Sycamore Row

“I see.” For the next hour, Zeitler probed through that Saturday morning. He asked Lettie to draw a diagram of the office building to establish where she cleaned and where Mr. Hubbard spent the time. She said he never left his office and the door was shut. No, she did not go in there, not even to clean. She did not know what he was working on or what he was doing in his office. He came and went with his everyday briefcase, but she had no idea what was in it. He appeared to be clearheaded, certainly able to drive if he’d wanted, and she knew little about his pain medications. Yes, he was frail and weak, but he had gone to the office every day that week. If anyone else saw them at the office, she was not aware of it. Yes, she drove the Cadillac back to Mr. Hubbard’s house, then she went home, arriving there around noon.

“And he never mentioned the fact that he was writing his last will?”

“Objection,” Jake said. “She’s already answered that twice.”

“Okay, yes, well, I just wanted to make sure.”

“It’s in the record.”

“Sure.” Having scored big, Zeitler was reluctant to move on. He established that Lettie drove the Cadillac on that day only; she rarely saw pill bottles or drugs around the house; she suspected he kept his meds in his briefcase; at times he was in severe pain; he never talked about suicide; she never witnessed bizarre behavior that would suggest he was under the influence of medications; he was not a drinker but occasionally kept a few beers in the refrigerator; and he kept a desk in his bedroom but almost never worked at home.

By noon Tuesday, Lettie was ready to quit. She had a long lunch in Jake’s office, again with Portia, then took a nap on a sofa.

Death by deposition continued on Wednesday as Jake took charge and quizzed Herschel Hubbard for several hours. The morning session dragged on with stultifying dullness, and it didn’t take long to establish that Herschel had accomplished little and taken few chances in his career. His divorce had been the most exciting event in his life. Such hot topics as his education, work experiences, businesses, former homes and apartments, relationships, friends, interests, hobbies, religious convictions, and political leanings were covered in depth and proved to be stunningly boring. Several of the attorneys nodded off. Portia, in her third day of real legal action, struggled to stay awake.

After lunch, the lawyers reluctantly returned to the courtroom for another session. Jake managed to liven things up a bit when he began trying to pin down how much time Herschel had spent with his father in the past several years. Herschel tried to give the impression he and the old man were close, but had trouble recalling specific visits. If they spoke so often on the phone, what might the phone records reveal? Jake asked. Any cards and letters from Seth? Herschel was sure he had them but he wasn’t so sure he could produce them. His lawyers had instructed him to be as vague as possible, and he succeeded beautifully.

On the subject of Lettie Lang, Herschel claimed to have been around her quite often, during his many visits to see his beloved father. In his opinion, Seth was quite fond of her. He admitted he never saw them touch in any way, but there was something in the way they looked at each other. What, exactly? Not sure, but just something between them. She was always listening, always in the shadows trying to eavesdrop. And as his father got sicker, he depended more and more on Lettie, and they grew closer. Jake asked if he was suggesting they were intimate. “Only Lettie knows that,” Herschel replied, implying, of course, the obvious.

Portia fumed as she glanced around the table. She assumed that every person there, except for Jake, believed her mother was sleeping with a withered and decaying old white man, and doing so to get his money. But Portia kept her head low, and, as a professional, maintained a poker face as she filled another page with notes that would never be reviewed.

Seven hours of probing were more than enough to establish Herschel Hubbard was a less than interesting person who’d had a strained and distant relationship with his father. He was still living with his mother, still reeling from a bad divorce, and, at the age of forty-six, barely surviving on the income from a student hangout. What Herschel desperately needed was an inheritance.

As did Ramona. Her deposition kicked off at 9:00 on Thursday morning, and by then the lawyers were cranky and fed up with the case. Spending five consecutive days in deposition was a rare event, though not unheard-of. During a break, Wade Lanier told a story of deposing a dozen consecutive witnesses over ten straight days in an oil spill case in New Orleans. The witnesses were from Venezuela, most did not speak English, and the interpreters were not that fluent. The lawyers partied hard every night, suffered through the depositions with awful hangovers, and two of them entered rehab when the ordeal was over.

No one had more stories than Wade Lanier. He was the senior lawyer and had spent thirty years in courtrooms. The more Jake watched and listened, the more he respected Lanier. He would be a formidable foe before the jury.

Ramona turned out to be as dull as her brother. From their depositions, it slowly became apparent that Seth Hubbard was a neglectful father who viewed his children as little more than nuisances. In hindsight, and with the money on the line, they tried valiantly to prop up the old guy and make them all seem like a close, happy family, but Seth simply could not be reinvented. Jake poked and prodded and trapped her here and there, but he did so with a smile and tried not to offend her. Since she and Herschel spent so little time with their father, their testimony would not be that crucial at trial. They were not around him in the days before his death; thus, they had nothing to offer on the subject of his mental capacity. They had no firsthand knowledge of his alleged closeness to Lettie.

And these were only preliminary depositions. Jake and the other lawyers knew that in all likelihood Lettie, Herschel, Ramona, and Ian Dafoe would be deposed again. When the facts became clearer and the issues more narrowly defined, the lawyers would have more questions.

23

Leaving the courthouse in a hurry late Thursday afternoon, Jake was grabbed by Stillman Rush, who asked if he had time for a quick drink. It was a strange offer because the two had nothing in common except the Hubbard case. Sure, he said, why not? Stillman had something important to talk about; otherwise he wouldn’t waste his time with a street lawyer like Jake.

They met in a bar in the basement of an old building just off the square, walking distance from the courthouse. It was already dark outside, and misting, a perfectly gloomy evening and a great time for a drink. Though Jake didn’t frequent bars, he’d been there before. It was a shadowy, damp place with dark corners and booths and gave the impression that semi-legitimate deals were going down. Bobby Carl Leach, the town’s most infamous shyster, owned a table next to the fireplace and was often seen there with politicians and bankers. Harry Rex Vonner was a regular.

Jake and Stillman got a booth, ordered draft beers, and began to unwind. After four straight days at the same table listening to endless and marginally useful testimony, they were almost numb with tedium. Stillman’s innate cockiness seemed to vanish and he was almost likable. When the waiter dropped off the beers, he leaned in low and said, “Here’s an idea, just me thinking with no authority from anyone else. But there’s a pile of money here, we all know that. Not sure how much right now, but—”

“Twenty-four million,” Jake interrupted. The lawyers would soon learn what was in the inventory, and there was no harm in revealing this to Stillman. Jake was just trying to keep it out of the newspapers.

Stillman paused, smiled, took a sip and shook his head. “Twenty-four million.”

“And no debts.”

“Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“So there’s twenty-four million, and by the time the tax collectors have their way, we’ll be lucky if half of it’s left.”

Jake said, “That’s right, according to the accountants.”

“So we’re down to twelve million, still a lot of money, more than you and I will ever see. So, here’s my idea, Jake. Why don’t we try and negotiate a settlement? There are three main players—Herschel, Ramona, and Lettie. Surely we can slice the pie and make everyone happy.”

It was not an original idea. Jake and Lucien had kicked it around several times, and they were certain the opposing lawyers had done the same. Each side gives a little, or a lot, cut off the attorney’s fees and expenses, stop the presses, avoid the stress and uncertainty of a trial, and everybody is guaranteed a nice slice of the pie. It made perfect sense. In every lawsuit, the potential of a settlement was always in the minds of the attorneys.

“Is this what your client wants to do?” Jake asked.

“I don’t know. We haven’t discussed it yet. But if it’s a possibility, then I’ll approach Herschel and lean on him.”

“Okay. This pie you’re talking about, how do you want to slice it?”

A long gulp, followed by a backhand wipe of the mouth, and Stillman lunged onward. “Let’s be honest, Jake, Lettie Lang is entitled to very little. In the scheme of things, and in the normal transition of assets and estates, she just doesn’t figure in. She’s not family, and regardless of how screwed up a family might be, the money almost always gets handed down to the next generation. You know that. Ninety percent of all money that flows through wills goes to family members. Ninety percent in Mississippi, same in New York and California, where they have, shall we say, bigger estates. And look at the law. If a person dies with no will, then all money and assets go to blood kin and no one else. Keeping the money in the family is preferred by the law.”

“True, but we can’t settle this case if Lettie is told she gets nothing.”

“Of course not, Jake. Give her a couple of million. Can you imagine that? Lettie Lang, unemployed, a career housekeeper, suddenly walks away with two million bucks, and that’s after taxes? I’m not denigrating the woman, Jake; hell, I came to like her during her deposition. She’s pleasant, even funny, a good person. I’m not being critical of her, but come on, Jake, do you know how many black people in Mississippi are worth seven figures?”

“Enlighten me.”

“According to the 1980 census, seven black folks in this state claimed to be worth more than a million dollars. All men, most were in construction or real estate. Lettie would be the richest black woman in the state.”

“And your client and his sister split the remaining ten million?” Jake asked.

“Something like that. Give a nice gift to the church, and we’ll split the rest.”

“That would be a good deal for you guys,” Jake said. “You’ll rake off a third of almost five million. Not a bad payday.”

“I didn’t say we’re getting a third, Jake.”

“But you’re getting a percentage?”

“I can’t say, but sure, it’ll be a nice payday.”

For some, thought Jake. If the case settled now, his fees would be severely reined in. “Have you discussed this with Wade Lanier?”

Stillman grimaced at the mention of his name. “That’s another story. Lanier wants my client, who, for now, is sticking with me. I don’t trust Lanier and I’ll spend the next six months looking over my shoulder. What a snake.”