presented here. Nonetheless, I would be remiss in my role as the impartial referee not to explore ways to arrive at an outcome that will give all sides something, though less than what they would like. There’s a lot of money on the line here, gentlemen, surely there’s a way to slice the pie and make everyone happy.” A heavy pause as he sucked hard on the pipe stem. “May I make the first proposal?”
As if he needed approval. All lawyers nodded yes, though cautiously.
“Very well. Take the two smaller bequests of 5 percent each: pay the church in full; put Ancil’s in a trust until we figure what to do at a later date. Take the remaining 90 percent and split it three ways: one-third to Lettie Lang; one-third to Herschel Hubbard; one-third to Ramona Hubbard Dafoe. If we assume a tax bite of 50 percent, then each of the three will walk away with something in the neighborhood of three point six million. Far less than what each wants, but far more than each will get if the other side wins. What do you think?”
“I’m sure the church will take it,” Jake said.
“It kinda leaves us high and dry, Your Honor,” said Zack Zeitler, the attorney for Herschel’s children.
“Same here,” said Joe Bradley Hunt, the attorney for Ramona’s kids.
“Of course,” Judge Atlee said. “But it’s safe to assume the children will get no small benefit from such a settlement. Their parents get a windfall; surely it will trickle down. Perhaps, you could stipulate that a portion be held in trust for the kids. Just an idea.”
“Perhaps,” Zeitler said, cutting his eyes around at the other attorneys as if his throat was in danger.
“Interesting,” Wade Lanier mumbled. “I think my folks would consider it.”
“Same here,” said Stillman Rush.
His Honor chewed on his battered pipe stem and looked at Jake, who at the moment was stewing because of the ambush. He had not been forewarned of this impromptu settlement conference, and he certainly had no clue that his old pal was planning to throw some numbers on the table. Judge Atlee said, “Jake?”
Jake said, “You all have copies of the letter Seth Hubbard wrote to me when he mailed along his last will and testament. His instructions to me are rather explicit. His wishes and desires regarding his two adult children could not be clearer. I suggest you all read the letter again, and the will. I represent the estate, and I have my marching orders. My job is to uphold Mr. Hubbard’s will and see to it that his children get nothing. I have no choice. I will not be a part of any compromise or settlement.”
“Should you discuss this with your client?” Stillman said.
“My client is the estate, which is represented by Mr. Quince Lundy, the administrator.”
“I’m talking about Lettie Lang.”
“And I don’t represent Lettie Lang. We have the same interests-the validation of the handwritten will-but I’m not her lawyer. I’ve made that clear to everyone, especially to her. As an interested party she has the right to hire a lawyer, which she tried once but he wound up in jail.”
“I kinda miss ol’ Booker,” Wade Lanier said, and again got a few laughs.
Jake pressed on. “My point is that I’m not her lawyer.”
Stillman said, “Sure, Jake, technically, but right now you have more influence with her than anyone else. Hell, her daughter is your paralegal, or secretary, or whatever.”
“I have quite a staff.”
Wade Lanier said, “You can’t tell us, Jake, that if you went to Lettie and told her she could walk away with over three million bucks in two months, hell, two weeks, she wouldn’t grab the deal and run.”
“I don’t know what she would do. She’s a proud woman who feels scorned by the community. She wants her day in court.”
“Three million bucks might ease some of the scorn,” Lanier said.
“Perhaps, but I will not be a part of a compromise. If the court wishes, I will resign as the attorney for the estate, but as long as I’m here I’m not authorized to settle.”
Judge Atlee relit his pipe with a match and blew some more smoke. He leaned forward on his elbows and said, “Gentlemen, I think he’s right. If this will is proven to be valid, that is, if the jury believes Mr. Hubbard was of sound mind and not unduly influenced, then we have no choice but to follow the terms of the will. It is explicit. The adult children get nothing.”
Maybe, Wade Lanier thought to himself, but you don’t know what I know. You haven’t seen the Irene Pickering will. You don’t know that Ms. Lettie Lang has a history of worming her way into the private matters of her employers. And when the jury hears and sees this, the adult children of Seth Hubbard will do quite well.
Jake’s principled defense of his dead client’s last will, as well as his somewhat cocky belief that the trial should be held in Clanton, in
Kyle died at the scene. Bo was extracted by rescue personnel and taken to the hospital in Clanton where he immediately went into surgery. The trauma to his head was severe and he was barely alive. The other driver was also hospitalized but his injuries were not serious. His blood alcohol content was twice the legal limit. A deputy was parked outside his room.
The other driver was Simeon Lang.
Ozzie called Jake just after midnight and awakened him from a deep sleep. Fifteen minutes later, Ozzie stopped in front of the house and Jake hustled outside and into the sheriff’s car. The ice was worse and the streets were slick, and as they crept through town Ozzie gave an update. The second boy was still in surgery but things looked grim. As far as Ozzie could tell at that point, Simeon had not been drinking in a local honky-tonk. According to Lettie, who was already at the hospital, he had not been home in over a week. She thought he was returning from a long haul, though he was not carrying cash or a paycheck. He had a broken nose but was otherwise unhurt.
“The drunks always walk away from their wrecks,” Ozzie said.
They found Lettie and Portia hiding at the end of a long hallway, not far from Simeon’s room. Both were crying, distraught, almost inconsolable. Jake sat with them while Ozzie left to check on other matters. After a few minutes with little conversation, Lettie walked away to find a restroom. As soon as she was gone, Portia said, “Ten years ago I was fourteen and in the ninth grade, and I begged her to leave him. He was hitting her back then. I saw it. I said, ‘Please Momma, let’s get away from him, go somewhere else.’ I think maybe she tried but she’s always been afraid of him. Now look what he’s done. What’ll happen to him, Jake?” She raked tears off her cheeks with the back of her hand.
Barely above a whisper, Jake said, “Nothing good. Assuming everything is his fault, and that he was drunk, he’s looking at vehicular homicide. One count, as of now.”
“What’s it carry?”
“Five to twenty-five. The judge has a lot of discretion.”
“And he can’t get out of it?”
“No. I see no way.”
“Hallelujah. He’ll finally be gone for a long time.” She cupped both hands over her mouth and nose and sobbed harder. “Those poor boys,” she kept saying.
The crowd continued to grow around the waiting area on the hospital’s main wing. Ozzie spoke to Jeff and Evelyn Roston, the parents, who were too stunned to say much. He talked to one of the boys’ uncles and explained that Simeon Lang was in custody and would be moved to the jail within hours. Yes, he was drunk, still is. I’m very sorry.
“You better get him outta here,” the uncle said, nodding to a group of men nearby. Angry, distraught men, rural types raised around guns and rifles and upset enough to do something drastic. Others joined them. The Rostons grew soybeans and chickens and were active in their country church. They had many relatives and friends, and they had never voted for Ozzie.
