car registration records, another archived ancient editions of the local newspapers. And so on. What a waste of space and manpower.
Portia flipped on the light to a dark, windowless room, also lined with file cabinets. From a shelf she carefully lifted a heavy tome and placed it gently on a table. It was bound in dark green leather, cracked now after decades of aging and neglect. In the center was one word: “Docket.” She said, “This is a docket book from the 1920s, specifically August of 1927 through October of 1928.” She opened it slowly and with great care began turning the yellow and fragile, almost flaky pages. “Chancery Court,” she said, much like a curator in command of her subject matter.
“How much time have you spent here?” Jake asked.
“I don’t know. Hours. I’m fascinated by this stuff, Jake. The history of the county is right here in the history of its legal system.” She turned more pages, then stopped. “Here it is. June of 1928, sixty years ago.” Jake leaned down for a closer look. All entries were by hand and the ink had faded significantly. With an index finger she went down one column and said, “On June 4, 1928.” She moved to the right, to the next column. “The plaintiff, a man named Cleon Hubbard, filed a lawsuit against the defendant.” She moved to the next column. “A man named Sylvester Rinds.” She moved to the next column. “The lawsuit was described simply as a property dispute. Next column shows the attorney. Cleon Hubbard was represented by Robert E. Lee Wilbanks.”
“That’s Lucien’s grandfather,” Jake said. Both were hunched over the docket book, shoulder to shoulder. She said, “And the defendant was represented by Lamar Thisdale.”
“An old guy, dead for thirty years. You still see his name on wills and deeds. Where’s the file?” Jake asked, taking a step back. She stood straight and said, “I can’t find it.” She waved an arm around the room. “If it exists, it should be in here, but I’ve looked everywhere. There are gaps in everything and I guess it’s because of the courthouse burning down.”
Jake leaned on a file cabinet and pondered things. “So, they were fighting over some land in 1928.”
“Yes, and it’s safe to say it’s the eighty acres Seth owned when he died. We know from Lucien’s research that Sylvester owned no other land at that time. Cleon Hubbard took title to the property in 1930 and it’s been in the Hubbard family ever since.”
“And the fact that Sylvester still owned the land in 1930 is pretty clear evidence he won this lawsuit in 1928. Otherwise, Cleon Hubbard would have owned it.”
“That’s what I was going to ask you. You’re the lawyer. I’m just the lowly secretary.”
“You’re becoming a lawyer, Portia. I’m not sure you even need law school. Are you assuming Sylvester was your great-grandfather?”
“Well, my mother is pretty sure these days that he was her grandfather, that his only child was Lois, and that Lois was her mother. That would make the old guy my great-grandfather, not that we’re that close or anything.”
“Have you told Lucien what his ancestors were up to?”
“No. Should I? I mean, why bother? It’s not his fault. He wasn’t alive.”
“I would do it just to torment him. He’ll feel like crap if he knows his people represented old man Hubbard, and lost.”
“Come on, Jake. You know how Lucien hates his family and their history.”
“Yes, but he loves their assets. I would tell him.”
“Do you think the Wilbanks firm has any of its old records?”
Jake grunted and smiled and said, “I doubt if they go back sixty years. There’s a pile of junk in the attic, but nothing this old. As a rule, lawyers throw away nothing, but over time the stuff just disappears.”
“Can I go through the attic?”
“I don’t care. What are you looking for?”
“The file, something with clues. It’s pretty clear there was a dispute over the eighty acres, but what was behind it? And what happened in the case? How could a black man win a lawsuit over land in the 1920s in Mississippi? Think about it, Jake. A white landowner hired the biggest law firm in town, one with all the power and connections, to sue some poor black man over a property dispute. And the black man won, or so it appears.”
“Maybe he didn’t win. Maybe the case was still dragging on when Sylvester died.”
“Exactly. That’s it, Jake. That’s what I have to find out.”
“Good luck. I’d tell Lucien everything and enlist his help. He’ll cuss his ancestors, but he does that before breakfast most days anyway. He’ll get over it. Believe me, they did far worse.”
“Great. I’ll tell him, and I’ll start digging through the attic this afternoon.”
“Be careful. I go up there once a year and only when I have to. I seriously doubt you’ll find anything.”
“We’ll see.”
Lucien took it well. He offered a few of his usual vile condemnations of his heritage but seemed placated by the fact that his grandfather had lost the case against Sylvester Rinds. Without invitation, he launched into history and explained to Portia, and at times throughout the afternoon to Jake as well, that Robert E. Lee Wilbanks had been born during Reconstruction and had spent most of his life laboring under the belief that slavery would one day return. The family managed to keep the carpetbaggers away from its land, and Robert, to his credit, built a dynasty that included banks, railroads, politics, and the law. He’d been a harsh, unpleasant man, and as a child Lucien had feared him. But give the devil his due. The fine home Lucien now owned had been built by dear old grandpa and properly handed down.
After hours, they climbed to the attic and slid further into history. Jake hung around for a while, but soon realized it was a waste of time. The files went back to 1965, the year Lucien inherited the law firm after his father and uncle were killed in a plane crash. Someone, probably Ethel Twitty, the legendary secretary, had cleaned house and purged the old records.
35
Two weeks before the scheduled start of the war, the lawyers and their staffs met in the main courtroom for a pretrial conference. Such gatherings were unheard-of back in the old days, but the more modern rules of engagement called for them and even provided an acronym, the PTC. Lawyers like Wade Lanier who fought on the civil side were well versed in the strategies and nuances of the PTC. Jake less so. Reuben Atlee had never presided over one, though he would not admit this. For him and his Chancery Court, a major trial was a nasty divorce with money on the line. These were rare, and he handled them the same way he had for thirty years, modern rules be damned.
Critics of the new rules of discovery and procedure whined that the PTC was nothing more than a rehearsal for the trial, and thus it required the lawyers to prepare twice. It was time-consuming, expensive, burdensome, and also restrictive. A document, an issue, or a witness not properly covered in the PTC could not be considered at trial. Old lawyers like Lucien who reveled in dirty tricks and ambushes hated the new rules because they were designed to promote fairness and transparency. “Trials are not about fairness, Jake, trials are about winning,” he’d said a thousand times.
Judge Atlee wasn’t too keen on them either, though he was duty-bound to follow them. At ten o’clock Monday morning, March 20, he shooed away the handful of spectators and told the bailiff to lock the door. This was not a public hearing.
As the lawyers were getting situated, Lester Chilcott, Lanier’s co-counsel, walked over to Jake’s table and laid down some paperwork. “Updated discovery,” he said, as if everything were routine. As Jake flipped through it, Judge Atlee called them to order and began scanning faces to make sure all lawyers were present. “Still missing Mr. Stillman Rush,” he mumbled into his microphone.
Jake’s surprise quickly turned to anger. In a section where all potential witnesses were listed, Lanier had included the names of forty-five people. Their addresses were scattered throughout the Southeast, with four in Mexico. Jake recognized only a handful; a few he had actually deposed during discovery. A “document dump” was a common dirty trick, one perfected by corporations and insurance companies, in which they and their lawyers hid discoverable documents until the last possible moment. They then dumped several thousand pages of documents
