Sycamore Row (39 page)

“What about these two rooms?” Clapp asked.

“The files date back about five years. Some are retired, some not. I’m still looking. I haven’t finished the second room. There’s a large basement filled with old furniture, typewriters, law books, and more files, all retired.”

They found nothing of interest in the second room. The files were the typical assortment of retired cases one would find in any small-town law office. At 2:30, Erby carefully climbed the steps of the retractable stairs and disappeared into the attic. Clapp closed them behind him and went to the basement. The attic was windowless, pitch-black, and lined with neat rows of cardboard storage boxes stacked four-deep. With no chance of being seen from the outside, Erby increased the glow of his penlight and scanned the boxes. Each had a code handwritten in black marker: “Real Estate, 1/1/76–8/1/77”; “Criminal, 3/1/81–7/1/81”; and so on. He was relieved to find files dating back a dozen years, but frustrated at the absence of any related to wills and estates.

Those would be in the basement. After rummaging down there for half an hour, Clapp found a stack of the same types of storage boxes marked “Probate, 1979–1980.” He pulled the box out of a stack, opened it carefully, and began leafing through dozens of files. Irene Pickering’s was dated August 1980. It was an inch and a half thick, and tracked the legal work from the day Hal Freeman prepared the two-page will that Irene signed on the spot through the final order dismissing Fritz Pickering as her executor. The first entry was an old will prepared by the lawyer in Lake Village. The second was a handwritten will. Clapp read it aloud and slowly, the scrawl at times difficult to decipher. The fourth paragraph contained a $50,000 bequest to Lettie Lang.

“Bingo,” he mumbled. He placed the file on a table, closed the box, gently put it back in its place, backtracked carefully, and left the basement. With the file in a briefcase, he stepped into the dark alley, and after a few minutes called Erby on the radio. Erby eased out of the rear door, stopping only to quickly relock the dead bolt. To their knowledge, they had disturbed nothing and left no marks. The offices
needed a good cleaning to begin with, and a bit of dirt off a shoe or some rearranged dust was not going to attract attention.

They drove two and a half hours to Jackson and met Wade Lanier at his office before 6:00 a.m. Lanier had been a courtroom brawler for thirty years, and he could not remember a more beautiful example of “the smoking gun.” But the question remained: How best to fire it?

Fat Benny’s was at the end of the paved section of a county road; beyond it was all gravel. Portia had been raised in Box Hill, a dark and secluded community hidden by a swamp and a ridge with few whites anywhere near. Box Hill, though, was Times Square compared to the forbidding, backwater settlement of Prairietown on the backside of Noxubee County, less than ten miles from the Alabama line. If she’d been white, she would have never stopped. There were two gas pumps in the front and a few dirty cars parked on the gravel. A screen door slammed behind her as she nodded to a teenage boy behind the front counter. There were a few groceries, soft drink and beer coolers, and in the rear a dozen neat tables all covered with red-and-white checkerboard tablecloths. The smell of thick grease hung heavy in the air and hamburger patties sizzled and popped on a grill. A large man with an enormous belly held a spatula like a weapon and talked to two men sitting on stools. There was little doubt as to who was Fat Benny.

A sign said, “Order Here.”

“What can I do for you?” the cook said with a friendly smile.

She gave him her best smile and said softly, “I’d like a hot dog, a Coke, and I’m looking for Benny Rinds.”

“That’s me,” he said. “And you are?”

“My name is Portia Lang, from Clanton, but there’s a chance I might be a Rinds. I’m not sure, but I’m looking for information.”

He nodded to a table. Ten minutes later he placed the hot dog and the Coke in front of her, and sat across the table. “I’m working on the family tree,” she said, “and I’m finding a lot of bad apples.”

Benny laughed and said, “You should’ve come here and asked me before you started.”

Without touching the hot dog, she told him about her mother, and her mother’s mother. He had never heard of them. His people were from Noxubee and Lauderdale Counties, more to the south than the north. He’d never known a Rinds from Ford County, not a single one.
As he talked, she ate rapidly, and she finished as soon as she realized it was another dead end.

She thanked him and left. Driving home, she stopped at every small town and checked the telephone directories. There were very few Rindses in this part of the world. Twenty or so in Clay County. A dozen or so in Oktibbeha County, near the state university. She had spoken by phone to a dozen in Lee County, in and around Tupelo.

She and Lucien had identified twenty-three members of the Rinds family who had been living in Ford County in the years leading up to 1930, before they all vanished. Eventually, they would find a descendant, an old relative who knew something and might be willing to talk.

26

On the last Friday in January, Roxy arrived for work at 8:45, and Jake was waiting by her desk, nonchalantly scanning a document as if all was well. It was not. It was time for a performance review and it was not going to be pretty. Things began pleasantly enough when she barked, “Jake, I’m sick of this place.”

“And good morning to you.”

She was already crying. No makeup, unkempt hair, the frazzled look of a wife/mother/woman out of control. “I can’t take Lucien,” she said. “He’s here almost every day and he’s the rudest man in the world. He’s vulgar, crude, profane, dirty, and he smokes the filthiest cigars ever made. I loathe that man.”

“Anything else?”

“It’s either him or me.”

“He owns the building.”

“Can’t you do something?”

“Like what? Tell Lucien to be a nicer person, to stop smoking, cussing, insulting people, telling dirty jokes, to sober up? In case you haven’t noticed, Roxy, no one tells Lucien Wilbanks to do anything.”

She grabbed a tissue and wiped her cheeks. “I can’t take it.”

This was the perfect opening and Jake wasn’t about to miss an opportunity. “Let’s call it resignation,” he said with compassion. “I’ll be happy to provide a good reference.”

“I’m being fired?”

“No. You’re resigning, effective immediately. Leave now and you’ve got the day off. I’ll send your last paycheck.”

The emotion turned to anger as she looked around her desk. She was gone in ten minutes, slamming doors behind her. Portia walked in promptly at 9:00 and said, “I just passed Roxy on the street and she wouldn’t speak to me.”

“She’s gone. Here’s the offer. On a temporary basis, you can work down here as the secretary and receptionist. You’ll be considered a paralegal, not a lowly intern. It’s a big promotion all the way around.”

She absorbed it coolly, said, “My typing is not great.”

“Then practice.”

“What does it pay?”

“A thousand dollars a month for two months, a trial run. After two months, we’ll take a look and reevaluate.”

“Hours?”

“Eight thirty to five, thirty minutes for lunch.”

“What about Lucien?” she asked.

“What about him?”

“He’s down here. I kinda like it up there, on the second floor, where it’s safe.”

“Has he bothered you?”

“Not yet. Look, Jake, I like Lucien and we work well together, but I sometimes get the feeling he would like to get a little closer, know what I mean?”

“I think so.”

“If he touches me, I’ll slap his ass across the room.”

Jake laughed at the visual, and there was no doubt whatsoever Portia could take care of herself. He said, “I need to have a chat with Lucien. Let me handle it. I’ll warn him.”

Portia took a deep breath and looked around the office. She nodded, smiled, said, “But I’m not a secretary, Jake. I’m going to be a lawyer, just like you.”

“And I’ll help you in every way possible.”

“Thank you.”

“I want an answer. Now. On the spot.”

“But I don’t want to miss the trial. If I’m stuck at this desk, I’ll miss the trial, right?”

“Let’s worry about that later. Right now I need you down here.”

“Okay.”

“So we have a deal?”

“No. A thousand a month is too low for a secretary, receptionist, and paralegal all rolled into one.”

Jake threw up his hands and knew he was beaten. “Well, then, what do you have in mind?”

“Two thousand is more in line with the market.”

“What in hell do you know about the market?”

“Not much, but I know a thousand a month is too cheap.”

“Okay. Fifteen hundred a month for the first two months, then we’ll take a look.”

She lunged forward, gave him a quick and proper hug, and said, “Thanks, Jake.”

An hour later, Jake dealt with the second office personnel crisis of the morning. Lucien barged in with hardly a knock and fell into a chair. “Jake, son,” he began in a tone that meant trouble, “I’ve made a decision. For months, even years now I’ve been wrestling with the decision about whether to begin the reinstatement process, sort of start my comeback, you know?”

Jake, who was hard at work drafting a response to a motion filed by Stillman Rush, slowly put down his pen and managed to look thoughtfully at Lucien. The word “comeback” had not been used until that point, but in the past three months Lucien had managed to drop every other possible hint that he wanted to become a lawyer again. Though he feared it was coming, this news still put Jake on a tightrope. He didn’t want Lucien around, especially Lucien as a lawyer because Lucien as an untitled and unpaid adviser had already worn thin. Lucien as a lawyer meant Lucien, the Boss, and Jake wouldn’t last. But, Lucien the friend was the man who’d given Jake a job, an office, a career, and was as loyal as anyone.

“Why?” Jake asked.

“I miss it, Jake. I’m too young to sit on the porch. Will you support me?”

The only answer was yes, and Jake quickly said, “Of course, you know I will. But how?”

“Moral support, Jake, at first anyway. As you know, before I can be reinstated I have to pass the bar exam, no small feat for an old fart like me.”

“You’ve done it once before, you can do it again,” Jake said with requisite conviction. He seriously doubted if Lucien could, starting from scratch, grind through a six-month cram session, studying on his own while trying to lay off the sour mash.

“So, you’re on board?”

“On board how, Lucien? After you’re reinstated, what then? You want this office back? You want me around as the flunky? Do we go back to where we were eight, nine years ago?”

“I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out, Jake. I’m sure we can.”

Jake shrugged and said, “Yes, I’m on board, and I’ll help in any way.” And for the second time that morning, Jake lent his assistance to a budding lawyer in his office. Who could be next?

“Thanks.”

“While you’re here, a couple of housekeeping matters. Roxy quit and Portia is the interim secretary. She’s allergic to cigar smoke so please go outside. And keep your hands to yourself. She spent six years in the Army, knows hand-to-hand combat, plus karate, and she does not fancy the thought of a creepy old white man pawing at her. Touch her, and she’ll crack your teeth, then sue me for sexual harassment. Got it?”

“She said this? I swear I’ve done nothing.”

“It’s just a warning, Lucien, okay? Don’t touch her, don’t tell her dirty jokes or make suggestive comments, don’t even swear in her presence, and don’t drink or smoke around her. She thinks she’s a lawyer and wants to become one. Treat her like a professional.”

“I thought we were getting on just fine.”

“Perhaps, but I know you. Keep it straight and clean.”

“I’ll try.”

“Do more than try. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to work.”

Leaving, Lucien mumbled just loud enough for Jake to hear, “She does have a nice ass.”

“Drop it Lucien.”