackson law firm. Jake asked for Mr. Reed Maxey, who evidently worked there because she said, “One moment please.” The next female voice said, “Mr. Maxey’s office.” Jake gave his name, and asked to speak to the lawyer. “Mr. Maxey is out of town and won’t be back until Monday,” she said. Turning on the charm, Jake explained the basics of what he was doing and, with a hint of gloom, said he was afraid someone might be impersonating Mr. Reed Maxey. “Was he in Ford County last Tuesday?” he asked.

  “Oh, no. He’s been in Dallas on business since Monday.” Jake said he had a physical description of her boss, and proceeded to describe the impostor. At one point, the secretary chuckled and said, “No, no, there’s some mistake. The Reed Maxey I work for is sixty-two years old, bald, and is shorter than me and I’m five nine.”

  “Do you know of another lawyer in Jackson named Reed Maxey?” he asked.

  “No, sorry.”

  Jake thanked her and promised to call her boss next week for a more in-depth discussion. When he hung up he said, “Just what I thought. The guy was lying. He was not a lawyer. He may be working for one, but he’s a fake.”

  Poor Arlene just stared at him, unable to put words together. He went on, “I have no idea who the guy is and we’ll probably never see him again. I’ll try and find out, but we may never know. I suspect he was sent by someone involved in the case, but I can only speculate.”

  “But why?” she managed to ask.

  “To intimidate you, confuse you, frighten you. In all likelihood, the three of you, and perhaps others who work here,
will be called to testify about Seth’s behavior in the days before he died. Was he of sound mind? Was he acting strange? Was he heavily medicated? If so, were the drugs affecting his judgment? These will be crucial questions down the road.”

  She seemed to ponder them as Jake waited. After a long pause, he said, “So, Arlene, let’s have some answers. He wrote the will right here in this office on Saturday morning. He had to mail it before noon for me to receive it Monday. You saw him Friday, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual?”

  She pulled a tissue from a pocket and touched her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said, crying before she’d really said anything. This could take some time, Jake thought. She pulled herself together, stiffened her spine, and smiled at Jake. “You know, Mr. Brigance, I’m not certain who to trust in this situation, but, to be perfectly honest, I trust you.”

  “Thanks, I guess.”

  “You see, my brother was on that jury.”

  “Which jury?”

  “Carl Lee Hailey.”

  All twelve names were forever etched in Jake’s memory. He smiled and asked, “Which one?”

  “Barry Acker. My youngest brother.”

  “I’ll never forget him.”

  “He has a lot of respect for you, because of that trial and all.”

  “And I have a lot of respect for him. They were very courageous, and they reached the right verdict.”

  “When I heard that you were the lawyer for Seth’s estate, I felt better. But then, when we heard about his last will, well, it’s pretty confusing.”

  “I understand. Let’s trust each other, okay? Drop the ‘Mister’ stuff. Call me Jake, and tell me the truth. Fair enough?”

  Arlene placed the tissue on the table and relaxed in her chair. “Fair enough, but I don’t want to go to court.”

  “Let’s worry about that later. For now, just give me some background.”

  “Okay.” She swallowed hard, braced herself, and let it rip. “Seth’s last days were not pleasant. He’d been up and down for a month or so, post-chemo. He had two rounds of chemo and radiation, lost his hair and a lot of weight, so weak and sick he couldn’t get out of bed. But he was a tough old guy and wouldn’t quit. It was lung cancer, though, and when the tumors came back he knew the end was near. He stopped traveling and spent more time here. He was in pain, taking a lot of Demerol. He would come in early, drink some coffee, and feel okay for a few hours, but then he would fade. I never saw him take the painkillers but he told me about them. At times he was drowsy and dizzy, and even nauseous. He insisted on driving and that worried us.”

  “Worried who?”

  “The three of us. We took care of Seth. He never allowed people to get close. You said you never met him. I’m not surprised because Seth avoided people. He hated small talk. He was not a warm person. He was a loner who didn’t want anyone knowing his business or doing things for him. He’d get his own coffee. If I took it to him he wouldn’t say thanks. He trusted Dewayne to run his business, but they didn’t spend much time together. Kamila’s been here a couple of years and Seth really liked to flirt with her. She’s a tart, but a sweet girl, and he liked her. But that’s it. Just the three of us.”

  “In his last days, did you see him do anything out of the ordinary?”

  “Not really. He felt bad. He napped a lot. He seemed upbeat on that Friday. We’ve talked about it, the three of us, and it’s not unusual for people who’ve made the decision to commit suicide to become relaxed, even look forward to the end. I think Seth knew on that Friday what he was about to do. He was tired of it all. He was dying anyway.”

  “Did he ever discuss his will?”

  She found this funny and uttered a quick laugh. “Seth didn’t talk about his private matters. Never. I’ve worked here for six years and I’ve never heard him say a word about his children, grandchildren, relatives, friends, enemies-”

  “Lettie Lang?”

  “Not a word. I’ve never been to his house, never met that woman, know nothing about her. I saw her picture in the paper this week, first time I’ve seen her face.”

  “It’s rumored Seth liked the ladies.”

  “I’ve heard those rumors, but he never touched me, never came on. If Seth Hubbard had five girlfriends, you’d never know it.”

  “Were you aware of what he was doing with his businesses?”

  “Most of it. A lot of stuff crossed my desk. It had to. He warned me many times about confidentiality. But I never knew it all; not sure anybody did. When he sold out last year, he gave me a bonus of $50,000. Dewayne and Kamila got bonuses too, but I have no idea how much. He paid us well. Seth was a fair man who expected his people to work hard and he didn’t mind paying them. And there’s something else you should know. Seth was not a bigot like most white people around here. We have eighty employees on this yard: half white, half black, all paid the same scale. I’ve heard all of his furniture factories and lumber yards work the same way. He wasn’t much for politics, but he despised the way black people have been treated in the South. He was just a fair man. I came to respect him a great deal.” Her voice cracked and she went for the tissue.

  Jake glanced at his watch and was surprised to see it was almost noon. He’d been there for two and a half hours. He said he had to go, but would return early the following week with a Mr. Quince Lundy, the new court-appointed administrator. On the way out, he spoke to Dewayne and got a pleasant good-bye from Kamila.

  As he drove back to Clanton, his mind spun with the possible scenarios that involved some thug posing as a big-firm Jackson lawyer and trying to intimidate potential witnesses; and doing so just days after the suicide and before the first court hearing. Whoever he was, he would never be seen again. More than likely, he worked for one of the lawyers representing Herschel or Ramona or their kids. Wade Lanier was Jake’s top suspect. He ran a ten-man litigation firm with a reputation for aggressive and creative tactics. Jake had spoken to a classmate who mixed it up often with the Lanier firm. The scouting report was impressive but also disheartening. When it came to ethics, the firm was notorious for breaking the rules, then running to the judge and pointing fingers at the other guys. “Don’t turn your back,” Jake’s friend had said.

  For three years, Jake had carried a gun to protect himself from Klansmen and other crazies. Now, he was beginning to wonder if he needed protection from the sharks swimming after the Hubbard fortune.

  15

  Sleep was fleeting these nights as Lettie found herself yielding even more space to her family. Simeon had not left home in over a week, and he took up half the bed. Lettie shared the other half with her two grandchildren. Two nephews were sleeping on the floor.

  She awoke as the sun was rising. She was on her side, looking at her husband wrapped in a blanket and snoring off last night’s beer. Without moving, she watched him for a while as her thoughts drifted unpleasantly. He was getting fat and gray, and his paychecks were shrinking as the years clicked along. Hey big boy, time for a road trip, huh? Time to disappear as only you can do and give me a break around here for a month or two. You’re good for nothing but sex, but who can do that with grandkids in the room?

  Simeon, though, was not leaving. No one was leaving Lettie nowadays. She had to admit that his behavior had improved dramatically in the past couple of weeks, since, of course, Mr. Hubbard had passed and altered things. Simeon still drank every night, but not to excess, not like before. He was kind to Cypress, offering to run errands for her and refraining from his usual insulting manner. He was showing patience with the children. He had cooked twice on the grill and cleaned the kitchen, a first. Last Sunday, he went to church with the family. The most obvious change was his gentle and thoughtful nature when he was around his wife.

  He hadn’t hit her in several years, but when you’ve been beaten you never forget it. The bruises go away but the scars remain, deep, hidden, raw. You stay beaten. It takes a real coward to beat a woman. Eventually,
he had said he was sorry. She said she forgave him, but she did not. In her book some sins cannot be forgiven, and beating your wife is one of them. She had made a vow that she was still determined to keep-one day she would walk away and be free. It might be ten years or twenty, but she would find the courage to leave his sorry ass.

  She was not sure if Mr. Hubbard had made a divorce more or less likely. On the one hand, it would be far more difficult to leave Simeon when he was fawning over her and following every command. On the other, the money would mean independence.

  Or would it? Would it mean a better life in a bigger house with nicer things and fewer worries and perhaps freedom from a husband she did not like? Surely these were possible. But would it also lead to a lifetime of running from family and friends and strangers, all with their hands out? Already, Lettie was feeling the urge to run. She had felt trapped for years in her boxlike house with too many people and not enough beds, too few square feet. Now, though, the walls were really closing in.

  Anthony, the five-year-old, shifted in his sleep down by her feet. Lettie quietly eased out of bed, picked up her bathrobe from the floor, put it on, and left the room without making a sound. The hall floor creaked under the worn and dirty carpet. Next door, Cypress was asleep in her bed, her mammoth body too big for the scrawny blanket. Her wheelchair sat folded next to the window. On the floor were two kids who belonged to a sister of Lettie’s. She peeked into the third bedroom where Clarice and Phedra slept together in a single bed, arms and legs dangling. Lettie’s sister had the other bed, and for almost a week now. Another kid lay knotted, knees to chest, on the floor. In the den, Kirk had the floor while an uncle snored on his sofa.

  Bodies were everywhere, it seemed to Lettie as she turned on the kitchen light and stared at the mess from last night’s dinner. She would do the dishes later. She made coffee, and while it was brewing she checked the refrigerator and found what she was anticipating. Other than a few eggs and a pack of lunch meat, there was little in the way of food, certainly not enough to feed the masses. She would send her dear husband to the store as soon as he was up. And the groceries would be paid for not by wages earned by Simeon or her, nor by a government check, but by the generosity of their new hero, the Honorable Booker Sistrunk. Simeon had asked him for a loan of $5,000. (“A man drives a car like that ain’t worryin’ ’bout no five thousand bucks.”) It really wasn’t a loan, Simeon had said, but more like an advance. Booker said sure and they’d both signed the promissory note. Lettie kept the cash hidden in a saltine box in the pantry.