Jake had never met Mr. McGwyre or Mr. Larkin, but he knew them by reputation. It was a small state.

“To what do I owe this honor, gentlemen?” Jake began.

“Oh, I think you’ve figured it out by now, Jake,” Stillman replied smugly. “I saw you at Mr. Hubbard’s funeral yesterday. We’ve read his holographic will and it’s rather self-explanatory.”

“It’s deficient in many ways,” Lewis McGwyre inserted gravely.

“I didn’t prepare it,” Jake shot across the table.

“But you’re offering it for probate,” Stillman said. “Obviously you must think it’s valid.”

“I have no reason to think otherwise. The will came to me in the mail. I was directed to probate it. Here we are.”

“But how can you advocate for something as shoddy as this?” Sam Larkin asked, gently lifting a copy of the will. Jake glared at him with all the contempt he could generate. Typical big-firm asshole. Far superior to the rest of us because you bill by the hour and get paid for it. In your well-educated and learned opinion this will is “shoddy” and thus invalid; therefore, everyone else’s opinion should fall in line.

Jake kept his cool and said, “It’s a waste of time for us to sit here and debate the merits of Mr. Hubbard’s handwritten will. Let’s save that for the courtroom.” And with that, Jake delivered the first salvo. The courtroom was, after all, where he’d made his reputation, whatever it happened to be. Mr. McGwyre prepared wills and Mr. Larkin prepared contracts, and, as far as Jake could tell, Stillman’s specialty was defending commercial arson cases, though he fancied himself an aggressive courtroom lawyer.

The courtroom, Jake’s courtroom, the one across the street in his courthouse, was where the great Hailey trial had raged barely three years earlier, and though the other three would not admit it, they too had watched that trial keenly from a distance. Like every lawyer in the state, they had been green with envy at Jake’s exposure.

“Is it fair to ask about your relationship with Seth Hubbard?” Stillman asked politely.

“Never met the man. He died Sunday and his will arrived in my mailbox on Monday.”

They were fascinated by this and took a moment to absorb it. Jake decided to press on: “I’ll admit I’ve never had a case like this, never probated a handwritten will. I assume you have plenty of copies of the old one, the one your firm prepared last year. Don’t suppose I could have a copy, could I?”

They shifted and glanced at each other. Stillman said, “Well, Jake, if that will had been admitted to probate, then it would be public and we’d give you a copy. However, we withdrew it once we learned another will was already in play. So I guess our will is still a confidential document.”

“Fair enough.”

The three continued to exchange nervous looks and it was apparent none of them knew exactly what to do next. Jake said nothing but enjoyed watching their discomfort. Stillman, the litigator, said, “So, uh, Jake, we ask you to withdraw the handwritten will and allow us to proceed with the authentic one.”

“The answer is no.”

“No surprise. How do you suggest we proceed?”

“It’s very simple, Stillman. Let’s file a joint request with the court to have a hearing to address the situation. Judge Atlee will look at both wills, and, believe me, he’ll devise a game plan. I practice in his court every month and there’s no doubt who’ll be in charge.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Lewis McGwyre said. “I’ve known Reuben for many years, and I think we should start with him.”

“I’ll be happy to arrange things,” Jake said.

“So you haven’t spoken to him yet?” Stillman asked.

“Of course not. He knows nothing about this. The funeral was yesterday, remember?”

They managed to exchange cordial good-byes and separate peacefully, though all four knew they were in for a brawl.

Lucien was sitting on his front porch, drinking what appeared to be lemonade, which he occasionally did when his body and his life became so overwhelmed with sour mash that he managed to break free for a week or so and suffer the horrors of detox. The porch wrapped around an old house on a hill just outside Clanton, with a view of the town below and the courthouse cupola square in the middle. The house, like most of Lucien’s assets and burdens, was a hand-me-down from ancestors he deemed wretched, but who, with hindsight, had done an admirable job of securing for him a comfortable life. Lucien was sixty-three but an old man, his face grizzled and whiskered gray to match his long unkempt hair. The whiskey and cigarettes were adding patches of wrinkles to his face. Too much time on the porch was adding a thickness to his waist and a gloominess to his always complicated moods.

He’d lost his license to practice nine years earlier, and, according to the terms of his disbarment, he could now apply for reinstatement. He’d dropped that bomb on Jake a couple of times to gauge his response, but got nothing. Nothing visible anyway, but just under the surface Jake was mortified at the thought of reacquiring a senior partner who owned the building and was impossible to work with, or under. If Lucien became a lawyer again, and moved back in his office, Jake’s current one, and started suing everyone who crossed him and defending pedophiles and rapists and capital murderers, Jake wouldn’t last six months.

“How are you, Lucien?” Jake said as he climbed the steps.

Sober, clear-eyed, and feeling fresh, Lucien replied, “I’m fine, Jake. Always a pleasure to see you.”

“You offered lunch. Have I ever said no to lunch?” Weather permitting, they ate at least twice a month on the porch.

“Not that I recall,” Lucien said, standing in his bare feet and offering a hand. They shook heartily, did the quick shoulder-pat thing that men do when they really don’t want to hug one another, and took their seats in aging white wicker chairs that had not been moved more than six inches since Jake’s first visit a decade earlier.

Sallie eventually appeared and said hi to Jake. He said iced tea would be fine and she strolled away, never in a hurry. She had been hired as a housekeeper, then promoted to a nurse to care for Lucien when he threw a bender and checked out for two weeks. At some point, she moved in, and for a while the gossip rippled through Clanton. It died soon enough, though, because nothing Lucien Wilbanks could do would really shock anyone.

Sallie brought the iced tea and poured more lemonade. When she was gone, Jake said, “On the wagon?”

“No, never. Just taking a break. I’d like to live for twenty more years, Jake, and I worry about my liver. I don’t want to die and I don’t want to give up Jack Daniel’s, so I’m in a constant quandary. I worry about this all the time, and the worry and stress and pressure eventually become too much and can only be alleviated by the Jack.”

“Sorry I asked.”

“Are you drinking?”

“Not really. An occasional beer, but we don’t keep it around the house. Carla frowns on it, you know.”

“My second wife frowned on it too and she didn’t last a year. But, then, she didn’t look like Carla.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“Don’t mention it. Sallie’s cooking vegetables if that’s okay.”

“Delicious.”

There was an unwritten checklist of topics they always covered and usually in an order that was so predictable Jake often suspected that Lucien had notes tucked away somewhere. The family—Carla and Hanna; the office and the current secretary and any profitable cases that had popped up since the last visit; the lawsuit against the insurance company; the investigation into the Klan; the latest on Mack Stafford, the attorney who had disappeared and taken his clients’ money; gossip about other lawyers, and judges; college football; and, of course, the weather.

They moved to a small table at the other end of the porch where Sallie was arranging lunch—butter beans, squash, stewed tomatoes, and corn bread. They filled their plates, and she disappeared again.