Sycamore Row

If she was on the verge of being the richest black woman in the state, she did not look it. She just wanted to go home. She ignored a couple of reporters and brushed aside some well-wishers. She was tired of being pawed at and fawned over.

Harry Rex organized a party on the spot, hot dogs on the grill in his backyard and beer in the cooler. Portia said she would be there after she took care of Lettie. Willie Traynor was always ready for a party. Lucien said he would come early, and he might bring Sallie, a rare occurrence. Before they left the courthouse, Lucien was already taking credit for the win.

Jake wanted to choke him.

48

The sermon was the a

Judge Atlee sat three rows up, at the end by the aisle, the same revered seat he had claimed for at least the last ten years. Jake stared at the back of his head and thought about the trial, and now the appeal. With the verdict so fresh, the case would hit a brick wall. The process would take forever. Ninety days for the court reporter to transcribe hundreds of pages of courtroom proceedings; ninety plus because they seldom delivered on time. Meanwhile, post-trial motions and maneuverings would take months. Once the final record was indeed final, the losers would have ninety days to file their appeal, and more time if necessary. When the Supreme Court, and Jake, received the appeal, he would have his own ninety days to respond. After the deadlines were met and the paperwork was on file with the court, the real waiting began. Typically, there were backlogs, delays, and continuances. The lawyers had learned not to ask what was taking so long. The court was doing the best it could.

The average appeal in a civil case in Mississippi consumed two years. In preparation for the Hubbard trial, Jake had run across a similar case in Georgia that had dragged on for thirteen years. It had been fought before three different juries, went up and down to the Supreme Court like a yo-yo, and was eventually settled when most of the contestants died off and the lawyers had taken all the money. The issue of the attorney’s fees did not bother Jake, but he did worry about Lettie.

Portia had told him her mother had stopped going to church. There were too many sermons about tithing.

If the collective wisdom of Harry Rex and Lucien could be trusted, Jake’s verdict was in trouble. The admission of Ancil’s video was a reversible error. The Fritz Pickering surprise was not as clear-cut, but would probably upset the Supreme Court. The “witness dump” pulled by Wade Lanier would attract a harsh rebuke, but standing alone it would not get the case reversed. Nick Norton agreed. He had watched the trial on Friday and was surprised to see the video. He was deeply moved by its content but bothered by its admissibility. The four lawyers, along with Willie Traynor and other experts, had debated and celebrated over hot dogs and beer until late Friday night while the ladies sipped wine by Harry Rex’s pool and chatted with Portia.

Though the Hubbard case had saved Jake financially, he was ready to move on. He didn’t like the prospect of clipping the estate for a monthly fee for years to come. At some point, he would begin to feel like a leech. He had just won a big trial and was looking for another one.

Not a single person at the First Presbyterian Church mentioned the trial that morning, and Jake was grateful. Afterward, as they mingled under two giant oaks and exchanged pleasantries while inching toward the parking lot, Judge Atlee said hello to Carla and Ha

“Sure, Judge,” Jake said.

“And could you bring Portia with you? I’d like her insights.”

“I think so.”

They sat at the dining room table, under a creaking fan that did nothing to cut the heat and stickiness. It was much cooler outside—the porch would have been nice—but for some reason the judge preferred the dining room. He had a pot of coffee and a platter of cheap pastries, store-bought. Jake took one sip of the weak and dreadful coffee, then ignored it.

Portia declined it all. She was nervous and could not control her curiosity. This was not her part of town. Her mother might have seen some nice homes because she cleaned them, but never as a guest.

Judge Atlee sat at the head of the table with Jake to his right and Portia to his left. After a few awkward preliminaries, he a

Like hell they’re not, Jake thought as he glanced at Portia. She was staring at the table, frozen.

“Let’s suppose for a moment that the case comes back for a retrial. The next time around you will not get blindsided by the Pickering matter. You will be ready for Julina Kidd. And, most important, you will have Ancil here as an interested party and a live witness. Or, if he’s in jail, you will certainly have time to conduct a proper deposition. At any rate, your case is much stronger the next time, Jake. Do you agree?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You’ll win the case because you should win the case. That’s exactly the reason I allowed Ancil’s video. It was the right and fair thing to do. Do you follow me, Portia?”

“Oh, yes sir.”

“So, how do we settle this matter, stop the appeal, and get on with life?” Jake knew he had the answer and really didn’t want much input.

“I’ve thought of nothing else since Friday afternoon,” the judge continued. “Seth’s will was a desperate, last-minute attempt to correct a horrible injustice. By leaving so much to your mother, he was in reality trying to make amends to your great-grandfather and to all the Rinds families. Do you agree?”

Agree, damn it, Portia, agree. Jake had been here a hundred times. When he asks, “Do you agree?” he’s already assuming that you agree enthusiastically.

“Yes sir,” she said.

He took a sip of coffee, and Jake wondered if he drank the same wretched brew every morning. Judge Atlee said, “I’m wondering, Portia, at this point, what does your mother really want? It would be helpful to know that. I’m sure she’s told you. Can you share this with us?”

“Sure, Judge. My mother doesn’t want a lot, and she has reservations about getting all that money. For lack of a better term, it’s white folks’ money. It doesn’t really belong to us. My mom would like to have the land, the eighty acres, and she’d like to build a house on it, a nice house but not a mansion. She’s seen some nice houses but she’s always known she’d never have one. Now, for the first time in her life, she can dream of having a beautiful home, one she can clean for herself. She wants plenty of room for her kids and grandkids. She’ll never marry again, although there are a few buzzards circling. She wants to get away and to live way out there in the country where it’s peaceful and nobody will bother her. She didn’t go to church this morning, Judge, she hasn’t been in a month. Everybody’s got their hand out. My mother just wants to be left alone.”