Sycamore Row

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    Judge Atlee was on the front porch under a quilt when Jake arrived around 4:00. The wind was still and a cloud of pipe smoke hung over the front steps. A sign at the mailbox gave the name of the place as Maple Run. It was a stately old semi-mansion with Georgian columnsand sagging shutters, another of the many hand-me-downs in Clanton and Ford County. The roof of the Hocutt House was visible two blocks over.
    Reuben Atlee earned $80,000 a year as a judge and spent little of it on his estate. His wife had been dead for years, and from the flower beds and the sagging wicker porch furniture and the torn curtains hanging in the upstairs windows, it was obvious the place was missing the feminine touch it was not getting. He lived alone. His longtime maid was dead too and he had not bothered with a replacement. Jake saw him in church every Sunday morning and had noticed a general decline in his appearance as the years went by. His suits were not as clean. His shirts were not as starched. The knots in his neckties were not as crisp. He was often in need of a good haircut. It had become obvious that Judge Atlee left the house each morning without getting properly inspected.
    He wasn’t much of a drinker but enjoyed a toddy most afternoons, especially Fridays. Without inquiring, he fixed Jake a generous whiskey sour and placed it on the wicker table between them. Doing business with the judge on his porch meant having a toddy. He kicked back in his favorite rocker, took a long soothing sip, and said, “Rumor has it Lucien’s hanging around your office these days.”
    “It’s his office,” Jake said. They were gazing across the front lawn, brown and dismal in the dead of winter. Both wore their overcoats, and if the whiskey didn’t kick in soon Jake, quiltless, might request a move inside.
    “What’s he up to?” Judge Atlee asked. He and Lucien went back many years, with many chapters in their history.
    “I asked him to do some title work on Seth Hubbard’s property, and some research, just basic legal stuff like that.” Jake would never reveal what Lucien told him that morning, especially to Reuben Atlee. If word got out that Lucien Wilbanks was plotting a comeback, most judges in the area would resign.
    “Keep him close,” Judge Atlee said, once again dispensing advice that had not been sought.
    “He’s harmless,” Jake said.
    “He’s never harmless.” He rattled the ice around, seemed oblivious to the temperature. “What’s the latest on the search for Ancil?”
    Jake avoided his ice and tried to suck down some more bourbon. His teeth were starting to chatter. He replied, “Not much. Our guys found an ex-wife in Galveston who reluctantly admitted she married aman named Ancil Hubbard thirty-five years ago. They were married for three years, had two kids, then he skipped town. Owes a fortune in child support and alimony but she doesn’t care. It looks like he stopped using his real name fifteen years ago and went underground. We’re still digging.”
    “And these are the guys from D.C.?”
    “Yes sir, it’s a firm of ex-FBI types that specializes in finding missing persons. I don’t know how good they are but I do know they’re expensive. I have a bill we need to pay.”
    “Keep pushing. In the court’s view, Ancil is not dead until we know he’s dead.”
    “They’re combing death records in all fifty states and in a dozen foreign countries. It takes time.”
    “How is discovery proceeding?”
    “Rapidly. It’s a strange case, Judge, because every lawyer involved wants a trial as soon as possible. How many times have you seen that?”
    “Perhaps never.”
    “The case is a priority in every office, so there’s a lot of cooperation.”
    “No one’s dragging feet?”
    “Not a single lawyer. Last week we took eleven depositions in three days, all from members of the church who saw Mr. Hubbard the morning before he died. Nothing particularly interesting or unusual. The witnesses are in general agreement that he seemed like himself, nothing bizarre or strange. So far we have deposed five people who work in his headquarters and were with him the day before he wrote the will.”
    “I’ve read those,” Judge Atlee said, sipping. Move along.
    “Everyone is busy lining up the experts. I’ve found my handwriting guy and—”
    “A handwriting expert? They will not stipulate that it is Seth Hubbard’s handwriting?”
    “Not yet.”
    “Is there any doubt?”
    “No, not