Wade Lanier began his cross-examination with “Let’s talk about this timberland in South Carolina, Ms. Trotter. Did Seth Hubbard sell these three tracts of land?”
“Yes sir, he did.”
“And when?”
“On that Friday morning.”
“The Friday morning before he wrote his will on Saturday, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Did he sign any sort of contract?”
“He did. It was faxed to my desk and I took it to him. He signed it, and I faxed it back to the attorneys in Spartanburg.”
Lanier picked up a document and said, “Your Honor, I have here Exhibit C-5, which has already been stipulated to and admitted.”
Judge Atlee said, “Proceed.”
Lanier handed the document to Arlene and said, “Could you please identify that?”
“Yes sir. It’s the contract Seth signed on Friday morning, selling the three tracts of land in South Carolina.”
“And how much was Seth to receive?”
“A total of $810,000.”
“Eight ten. Now, Ms. Trotter, how much did Seth pay for this timberland?”
She paused for a moment, glanced nervously at the jurors, and said, “You have the paperwork, Mr. Lanier.”
“Of course.” Lanier produced three more exhibits, all of which had been marked and admitted beforehand. There were no surprises here; Jake and Lanier had haggled over the exhibits and documents for weeks. Judge Atlee had long since ruled them admissible.
Arlene slowly reviewed the exhibits as the courtroom waited. Finally, she said, “Mr. Hubbard purchased this land in 1985 and paid a total of one point one million.”
Lanier scribbled this down as if it were new. Peering over his reading glasses, with his eyebrows arched in disbelief, he said, “A loss of $300,000!”
“Apparently so.”
“And this was only twenty-four hours before he made his handwritten will?”
Jake was on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. Calls for speculation on the part of the witness. Counsel can save it for his closing argument.”
“Sustained.”
Lanier ignored the commotion and zeroed in on the witness. “Any idea, Ms. Trotter, why Seth would do such a bad deal?”
Jake rose again. “Objection, Your Honor. More speculation.”
“Sustained.”
“Was he thinking clearly, Ms. Trotter?”
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
Lanier paused and flipped a page of notes. “Now, Ms. Trotter, who was in charge of cleaning the office building where you and Seth worked?”
“A man named Monk.”
“Okay, tell us about Monk.”
“He’s a longtime employee at the lumber yard, sort of a general helper who does all sorts of odd jobs, mainly cleaning. He also paints, fixes everything, even washed Mr. Hubbard’s vehicles.”
“How often does Monk clean the offices?”
“Every Monday and Thursday morning, from nine until eleven, without fail, for many years now.”
“Did he clean the offices on Thursday, September 29, of last year?”
“He did.”
“Has Lettie Lang ever cleaned the offices?”
“Not to my knowledge. There was no need for her to do so. Monk was in charge of that. I’ve never seen Ms. Lang until today.”
Throughout the day, Myron Pankey moved around the courtroom. His job was to watch the jury constantly, but to do so without being obvious required a number of tricks. Different seats, different vantage points, a change in sports coats, shielding his face behind a larger person sitting in front of him, the use of various eyeglasses. He spent his career in courtrooms, listening to witnesses and watching jurors react to them. In his learned opinion, Jake had done a steady job of laying out his case. Nothing fancy, nothing memorable, but no blunders either. The majority of the jurors liked him and believed that he was searching for the truth. Three apparently did not. Frank Doley, Number Twelve, was firmly in their corner and would never vote to give all that money to a black housekeeper. Pankey did not know the tragic story of Doley’s niece, but he could tell from the opening statements the man distrusted Jake and did not like Lettie. Number Ten, Debbie Lacker, a fifty-year-old white woman, and quite rural, had shot several hard looks at Lettie throughout the day, little messages that Myron never missed. Number Four, Fay Pollan, another fifty-year-old white woman, had actually nodded in agreement when Dr. Talbert testified that a person on Demerol should not make important decisions.
As the first day of testimony came to a close, Pankey called it a draw. Two fine lawyers had performed well and the jurors had not missed a word.
With Ancil unable to talk, Lucien spent the day in a rented car touring glaciers and fjords in the mountains around Juneau. He was tempted to leave, to hustle back to Clanton for the trial, but he was also quite taken with the beauty of Alaska, and the cool air and near-perfect climate. It was already heating up in Mississippi, with longer days and stickier air. As he ate lunch at a hillside café, the Gastineau Channel stretched magnificently below him, he made the decision to leave tomorrow, Wednesday.
At some point, and soon, Jake would inform Judge Atlee that Ancil Hubbard had been located, and verified, though the verification was shaky because the subject might change his mind at any moment and adopt another alias. Lucien doubted this, though, because Ancil was thinking about the money. Such a revelation would not affect the trial. Wade Lanier was right: Ancil had nothing to say about his brother’s will or testamentary capacity. So Lucien would leave him to his own problems. He suspected Ancil might serve a few months in prison. If he got lucky and found a good lawyer, he might walk entirely. Lucien was convinced the search and seizure of the coc**ne was a clear violation of the Fourth Amendment. Suppress the search, eliminate the coc**ne, and Ancil would be free again. If Jake won the trial, Ancil might one day make his long-deferred return to Ford County and claim his share of the estate.
If Jake lost, Ancil would disappear into the night, never to be found again.
After dark, Lucien went to the hotel bar and said good evening to Bo Buck, the bartender, who was now a close friend. Bo Buck had once been a judge in Nevada before things conspired to wreck his life, and he and Lucien enjoyed swapping stories. They talked for a moment as Lucien waited on his first Jack and Coke. He took it to a table and sat down, alone and loving the solitude. Just a man and his sour mash. A minute later, Ancil Hubbard materialized from nowhere and sat across the table.
“Evening Lucien,” he said casually.
Startled, Lucien stared at him for a few seconds to make sure. He was wearing a baseball cap, a sweatshirt, and jeans. That morning he’d been unconscious in a hospital bed with tubes running everywhere.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Lucien said.
“I got tired of the hospital, so I walked out. I guess I’m a fugitive, but that’s nothing new. I kinda like being on the run.”
“What about your head, and the infection?”
“My head’s sore, though not nearly as sore as they thought. Remember, Lucien, I was scheduled to go from the hospital to the jail, a transfer I preferred not to make. Let’s just say I wasn’t nearly as unconscious as they thought. The infection is under control.” He pulled out a bottle of pills. “When I left I took my antibiotics. I’ll be all right.”
“How’d you leave?”
“Walked out. They rolled me downstairs for a scan. I went to the restroom. They thought I couldn’t walk, so I ran down some steps, found the basement, found a locker room, changed clothes. Came out through the service ramp. Cops were swarming last time I checked. I was drinking coffee across the street.”
“This is a small town, Ancil. You can’t hide for long.”
“What do you know about hiding? I have some friends.”
“You want something to drink?”
“No, but I’d love a burger and fries.”
Harry Rex scowled at the witness and demanded, “Did you touch his penis?”
Lettie looked away, embarrassed, then managed a tepid “Yes, yes I did.”
“Of course you did, Lettie,” Jake said. “He was unable to bathe himself, so you had to do it, and you did it more than once. A bath means bathing the entire body. He couldn’t do it; you had to. There was nothing intimate or even remotely sexual about it. You were simply doing your job.”
“I can’t do this,” Lettie said, looking helplessly at Portia. “He won’t ask me these questions, will he?”
“He damned sure will,” Harry Rex growled. “He’ll ask you these and many more and you’d better be ready with the answers.”
“Let’s take a break,” Jake said.
“I need a beer,” Harry Rex said, climbing to his feet. He stomped out of the room as if he were sick of them all. They had been rehearsing for two hours and it was almost 10:00 p.m. Jake asked the easy questions on direct examination, and Harry Rex grilled her relentlessly on cross. At times he was too rough, or rougher than Atlee would allow Lanier to be, but better to be ready for the worst. Portia sympathized with her mother, but she was also frustrated by her fragility. Lettie could be tough, then she would fall apart. There was no confidence that her testimony would go smoothly.
Remember the rules, Lettie, Jake kept saying. Smile, but nothing phony. Speak clearly and slowly. It’s okay to cry if you feel real emotion. If you’re not sure, don’t speak. The jurors are watching intently, and they miss nothing. Look at them occasionally, but with confidence. Don’t let Wade Lanier rattle you. I’ll always be there to protect you.
Harry Rex wanted to scream another piece of advice: “We’re talking about twenty-four million bucks here, so put on the performance of a lifetime!” But he controlled himself. When he returned with a beer, Portia said, “We’ve had enough, Jake. We’ll go home and sit on the porch and talk some more, and we’ll be here early in the morning.”
“Okay. I think we’re all tired.”
After they left, Jake and Harry Rex went upstairs and sat on Jake’s balcony. The night was warm but clear, a perfect spring night that was difficult to appreciate. Jake sipped a beer and relaxed for the first time in many hours.
“Any word from Lucien?” Harry Rex asked.
“No, but I forgot to check the phone messages.”
“We’re lucky, you know. Lucky he’s in Alaska and not sitting right here carping about everything that went wrong today.”
“That’s your job, right?”
“Right, but I got no complaints, so far. You had a good day, Jake. You made a good opening statement, one the jury heard and appreciated, then you called twelve witnesses, and not a one got burned. The evidence leans strongly in your favor, at least at this point. You couldn’t have asked for a better day.”
“And the jury?”
“They like you, but it’s too early to speculate on how much they like or dislike Lettie. Tomorrow will be revealing.”
“Tomorrow is crucial, buddy. Lettie can win the case, or she can lose it.”