Jake’s world had been rattled the day before when he heard the news that Lettie had hired Booker Sistrunk, an infamous bomb thrower whose entry into this case would greatly complicate matters. Jake had tried to call her. He was still stunned by her decision. It was an extremely unwise one.

Across the way and tucked tight around the defense table was an assemblage of lawyers in nice suits. Beyond the bar and scattered across the rows of ancient wooden pews, there was an impressive crowd, its collective curiosity piqued.

Judge Atlee said, “Before we get started, it’s best to understand where we are and what we’d like to accomplish here today. We’re not here because of a motion filed by anyone. That’ll happen later. Today our goal is to put together a plan to proceed. As I understand it, Mr. Seth Hubbard left two wills. One offered for probate by you, Mr. Brigance, a handwritten will dated October 1 of this year.” Jake nodded but did not stand. If a lawyer spoke to Judge Atlee, that lawyer had better be on his or her feet. Nodding from a chair was acceptable, barely. “And a second will dated September 7 of last year, though this will was expressly revoked by the handwritten will. Now, does anyone know of another will? Any chance Mr. Hubbard left another surprise?” He paused for only a second as his large brown eyes swept around the courtroom. A pair of cheap thick-rimmed reading glasses stuck to the end of his nose. “Good. Didn’t think so.”

He shuffled some papers and made a note. “Okay, let’s start over here. Please stand, give me your name, and let’s meet one another.” He was pointing at Jake, so he stood and stated his name. Russell Amburgh stood next and gave his name.

“And you’re the executor in the handwritten will?” Judge Atlee asked as a formality.

“Yes sir, but I’d prefer to skip all this,” Amburgh said.

“We’ll have plenty of time to deal with it later. And you, in the light gray suit?”

The taller black lawyer stood purposefully and buttoned the top button of his tailored suit. “Yes, Your Honor, my name is Booker Sistrunk, and along with my partner here, Mr. Kendrick Bost, we represent the interests of Ms. Lettie Lang.” Sistrunk touched her shoulder. Bost stood and both lawyers towered over her. She shouldn’t have been there, not at this stage. She belonged beyond the bar on the benches with the rest of the spectators, but Sistrunk and Bost had jostled her into position and dared anyone to object. Had it been a proper motion hearing, Judge Atlee would have quickly put her in her place, but he wisely ignored the impropriety.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the honor of seeing you gentlemen in my courtroom before,” Judge Atlee said in a suspicious tone. “Where are you from?”

“Our firm is in Memphis,” Sistrunk replied, though everyone knew it. These days in the Memphis press their firm was getting more ink than the next five combined. They were at war with the Memphis Police Department and were winning brutality cases monthly, it seemed. Sistrunk was riding a wave of notoriety. He was loud, brash, divisive, and was proving to be a highly effective race baiter in a city that had produced many.

Jake knew Simeon had kinfolks in Memphis. One thing had evidently led to another, and Jake had received the dreadful call from Booker Sistrunk. They were “entering” the case, which meant another layer of intense scrutiny of Jake’s work, along with another finger in the pie. There were already troubling stories of cars parked in Lettie’s front yard and vultures lounging on the front porch.

Judge Atlee continued, “I’m assuming, then, that you have a license to practice law in this state.”

“No sir, not as of this morning. But we will associate local counsel.”

“That would be a wise move, Mr. Sistrunk. The next time you appear in my court, I expect to know the lawyer you’re with.”

“Yes sir,” Sistrunk said stiffly, almost with a sneer. He and Bost sat down and squeezed next to their valuable client. Before the hearing began, Jake had tried to say good morning to Lettie, but her lawyers had shielded her. She would not make eye contact.

“Over here,” Judge Atlee said, pointing to the crowded defense table. Stillman Rush was quick to rise and say, “Yes, Your Honor, I’m Stillman Rush with the Rush firm in Tupelo, and I’m here with Sam Larkin and Lewis McGwyre.” Both men stood on cue and nodded politely to the bench. They knew Judge Atlee; longer introductions were not needed.

“And your firm prepared the 1987 will, is that correct?”

“That is true,” Stillman said with a generous, sappy smile.

“Very well. Next.”

A large man with a round hairless head stood and growled, “Your Honor, I’m Wade Lanier, of the Lanier firm in Jackson. I’m here with my associate, Lester Chilcott, and we represent the interests of Ms. Ramona Dafoe, daughter of the deceased. Her husband, Ian Dafoe, is a longtime client of our firm and—”

“That’s enough, Mr. Lanier,” Judge Atlee barked, rudely cutting him off. Welcome to Ford County. “I didn’t ask about your other clients or your firm.”

The presence of Wade Lanier was also disturbing. Jake knew him by reputation only, but that was enough to dread dealing with him. Big firm, hardball tactics, enough success to fuel the ego and keep it hungry.

Judge Atlee pointed again and said, “And you, sir?”

A man in a gaudy sports coat jumped up and announced, “Yes, well, Your Honor, my name is D. Jack O’Malley, and I represent Mr. Herschel Hubbard, surviving son of the deceased. My client lives in Memphis and that’s where I’m from but I will most certainly associate local counsel the next time I’m here.”

“Good idea. Next?”

Wedged into a spot behind O’Malley was a thin, rat-faced young man with wild, wiry hair. He stood timidly as if he’d never addressed a judge before and said, in a squeaky voice, “Sir, I’m Zack Zeitler, also from Memphis, and I’ve been hired to represent the interests of the children of Herschel Hubbard.”

Judge Atlee nodded and said, “So, the grandkids have lawyers too?”

“Yes sir. They are beneficiaries under the prior will.”

“Got it. And I’m assuming they are in the courtroom.”

“They are.”

“Thank you, Mr. Zeitler, and if you haven’t already figured things out, next time you’re here please bring a local lawyer—God knows we’ll need some more. Unless, of course, you are licensed in this state.”

“I am, Your Honor.”

“Very well. Next.”

Leaning against a railing in a corner, chairless, a lawyer glanced around and said, “Yes, Your Honor, I’m Joe Bradley Hunt with the Skole firm in Jackson, and—”

“Which firm?”

“Skole, Your Honor. Skole, Rumky, Ratliff, Bodini, and Zacharias.”

“Sorry I asked. Continue.”

“And we represent the interests of the two minor children of Ramona and Ian Dafoe, grandchildren of the deceased.”

“Okay. Anyone else?”

Necks craned and eyes scanned the crowd. Judge Atlee did some quick math and said, “A dozen. I count eleven lawyers so far, and there is no reason to believe there won’t be more.” He shuffled some papers and looked at the spectators in the courtroom. To his left, behind Jake and Lettie, there was a crowd of black people, including Simeon, their kids and grandkids, some cousins and aunts, Cypress, a preacher, and a lot of friends, old and new, who were there to provide moral support for Lettie as she took the first step in fighting for what was rightfully hers. To His Honor’s right, across the aisle, behind the throng of lawyers gearing up to oppose the last will, there was a crowd of white people, including Ian and Ramona and their two children; Herschel and his two kids; his ex-wife, though she was on the back row as far away as possible; Dumas Lee and another reporter; and the usual collection of courthouse regulars who rarely missed a trial or a contested hearing. Deputy Prather stood at the main door, sent there by Ozzie to hear it all and report back later. Lucien Wilbanks sat on the back row on the black side, partially hidden by a beefy young man in front of him. He and Atlee went back many years, and Lucien did not want to be a distraction.