Sycamore Row (59 page)

The debate had raged for an hour, unabated, and tempers were on edge. In fact, the issue had been hotly discussed for a month with no shortage of opinions. It was almost 10:00 p.m. The conference table was littered with notes, files, books, and the remains of a bad take-out pizza they had devoured for dinner.

Should the jury be told the value of Seth’s estate? The only issue at trial was whether the handwritten will was valid. Nothing more, nothing less. Legally, technically, it didn’t matter how big or how small the estate was. On one side of the table, the side being occupied by Harry Rex, the strong feeling was that the jury should not be told because if the jurors knew that $24 million was in play and about to be given to Lettie Lang, they would balk. They would naturally take a dim view of such a transfer of wealth outside the family. Such a sum was so unheard-of, so shocking, that it was inconceivable that a lowly black housekeeper should walk away with it. Lucien, while absent, agreed with Harry Rex.

Jake, though, felt otherwise. His first point was that the jurors probably had a hunch that a lot of money was on the table, though virtually all had denied such knowledge during the selection process. Look at the size of the fight. Look at the number of lawyers on deck. Everything about the case and the trial was evidence of big money. His second point was that full disclosure was the best policy. If the jurors felt as though Jake was trying to hide something, he would start the trial with an immediate loss of credibility. Every person in the courtroom wants to know what the brawl is about. Tell them. Lay it out. Withhold nothing. If they concealed the size of the estate, then the size of the estate would become a festering and unspoken issue.

Portia went back and forth. Before the jury was seated, she was leaning in favor of a full disclosure. But after looking at the ten white faces, and only two black ones, she was struggling to believe they had any chance at all. After all the witnesses had testified, after all the lawyers had been silenced, after all the wise words had been uttered by Judge Atlee, could those ten white people reach deep and find the courage to uphold Seth’s last will? At the moment, fatigued and weary, she was doubtful.

The phone rang and she answered it. “It’s Lucien,” she said, handing it to Jake, who said, “Hello.”

From Alaska came the report: “Got him, Jake. Our pal here is Ancil Hubbard, one and the same.”

Jake exhaled and said, “Well, I guess that’s good news, Lucien.” He pulled the receiver away and said, “It’s Ancil.”

“What are you guys doing?” Lucien asked.

“Just prepping for tomorrow. Me, Portia, Harry Rex. You’re missing the party.”

“Do we have a jury?”

“Yes. Ten whites, two blacks, no real surprises. Tell me about Ancil.”

“Pretty sick puppy. His head wound is infected and the doctors are concerned. Tons of meds, antibiotics and painkillers. We played cards all day and talked about everything. He sort of comes and goes. I finally mentioned the will and told him his big brother left him a million bucks. Got his attention and he admitted who he is. Half an hour later he’d forgotten about it.”

“Should I tell Judge Atlee?” Harry Rex shook his head, no.

“I don’t think so,” Lucien said. “The trial has started and it won’t be stopped for this. Ancil has nothing to add. He damned sure can’t get there, what with a cracked skull and the cocaine thing waiting just outside his door. Poor guy’ll probably serve some time eventually. The cops seem determined.”

“Did you guys climb the family trees?”

“Yes, quite a bit, but long before he came clean. I laid out the history of the Hubbard and Rinds families, with emphasis on the mystery of Sylvester. But he had little interest. I’ll try again tomorrow. I’m thinking about leaving tomorrow afternoon. I really want to see some of the trial. I’m sure you’ll have it all screwed up by the time I get there.”

“No doubt, Lucien,” Jake said, and hung up a moment later. He relayed the conversation to Portia and Harry Rex, who, though intrigued by it, had other matters at hand. The fact that Ancil Hubbard was alive and living in Alaska would mean nothing in the courtroom.

The phone rang again and Jake grabbed it. Willie Traynor said, “Say, Jake, just for your information, there’s a guy on the jury who shouldn’t be there.”

“It’s probably too late, but I’m listening.”

“He’s on the back row, name’s Doley, Frank Doley.” Jake had seen
Willie taking notes throughout the day. “Okay, so what’s Frank up to?” Jake asked.

“He has a distant cousin who lives in Memphis. Six or seven years ago, this cousin’s fifteen-year-old daughter was snatched by some black punks outside a mall in East Memphis. They kept her in a van for several hours. Terrible things happened. The girl survived but was too messed up to identify anyone. No one was ever arrested. Two years later the girl committed suicide. A real tragedy.”

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“I didn’t catch the name until an hour ago. I was in Memphis at the time, and I remembered some Doleys from Ford County. You’d better get him bumped, Jake.”

“It’s not that easy. In fact, it’s impossible at this point. He was quizzed by the lawyers and the judge and gave all the right answers.” Frank Doley was forty-three years old and owned a roofing company out near the lake. He claimed to know nothing about the Seth Hubbard matter and seemed perfectly open-minded.

Thanks for nothing, Willie.

Willie said, “Sorry, Jake, but it didn’t register in court. I would have said something.”

“It’s okay. I’ll deal with it somehow.”

“Other than Doley, what do you think of your jury?”

Jake was talking to a journalist, so he played it safe. “A good panel,” he said. “Gotta run.”

Harry Rex’s response was, “I was worried about that guy. Something wasn’t right.”

To which Jake shot back, “Well, I don’t recall you saying anything at the time. It’s always easy to call plays on Monday morning.”

“Testy, testy.”

Portia said, “He seemed eager to serve. I gave him an eight.”

Jake said, “Well, we’re stuck with him. He gave all the right answers.”

“Maybe you didn’t ask the right questions,” Harry Rex said as he took another swig of Bud Light.

“Thank you so much, Harry Rex. For your own future reference, during the jury selection process lawyers are not normally allowed to ask questions like, ‘Say, Mr. Doley, is it true your distant cousin was gang-raped by a bunch of black thugs in Memphis?’ and the reason for this prohibition is that the lawyers generally don’t know about such horrible crimes.”

“I’m going home.” Another swig.

“Let’s all go home,” Portia said. “We’re not accomplishing much.”

It was almost 10:30 when they turned out the lights. Jake walked around the square to clear his head. At the Sullivan firm, lights were still on. Wade Lanier and his team were still in there, still working.

41

In his defense of Carl Lee Hailey, Jake’s opening statement to the jury lasted only fourteen minutes. Rufus Buckley had kicked things off with a one-and-a-half-hour marathon that had put the jury to sleep, and Jake’s concise follow-up had been well received and much appreciated. The jury had listened to him and absorbed every word. “Jurors are captives,” Lucien always said. “So keep it short.”

In the matter of the last will and testament of Henry Seth Hubbard, Jake was aiming for ten minutes. He stepped to the podium, smiled to the fresh and eager faces, and began with “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, your job is not to give away Seth Hubbard’s money. There’s a lot of it, and all of it was earned by Seth Hubbard himself. Not by you, not by me, not by any of the lawyers in this courtroom. He took chances, borrowed heavily at times, ignored the advice of his trusted lieutenants, mortgaged his own house and land, made deals that looked bad on paper, borrowed even more, took risks that seemed outrageous, and in the end, when Seth Hubbard was told he was dying of lung cancer, he sold out. He cashed in his chips, paid off the banks, and counted his money. He won. He was right and everybody else was wrong. You can’t help but admire Seth Hubbard. I never met the man, but I wish I had.

“How much money? You will hear testimony from Mr. Quince Lundy, the gentleman sitting right here, and the court-appointed administrator of Seth Hubbard’s estate, that the estate has a value of approximately $24 million.”

Jake was pacing slowly, and when he gave the amount he stopped and looked at some of the faces. Almost every juror smiled. Go, Seth.
Attaboy. A couple were obviously shocked. Tracy McMillen, Juror Number Two, looked at Jake with wide eyes. But the moment passed quickly. No one in Ford County could grasp a number like that.

“Now, if you think a man who put together a $24 million fortune in about ten years knows what he’s doing with his money, then you’re right. Because Seth knew exactly what he was doing. The day before he hung himself he went to his office, locked his door, sat down at his desk, and wrote a new will. A handwritten will, one perfectly legal, nice and legible, easy to understand, not the least bit complicated or confusing. He knew he was going to commit suicide the following day, Sunday, October 2, and he was putting everything in order. He planned it all. He wrote a note to a man named Calvin Boggs, an employee, in which he explained he was taking his own life. You will see the original. He wrote detailed funeral and burial instructions. You will see the originals. And on that same Saturday, presumably at his office while he was writing his will, he wrote a letter to me and gave me specific instructions. Again, you will see the original. He planned it all. After he finished writing, he drove to Clanton, to the main post office, and mailed the letter to me, along with the will. He wanted me to receive the letter on Monday because his funeral was on Tuesday, at 4:00 pm., at the Irish Road Christian Church. Details, folks. Seth took care of the details. He knew exactly what he was doing. He planned it all.

“Now, as I said, it’s not your job to give away Seth’s money, or to decide who should get what or how much. However, it is your job to determine if Seth knew what he was doing. The legal term is ‘testamentary capacity.’ To make a valid will, one that is handwritten on the back of a grocery bag or one typed by five secretaries in a big law office and signed before a notary public, one has to have testamentary capacity. It’s a legal term that’s easy to understand. It means you have to know what you’re doing, and, ladies and gentlemen, Seth Hubbard knew exactly what he was doing. He wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t delusional. He wasn’t under the influence of painkillers or other meds. He was as mentally sound and sane as the twelve of you are right now.

“It might be argued that a man planning his own suicide cannot be of sound mind. You gotta be crazy to kill yourself, right? Not always. Not necessarily. As jurors you are expected to rely on your own experiences in life. Perhaps you’ve known someone, a close friend or even a family member, who came to the end of the road and chose his or her own final exit. Were they out of their minds? Perhaps, but probably
not. Seth certainly was not. He knew exactly what he was doing. He’d battled lung cancer for a year, with several rounds of chemotherapy and radiation, all unsuccessful, and the tumors had finally metastasized to his ribs and spine. He was in terrible pain. At his last visit to his doctor he was given less than a month to live. When you read what he wrote the day before he died, you’ll be convinced that Seth Hubbard was in complete control of his life.”

As a prop, Jake was holding a legal pad but he wasn’t using it. He didn’t need it. He walked back and forth before the jurors, making eye contact with every one of them, speaking slowly and clearly as if they were sitting in his den and chatting about their favorite movies. But every word was written somewhere. Every sentence had been rehearsed. Every pause was calculated. The timing, cadence, rhythm—all memorized to near perfection.

Even the busiest of trial lawyers spend only a fraction of their time in front of juries. These moments were rare, and Jake relished them. He was an actor on a stage, in the midst of a monologue he created, speaking words of wisdom to his chosen audience. His pulse was spiking; his stomach was flipping; his knees were weak. But those internal battles were all under control and Jake calmly lectured his new friends.

Five minutes in, and he had not missed a word. Five minutes to go, with the roughest part just ahead.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, there is an unpleasant part of this story, and that’s why we’re all here. Seth Hubbard was survived by a son and a daughter and four grandchildren. In his will, he left them nothing. In language that is plain and clear, but also painful to read, Seth specifically excluded his family from inheriting under his will. The obvious question is, Why? It is our natural tendency to ask, ‘Why would a man do this?’ However, it is not your responsibility to ask that question. Seth did what he did for reasons known only to him. Again, he made the money—it all belonged to him. He could have given every penny to the Red Cross, or to some slick televangelist, or to the Communist Party. That’s his business, not yours, not mine, not this court’s.

“Instead of leaving his money to his family, Seth left 5 percent to his church, 5 percent to a long-lost brother, and the remaining 90 percent was given to a woman by the name of Lettie Lang. Ms. Lang is sitting right here between me and Mr. Lundy. She worked for Seth Hubbard for three years as his housekeeper, his cook, and sometimes his nurse. Again, the obvious question is, Why? Why did Seth cut out
his family and leave almost everything to a woman he’d known for such a short period of time? Believe me, ladies and gentlemen, that is the greatest question I’ve ever confronted as a lawyer. That question has been asked by me, by the other lawyers, by the Hubbard family, by Lettie Lang herself, by friends and neighbors, and by virtually everyone in this county who’s heard the story. Why?

“The truth is that we’ll never know. Only Seth knew and he’s no longer with us. The truth, folks, is that it’s none of our business. We—the lawyers, the judge, you the jurors—are not supposed to concern ourselves with why Seth did what he did. Your job, as I’ve said, is to decide only one important issue, and that is simply this: At the time Seth wrote his last will, was he thinking clearly and did he know what he was doing?