Jake nodded. Dumas watched him, waited, then scribbled. Shifting gears, he asked, “So the great question, Jake, is, Why would a man who’s worth millions change his will the day before his suicide, screwing his family with the update and leaving everything to his housekeeper?”

You got it, Dumas. That is the great question. Jake kept nodding but said nothing.

“And perhaps number two might be, What did Seth and his little brother witness that left such an impression that Seth mentions it decades later? Right?”

Jake replied, “That’s indeed a great question, but I’m not sure it’s number two.”

“Fair enough. Any idea where Ancil Hubbard is these days?”

“None whatsoever.”

“I found a cousin in Tupelo who says the family has assumed he’s been dead for decades.”

“I have not had time to search for Ancil.”

“But you will?”

“Yes, he’s a beneficiary under the will. It’s my job to locate him if possible, or find out what happened to him.”

“And how will you go about this?”

“I have no idea. Haven’t really thought about it yet.”

“When’s the first court date?”

“It has not been set.”

“Will you get your girl to contact me when a date has been set?”

“Yes, unless it’s a closed hearing.”

“Fair enough.”

Jake’s last visitor of the afternoon was his landlord. Lucien was in the conference room on the first floor where the law books were kept. He’d covered the table with them, obviously lost somewhere deep in his own world. When Jake walked in, said hello, and saw a dozen books opened, he took a deep breath as a sense of dread hit him in the gut. He could not remember the last time Lucien dug through law books. The disbarment had happened not long after Jake hired on, and Lucien had kept his distance from the office and from the law. Now, he was back.

“Some light reading?” Jake asked as he fell into a leather chair.

“Just brushing up on probate law. Never did much of it. Pretty dull stuff, unless of course you get a case like this. I can’t decide if you want a jury or not.”

“I’m leaning toward a jury, but everything is premature.”

“Of course.” Lucien closed a book and slid it away. “You said you were meeting with Lettie Lang this afternoon. How did it go?”

“Fine, Lucien, and you know as well as I do that I cannot talk about our confidential discussions.”

“Oh sure. Do you like her?”

Jake paused a second and reminded himself to be patient. “Yes, she’s a nice person who’s easily overwhelmed. This is overwhelming, to say the least.”

“But will a jury like her?”

“You mean white jurors?”

“I don’t know. I understand black people far better than most whites. I’m not a racist, Jake. I’m one of at least a dozen whites in this county not blinded by racism. I was the first, and only, white member of the NAACP here. At one time, almost all of my clients were black. I know black people, Jake, and having blacks on this jury could cause trouble.”

“Lucien, the funeral was yesterday. Isn’t this a bit premature?”

“Maybe, but these conversations will take place eventually. You’re lucky to have someone like me on your side, Jake. Humor me. Talk to me. A lot of blacks will be jealous of Lettie Lang because now she’s one of them, but if she gets the money she’ll be the richest person in Ford County. There are no rich black people around here. It’s unheard-of. She won’t be black anymore. She’ll be uppity and rich and she’ll look down on everybody, especially her people. Do you follow me, Jake?”

“To some degree, yes, but I’d still rather have blacks on the jury. They’ll be more sympathetic than a bunch of rednecks who can barely pay their mortgages.”

“No rednecks either.”

Jake laughed and asked, “Well, if you eliminate the blacks and the rednecks, who, exactly, will you seat on your perfect jury?”

“I’m still working on that. I like this case, Jake. I’ve thought about nothing else since lunch. It has reminded me of why I once loved the law.” He leaned forward on his elbows and looked at Jake as if he might get choked up. “I want to be in that courtroom, Jake.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself, Lucien. A trial, if it happens, is months away.”

“Sure, I know that. But you’ll need some help and lots of it. I’m bored, Jake, tired of sitting on the porch and drinking, and I’ve got to cut back on the booze. I’m worried about it, Jake, I’ll be honest with you.”

And with good reason.

“I’d like to hang out around here. I’ll stay out of the way. I know most people avoid me, and I understand why. Hell, I’d avoid me if I could. It’ll give me something to do, keep me away from the bottle, at least during the day, and I know so much more about the law than you do anyway. And, I want to be in that courtroom.”

This, for the second time, and Jake knew it would not go away. The courtroom was a large, stately room with different sections and lots of seating. Did he want to sit with the spectators and watch the show? Or was he thinking of a seat at the table with the other lawyers, because if he was then Jake’s life was about to become messy. If Lucien wanted to be a lawyer again, he would be required to suffer through the ordeal of the bar exam. If successful, he would have a license to practice, which, of course, would usher him back into Jake’s professional life.

The image of Lucien sitting at counsel table, not fifteen feet from the jury box, was frightening. To most whites, he was a toxic legend, a crazy old drunk who had embarrassed a once proud family and now shacked up with his housekeeper.

“We’ll see,” Jake said cautiously.

12

The Honorable Reuben V. Atlee was recovering from his third heart attack, with the recovery expected to be “full,” if one can physically feel complete after so much cardiac damage. He was gaining strength and endurance and there was evidence of this in the flow of his docket. There were clear signs he was regaining his stride. Lawyers were getting barked at. Deadlines were being enforced. Long-winded witnesses were being cut off. Perjurers were being threatened with jail. Litigants pursuing frivolous claims were finding themselves bounced out of court. Along the hallways of the courthouse, lawyers and clerks and even janitors were saying, “He’s back.”

He had been on the bench for thirty years and now ran unopposed every four years. He was neither a Democrat nor a Republican, liberal nor conservative, Baptist nor Catholic; he pulled for neither State nor Ole Miss. He had no favorites, no leanings, no preconceived notions about anything or any person. He was a judge, as open, tolerant, and fair-minded as he could possibly be, given his upbringing and genetic composition. He ran his courtroom with a heavy hand, quick to scold an unprepared lawyer, but equally quick to help a struggling one. He could show incredible compassion when it was needed, and he had a mean streak that terrified every lawyer in the county, perhaps with the exception of Harry Rex Vonner.

Nine days after Seth hung himself, Judge Atlee assumed the bench in the main courtroom and said good morning. In Jake’s opinion, he looked as fit as ever, which was not altogether that healthy but fine given his history. He was a big man, over six feet tall with a protruding midsection that he hid well under his black robe.

“A nice crowd,” Judge Atlee said with amusement as he scanned the courtroom. With so many lawyers, seating had been a problem. Jake had arrived early and staked his claim to the plaintiff’s table, where he now sat with Russell Amburgh, who had informed Jake that morning that he wanted out. Close behind them, and on their side but not exactly on their team, was Lettie Lang. On each side of Lettie there was a lawyer, both black, both from Memphis.