Jake pinched off a bite of corn bread and stuck it in his mouth. “Didn’t you go to school with Lester Chilcott?”
“I did. Biggest prick in law school. Nice enough guy when we started, but then he got a job with a big Jackson firm and, bam, just like that, he became a flaming asshole. I guess it happens. He’s not the first. Why?”
“Grab him this afternoon and whisper to him. See if they’ll talk settlement.”
“Okay. What kind of settlement?”
“I don’t know, but if they’ll come to the table, we’ll cut a deal. If I resign, I think Judge Atlee will take charge of the negotiations and make sure everyone gets something.”
“Now you’re talking. It’s worth a shot.”
Jake managed a bit of fried okra. Harry Rex was half-finished and eyeing Jake’s plate. He said, “Look, Jake, you played football, right?”
“I tried.”
“No, I remember when you were the quarterback for scrawny little Karaway, never had a winning season, as I recall. What was the worst ass-whipping you ever took on the field?”
“Ripley beat us fifty to nothing my junior year.”
“How bad was it at halftime?”
“Thirty-six to nothing.”
“And did you quit?”
“No, I was the quarterback.”
“Okay, you knew at halftime that you were not going to win, but you led the team back onto the field for the second half, and you kept playing. You didn’t quit then and you can’t quit now. A win looks pretty doubtful at this point, but you gotta drag your ass back onto the field. Right now you look thoroughly defeated, and the jury is watching every move you make. Eat your vegetables like a good boy, and let’s go.”
The jurors scattered for lunch and reconvened in the jury room at 1:15. In little pockets of whispered conversations, they talked about the case. They were surprised and confused. Surprised that the trial had turned so abruptly against Lettie Lang. Before Fritz Pickering showed up, the evidence was mounting and it was becoming clear that Seth Hubbard was a man who did whatever he wanted, and knew exactly what he was doing. That changed suddenly, and Lettie was now viewed with great suspicion. Even the two black jurors, Michele Still and Barb Gaston, appeared to be jumping ship. The confusion was about what was next. Who would Jake put on the stand to undo the damage? Could it be undone? And if they, the jurors, rejected the handwritten will, what would happen to all that money? There were many unanswered questions.
There was so much chatter about the case that the foreman, Nevin Dark, felt compelled to remind them that His Honor frowned on what they were doing. “Let’s talk about something else,” he said politely, not wanting to offend. He was not, after all, their boss.
At 1:30, the bailiff entered the room, counted heads, and said, “Let’s go.” They followed him into the courtroom. When they were seated, all twelve looked at Lettie Lang, who was not looking up from her note-taking. Nor did her lawyer glance over at the jury box for one of his cute little smiles. Instead, he sat low in his chair, chewing on a pencil, trying to appear relaxed.
Judge Atlee said, “Mr. Lanier, you may call your next witness.”
“Yes sir. The contestants call Mr. Herschel Hubbard.” He took the stand, smiled goofily at the jury, swore to tell the truth, then began answering a lot of mundane questions. Wade Lanier had groomed him well. Back and forth they went, covering all aspects of Herschel’s uneventful life. As always, the spin was in and Herschel recalled with great fondness his childhood, his parents, his sister, and the grand times they’d all had together. Yes, the divorce was quite painful, but the family struggled through it and persevered. He and his old man were very close: talked all the time, saw each other whenever they could, but, hey, both were living busy lives. Both were big fans of the Atlanta Braves. They followed the team religiously and talked about the games all the time.
Lettie stared at him, dumbfounded. She had never heard Seth Hubbard say one word about the Atlanta Braves, and she had never known him to watch a baseball game on television.
They tried to make it to Atlanta at least once each season to catch some games. Say what? This was news to Jake and everyone else who’d read Herschel’s depositions. He had never mentioned such a road trip with his father. But there was little Jake could do. It would take two days of hard digging to prove the trips to Atlanta never took place. If Herschel wanted to invent tales about him and his old man, Jake couldn’t stop him at this point. And Jake had to be careful. If he had any credibility left with the jury, he could seriously damage it by attacking Herschel. The man had lost his father, then he’d been cut out of his will in a very cruel and humiliating manner. It would be easy and only natural for the jurors to feel sympathy.
And how do you argue with a son who wasn’t close to his father, but now swears that he was? You don’t, and Jake knew it was an argument he could not win. He took notes, listened to the fiction, and tried to keep a poker face as if everything was going great. He could not bring himself to look at the jurors. There was a wall between him and them, something he’d never before experienced.
When they finally got around to Seth’s cancer, Herschel became somber and even choked back tears. It was just awful, he said, watching this active and vigorous man dry up and shrivel with the disease. He had tried to quit smoking so many times; father and son had engaged in long, heartfelt conversations about the smoking. Herschel quit when he was thirty, and he begged his father to quit also. In his final months, Herschel visited him as often as possible. And, yes, they talked about his estate. Seth was clear about his intentions. He might not have been too generous with Herschel and Ramona when they were younger, but he wanted them to have it all when he died. He assured them that he had prepared a proper will, one that would insulate them from financial worries and also secure the future for their children, Seth’s beloved grandchildren.
Seth was not himself toward the end. They talked all the time by phone, and at first Herschel noticed his father’s memory was fading. He couldn’t remember the score of last night’s baseball game. He repeated himself constantly. He would ramble on about the World Series, though the Braves were not in the Series last year. But to Seth they were. The old guy was slipping away. It was so heartbreaking.
Not surprisingly, Herschel was wary of Lettie Lang. She did a fine job cleaning the house, and cooking and caring for his father, but the longer she worked there, and the sicker Seth became, the more she seemed to protect him. She acted as though she didn’t want Herschel and Ramona in the house. Several times Herschel called his father, but she said he wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t come to the phone. She tried to keep him away from his family.
Lettie glared at the witness, slowly shaking her head.
It was quite a performance, and by the time it was over Jake was almost too stunned to think or move. Through skillful and no doubt exhaustive preparation, Wade Lanier had pieced together a fictional narrative that any father and son would envy.
Jake walked to the podium and asked, “Mr. Hubbard, on these trips to watch the Braves play, what hotel did you and your father usually stay in?”
Herschel squinted and his mouth opened but nothing came out. Hotels have records that can be checked. Finally, he recovered and said, “Uh, well, we stayed in different hotels.”
“Did you go to Atlanta last year?”
“No, Dad was too sick.”
“The year before?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Okay, so you went in eighty-seven. Which hotel?”
“I can’t remember.”
“All right. Who did the Braves play?”
Games and schedules are records that can be checked. “Well, gee, I’m not sure, you know. Maybe it was the Cubs.”
Jake said, “We can check on that. What was the date?”
“Oh, I’m terrible with dates.”
“Okay, in eighty-six. Did ya’ll make it to Atlanta for a game or two?”
“I think so, yes.”
