Sycamore Row (4 page)

“Looking for something?” she asked as she dropped her purse and bag and began settling in.

“No.”

Typically, she looked pretty rough—no makeup and a mess of hair. She hurried off to the restroom to put on her face and improve her looks, a project that often took fifteen minutes. More silent demerits.

At the bottom of the stack, on the very last regular-sized envelope of the day, Jake glanced at his name written in blue ink, cursive. The return address stunned him, and he almost dropped everything. He tossed the other mail into the middle of her desk, then hurried up the stairs to his office. He locked his door. He sat down at a rolltop in one corner, under a portrait of William Faulkner that had been purchased by Mr. John Wilbanks, Lucien’s father, and inspected the envelope. Generic, plain, white, letter-sized, cheap paper, probably purchased in a box of a hundred for five bucks, adorned with a twenty-five-cent stamp honoring an astronaut, and thick enough to contain several sheets of paper. It was addressed to him: “The Hon. Jake Brigance, Attorney at Law, 146 Washington Street, Clanton, Mississippi.” No zip code.

The return address was “Seth Hubbard, P.O. Box 277, Palmyra, Mississippi, 38664.”

The envelope had been stamped with a postmark on October 1, 1988, the previous Saturday, at the Clanton post office. Jake took a deep breath and deliberately considered the scenario. If the Coffee Shop gossip could be believed, and Jake had no reason to doubt it, not at that moment anyway, Seth Hubbard had hung himself less than twenty-four hours earlier, on Sunday afternoon. It was now 8:45 Monday morning. For the letter to be postmarked in Clanton last Saturday, Seth Hubbard, or someone acting on his behalf, dropped the letter into the Local Delivery slot inside the Clanton post office either late Friday or Saturday before noon when the facility closed. Only local mail was postmarked in Clanton; all other was trucked to a regional center in Tupelo, sorted, marked, then dispersed.

Jake found a pair of scissors and meticulously cut a thin ribbon of paper from one end of the envelope, the end opposite the return address, close to the stamp but far enough away to preserve everything. There was the possibility he was holding evidence. He would copy everything later. He squeezed the envelope slightly and shook it until
the folded papers fell out. He was aware of an increased heart rate as he carefully unfolded the sheets. Three of them, all plain white, nothing fancy, no letterhead. He pressed the creases and laid the papers flat on the desk, then he picked up the top one. In blue ink, and in a neat, cursive hand impressive for a man, the author wrote:

Dear Mr. Brigance:

To my knowledge we have never met, nor will we. By the time you read this I will be dead and that awful town you live in will be buzzing with its usual gossip. I have taken my own life but only because my death by lung cancer is imminent. The doctors have given me only weeks to live and I’m tired of the pain. I’m tired of a lot of things. If you smoke cigarettes, take the advice of a dead man and stop immediately
.

I chose you because you have the reputation of being honest and I admired your courage during the trial of Carl Lee Hailey. I strongly suspect you are a man of tolerance, something sadly missing in this part of the world
.

I despise lawyers, especially those in Clanton. I will not name names at this point in my life but I will die with a tremendous amount of unresolved ill will aimed at various members of your profession. Vultures. Bloodsuckers
.

Enclosed herein you will find my last will and testament, every word written by me and signed and dated by me. I’ve checked the law of Mississippi and am satisfied that it is a proper holographic will, thus entitled to full enforcement under the law. No one witnessed me signing this will because, as you know, witnesses are not required for holographic wills. A year ago I signed a thicker version in the offices of the Rush law firm in Tupelo, but I have renounced that document
.

This one is likely to start some trouble and that’s why I want you as the attorney for my estate. I want this will defended at all costs and I know you can do it. I specifically cut out my two adult children, their children, and my two ex-wives. These are not nice people and they will fight, so get ready. My estate is substantial—they have no idea of its size—and when this is made known they will attack. Fight them, Mr. Brigance, to the bitter end. We must prevail
.

With my suicide note I left instructions for my funeral and burial. Do not mention my last will and testament until after the funeral. I want my family to be forced to go through all the rituals of mourning before they realize they get nothing. Watch them fake it—they’re very good at it. They have no love for me
.

I thank you in advance for your zealous representation. It will not be easy. I am comforted in knowing I will not be there to suffer through such an agonizing ordeal
.

Jake was too nervous to read the will. He took a deep breath, stood, walked around the office, opened the French doors to the terrace and had the morning’s first good look at the courthouse and the square, then returned to the rolltop. He read the letter again. It would be used as evidence to establish Seth Hubbard’s testamentary capacity, and for a moment Jake was paralyzed with indecision. He wiped his hands on his pants. Should he leave the letter, the envelope, and the other sheets of paper exactly where they were, and run fetch Ozzie? Should he call a judge?

No. The letter was mailed to him, in confidence, and he had every right to examine its contents. Still, he felt as though he was handling a ticking bomb. Slowly, he moved the letter aside and stared at the next sheet of paper. With a laboring heart and trembling hands, he looked at the blue ink and knew full well that these words would consume the next year of his life, or maybe two.

It read:

LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF HENRY SETH HUBBARD

I, Seth Hubbard, being 71 years old and of good mind but decaying body, do hereby make this my last will and testament:

1. I am a resident of the State of Mississippi. My legal address is 4498 Simpson Road, Palmyra, Ford County, Mississippi
.

2. I renounce all previous wills signed by me, specifically one dated September 7, 1987, and prepared by Mr. Lewis McGwyre of the Rush law firm in Tupelo, Mississippi. And that will specifically renounced one I signed in March of 1985
.

3. This is intended to be a holographic will, with every word written by me, in my handwriting, with no help from anyone. It is signed and dated by me. I prepared it alone, in my office, on this day, October 1, 1988
.

4. I am of clear mind and have full testamentary capacity. No one is exerting or attempting to exert influence over me
.

5. I appoint as executor of my estate Russell Amburgh of 762 Ember Street, Temple, Mississippi. Mr. Amburgh was vice president of my holding company and has a working knowledge of my assets and liabilities. I direct Mr. Amburgh to retain the services of Mr. Jake Brigance, Attorney At Law, in Clanton, Mississippi, to provide all necessary representation. It is my directive that no other lawyer in Ford County touch my estate or earn a penny from its probate
.

6. I have two children—Herschel Hubbard and Ramona Hubbard Dafoe—and they have children, though I don’t know how many because I haven’t seen them in some time. I specifically exclude both of my children and all of my grandchildren from any inheritance under my estate. They get nothing. I do not know the precise legal language necessary to “cut out” a person from an inheritance, but my intention here is to completely prohibit them—my children and grandchildren—from getting anything from me. If they contest this will and lose, it is my desire that they pay all attorneys’ fees and court costs incurred as a result of their greed
.

7. I have two ex-wives who I will not name. Since they got virtually everything in the divorces, they get nothing more here. I specifically exclude them. May they perish in pain, like me
.

8. I give, devise, transfer, leave behind (whatever the hell it takes) 90% of my estate to my friend, Lettie Lang, as thanks for her dedicated service and friendship to me during these past few years. Her full name is Letetia Delores Tayber Lang, and her address is 1488 Montrose Road, Box Hill, Mississippi
.

9. I give, devise, etc., 5% of my estate to my brother, Ancil F. Hubbard, if he’s still alive. I have not heard from Ancil in many years, though I have thought of him often. He was a lost boy who deserved better. As children, he and I witnessed something no human should ever see, and Ancil was forever traumatized. If he’s dead by now, his 5% share remains in my estate
.

10. I give, devise, etc., 5% of my estate to the Irish Road Christian Church
.

11. I direct my executor to sell my house, land, real property, personal property, and lumber yard near Palmyra, for market value, as soon as practical, and place the proceeds into my estate
.

The signature was small and neat and quite legible. Jake wiped his hands again on his pants and reread the will. It covered two pages, and the handwriting was in near perfect lines, as though Seth had meticulously used a straightedge of some variety.

A dozen questions clamored for attention, with the most obvious being—Who in the world is Lettie Lang? A close second was—What, exactly, did she do to deserve 90 percent? Then—How big is the estate? If it is indeed sizable, how much will be eaten up in death taxes? This question was quickly followed with—How much might the attorney’s fees run?

But before he got greedy, Jake took another walk around the office, his head spinning and his adrenaline rising. What a wondrous legal brawl. With money on the line, there was little doubt Seth’s family
would lawyer up and attack the last will with a fury. Though Jake had never handled a full-blown will contest, he knew such cases were tried in Chancery Court and often before juries. It was rare for a dead person in Ford County to leave much behind, but occasionally someone with a measure of wealth would pass on without proper estate planning, or with a suspicious will. These occasions were a bonanza to the local bar as the lawyers raged in and out of court and the assets evaporated in legal fees.

He gently placed the envelope and the three sheets of paper into a file, and carried it downstairs to Roxy’s desk. By now her looks had improved, somewhat, and she was opening the mail. “Read this,” he said. “And slowly.”

She did as he instructed, and when she finished she said, “Wow. Great way to start the week.”

“Not so for old Seth,” Jake said. “Please note that this arrived in the mail this morning, October 3.”

“So noted. Why?”

“The timing could be crucial one day in court. Saturday, Sunday, Monday.”

“I’m going to be a witness?”

“Maybe, maybe not, but we’re just taking precautions, okay?”

“You’re the lawyer.”

Jake ran four copies of the envelope, the letter, and the will. He gave Roxy a copy to enter into the firm’s newest case file, and he tucked two away in a locked drawer in his desk. He waited until 9:00 a.m. and left the office with the original and one copy. He told Roxy he was headed for the courthouse. He walked next door to Security Bank, where he placed the original in his firm’s lockbox.

Ozzie Walls’s office was at the county jail, two blocks off the square in a low-slung concrete bunker built on the cheap a decade earlier. A tumorlike appendage had been added later to house the sheriff and his staff and deputies, and the place was crammed with cheap desks, folding chairs, and stained carpet fraying at the baseboards. Monday mornings were usually hectic as the weekend’s fun and games were tidied up. Angry wives arrived to bail their hungover husbands out of jail. Other wives stormed in to sign papers to get their husbands thrown into jail. Frightened parents waited for details of the drug bust that caught their kids. The phones rang more than usual and often
went unanswered. Deputies milled about choking down doughnuts and sipping strong coffee. Add to the usual frenzy the bizarre suicide of a mysterious man, and the cluttered outer office was especially busy that Monday morning.

In the rear of the appendage, down a short hallway, there was a thick door covered in white hand-painted lettering that read:
OZZIE WALLS, HIGH SHERIFF, FORD COUNTY
. The door was closed; the sheriff was in early on Monday, and on the phone. The caller was an emotional woman from Memphis whose child had been caught driving a pickup truck that was hauling, among other things, a sizable quantity of marijuana. This had happened the previous Saturday night near Lake Chatulla, in an area of a state park where illicit behavior was known to be common. The child was innocent, of course, and the mother was eager to drive down and retrieve him from Ozzie’s jail.