“Let’s say we lowered him to the ground.” Ozzie reached for a file, opened it, and took out three eight-by-ten color photos. He slid them across his desk and Jake picked them up. Front, back, right side—all the same image of Seth, sad and dead, hanging in the rain. Jake was shocked for a second but didn’t show it. He studied the grotesque face and tried to place him. “I never met the man,” he mumbled. “Who found him?”

“One of his workers. Looks like Mr. Hubbard planned it all.”

“Oh yes.” Jake reached into a coat pocket, pulled out the copies and slid them over to Ozzie. “This arrived in the morning’s mail. Hot off the press. The first page is a letter to me. The second and third pages purport to be his last will and testament.”

Ozzie lifted the letter and read it slowly. Showing no expression, he read the will. When he finished, he dropped it on the desk and rubbed his eyes. “Wow,” he managed to say. “Is this thing legal, Jake?”

“On its face, yes, but I’m sure the family will attack it.”

“Attack it how?”

“They’ll make all sorts of claims: the old guy was out of his mind; this woman exerted undue influence over him and convinced him to change his will. Believe me, if money’s at stake, they’ll unload both barrels.”

“This woman,” Ozzie repeated, then smiled and began to slowly shake his head.

“You know her?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Black or white?”

“Black.”

Jake suspected this and was not at all surprised, nor disappointed; rather, at that moment, he began to feel the early rumblings of excitement. A white man and his money, a last-minute will leaving it all to a black woman he was obviously quite fond of. A bitter will dispute played out before a jury, with Jake in the middle of it all.

“How well do you know her?” Jake asked. It was well known that Ozzie knew every black person in Ford County: those registered to vote and those still lagging; those who owned land and those who were on welfare; those who had jobs and those who avoided work; those who saved money and those who broke into houses; those who went to church every Sunday and those who lived in honky-tonks.

“I know her,” he said, careful as always. “She lives out from Box Hill in an area called Little Delta.”

Jake nodded, said, “I’ve driven through it.”

“In the boondocks, all black. She’s married to a man named Simeon Lang, pretty much of a deadbeat who comes and goes, off and on the wagon.”

“I’ve never met any Langs.”

“You don’t want to meet this one. When he’s sober, I think he drives a truck and runs a bulldozer. I know he worked offshore once or twice. Unstable. Four or five kids, one boy in prison, I think there’s a girl in the Army. Lettie’s about forty-five, I’d guess. She’s a Tayber, and there aren’t many of them around. He’s a Lang, and the woods are full of Langs, unfortunately. I did not know she was workin’ for Seth Hubbard.”

“Did you know Hubbard?”

“Somewhat. He gave me $25,000 under the table, cash, for both of my campaigns; wanted nothin’ in return; in fact, he almost avoided me my first four years. I saw him last summer when I was up for reelection and he gave me another envelope.”

“You took the cash?”

“I don’t like your tone, Jake,” Ozzie said with a smile. “Yes, I took the cash because I wanted to win. Plus, my opponents were takin’ cash. Politics is a tough business around here.”

“Fine with me. How much money did the old man have?”

“Well, he says it’s substantial. Personally, I don’t know. It’s always been a mystery. The rumor has been that he lost everything in a bad divorce—Harry Rex cleaned him out—and because of that he’s kept his business buried under a rock.”

“Smart man.”

“He owns some land and has always dabbled in timber. Beyond that, I don’t know.”

“What about his two adult children?”

“I talked to Herschel Hubbard around five yesterday afternoon, broke the bad news. He lives in Memphis, but I didn’t get much information. He said he would call his sister, Ramona, and they would hustle on over. Seth left a sheet of paper with some instructions on how he wanted to be handled. Funeral tomorrow at 4:00 p.m., at church, then a burial.” Ozzie paused and reread the letter. “Seems kinda cruel, doesn’t it, Jake? Seth wants his family to suffer through a proper mourning before they know he’s screwed ’em in his will.”

Jake chuckled and said, “Oh, I think it’s beautiful. You wanna go to the funeral?”

“Only if you’ll go.”

“You’re on.”

They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the voices outside, to the ringing of the phones, and they both knew they had things to do. But there were so many questions, so much high drama just around the corner.

“I wonder what those boys saw,” Jake said. “Seth and his brother.”

Ozzie shook his head, no clue. He glanced at the will and said, “Ancil F. Hubbard. I can try and find him if you want; run his name through the network; see if he’s got a record anywhere.”

“Do that. Thanks.”

After another heavy pause, Ozzie said, “Jake, I have a lot on my plate this mornin’.”

Jake jumped to his feet and said, “Me too. Thanks. I’ll call later.”

4

The drive from central Memphis to Ford County was only an hour, but for Herschel Hubbard it was always a lonesome journey that seemed to kill a day. It was an unwelcome excursion into his past, and for many reasons he made it only when necessary, which wasn’t very often. He’d left home at eighteen, kicking the dirt off his shoes and vowing to avoid the place whenever possible. He had been an innocent casualty in a war between his parents, and when they finally split he sided with his mother and fled the county, and his father. Twenty-eight years later, he found it difficult to believe the old man was finally dead.

There had been efforts at reconciliation, usually at Herschel’s urging, and Seth, to his credit, had hung on for a while and tried to tolerate his son, and his grandkids. But a second wife and a second bad marriage had intervened and complicated matters. For the past decade, Seth had cared for nothing but his work. He called on most birthdays and sent a Christmas card once every five years, but that was the extent of his efforts at fatherhood. The more he worked the more he looked down on his son’s career, and this was a major cause of their tension.

Herschel owned a college bar near the campus of Memphis State. As bars go, it was popular and busy. He paid his bills and hid some cash. Like father like son, he was still grappling with the aftershocks of his own nasty divorce, one won decidedly by his ex, who got the two kids and virtually all the money. For four years now, Herschel had been forced to live with his mother in an old, declining house in central Memphis, along with a bunch of cats and the occasional freeloading bum his mother took in. She, too, had been scarred by an unpleasant life with Seth, and was, as they say, off her rocker.

He crossed the Ford County line and his mood grew even darker. He was driving a sports car, a little Datsun he’d bought secondhand primarily because his late father hated Japanese cars, hated all things Japanese, really. Seth had lost a cousin in World War II, at the hands of his Japanese captors, and relished wallowing in his well-earned bigotry.

Herschel found a country station out of Clanton and shook his head at the DJ’s twangy and sophomoric comments. He had entered another world, one he left long ago and hoped to forget forever. He pitied all those friends who still lived in Ford County and would never leave. Two-thirds of his senior class at Clanton High were still in the area, working in factories and driving trucks and cutting pulpwood. His ten-year reunion had so saddened him he skipped the twenty-year.