Sycamore Row

She was an equal. She had to constantly remind herself of this, but it was true because Lucien treated her as one. There was an excellent chance they were wasting their time chasing the past, but what a fascinating search. Lucien was obsessed with the puzzle. He was convinced Seth Hubbard did what he did for a reason.
    And the reason wasn’t sex or companionship. Portia had gently confronted her mother and, with all the trust and respect and love she could humanly muster, had asked her the big question. No, Lettie had said. Never. It was never considered, not on her part anyway. It was never discussed, never a possibility. Never.

    Randall Clapp slid the envelope into a drop box outside the main post office in downtown Oxford. It was plain, white, legal-sized, no return info, and it was addressed to Fritz Pickering in Shreveport, Louisiana. Inside were two sheets of paper—a full copy of the will handwritten by Irene Pickering and signed by her on March 11, 1980. The other copy was locked away in Wade Lanier’s law office. The original was in the file stolen from the Freeman Law Firm, two blocks down the street.
    The plan was for Fritz Pickering to receive the anonymous letter, notice it postmarked in Oxford, open it, recognize the old will, andwonder who in the world had sent it to him. He would probably have a hunch but he would never know for sure.
    It was late Saturday night, the college bars were rocking, and the police were more concerned with that activity than with the petty break-in of a small law office. With Clapp in the alley watching things, agent Erby entered the rear door, and within five minutes had returned the Pickering file to its proper and long-neglected resting place.

28
    On Monday, February 20, Judge Atlee assembled the players for a progress report. Since it was not an official hearing of any variety, he locked the courtroom to keep reporters and spectators away. Most of the litigants were present: the Hubbards on one side, Lettie and Phedra on the other. Still no sign of Ancil, though Judge Atlee was not quite ready to declare him dead.
    He assumed the bench, in his robe, managed a gruff “Good morning,” and called the roll of lawyers. All present. It was soon obvious the judge was not in a good mood and probably felt bad. In a tired voice he said, “Gentlemen, this matter is scheduled for a jury trial six weeks from today. I am monitoring discovery and I see no reason why we can’t be ready to go on as planned on April 3. Am I missing something here? Any reason to delay the trial?”
    Serious head shaking followed. No sir. No reason at all. As Jake had said, it was indeed a strange case in that every lawyer was eager for a trial. If anyone wanted to stall, it might be Jake. He had every reason to drag things along, at $150 an hour, but he had Judge Atlee breathing down his neck too. The case officially known as
In re Estate of Henry Seth Hubbard
was barreling down the docket at record speed.
    The judge continued: “Now, Mr. Brigance has copies of the First Inventory for your perusal. As I have instructed in writing, this is to be kept as confidential as possible.” Portia began handing over copies to the other side. “I have sealed this section of the court file because nothing good can come from the dissemination of this sensitive material. You, as the attorneys, and your clients have the right to know what’s in the estate, so take a look.” The lawyers snatched the copies of the inventoryand flipped through the pages. Some had heard the alleged value, but they still wanted to see it in black and white. Twenty-four million and change. It validated what they were doing, why they were fighting.
    The courtroom was deathly silent for a few moments as it sank in. More money than any of them could ever hope to earn in a long career. Then there were some whispers, and a chuckle over a wisecrack.
    Judge Atlee said, “I address the contestants now. In reviewing the discovery, it seems as though you may have plans to challenge the validity of the handwriting. You have listed two experts in this field, and I assume the proponents will need to employ their own. I’ve looked at the handwriting samples, specifically the will, the burial instructions, the letter Mr. Hubbard left behind on his kitchen table, and the letter he addressed to Mr. Brigance, dated October 1. I have also seen the other samples of his handwriting that have been filed. Now, Mr. Lanier and Mr. Rush, do you plan to