Sycamore Row

it. A bond will be set, but it’ll probably be too high. My guess is he’ll stay in jail until he either pleads under an agreement or goes to trial.”
    “What kinda defense could he use?”
    Jake shook his head as if there could be no defense. “He was drunk and there’s an eyewitness, right Marshall?”
    “Yep. Guy saw it all.”
    Jake continued, “I see a plea bargain and a long sentence.”
    “Ain’t he got a boy in prison?” asked Nugent.
    “He does. Marvis.”
    “Maybe he can bunk with his boy, join the same gang, have all sorts of fun at Parchman,” Nugent said and got some laughs. Jake laughed too, then attacked his breakfast. He was relieved the conversation had moved away from any connection he might have to Simeon Lang.
    They would leave the Coffee Shop and go to their jobs, where allday long they would talk about nothing but the Roston tragedy, and they would have the inside scoop because they’d had breakfast with Jake, the man in the middle. They would assure their co-workers and listeners that their pal Jake was not the lawyer for Simeon Lang, the most hated man in Ford County. They would assuage their fears and promise them that Lang was headed to prison for a long time.
    Jake had told them so.

    Bright, early morning sunlight streamed through the wooden blinds and fell into neat white rows across the long conference room table. Somewhere in the background, a phone rang constantly, but no one had any interest in answering it. The front door was locked, and every fifteen minutes or so there was a knock. The tense discussions rose, then ebbed and waned and finally ceased, though there was so much more to say.
    Harry Rex had walked them through the strategies of a divorce filing. File now, file loudly, file loaded with as many sordid allegations as possible to make Mr. Lang appear to be the creep he really was. Allege adultery, habitual cruel and inhuman treatment, desertion, drunkenness, abuse, nonsupport, throw in everything because the marriage is over whether Lettie would admit it or not. Pound him because he cannot respond from jail, and why would he bother anyway? Do it Monday and make sure Dumas Lee and every other reporter with even a passing interest gets a copy of the filing. Include a request for a restraining order to keep the lout off the property and away from Lettie and the kids and grandkids for the rest of their lives. It’s about ending a bad marriage, but it’s also about posturing for the public. Harry Rex agreed to handle the case.
    Portia had told them the first threatening phone call came just after 5:00 a.m. Phedra took it, and after a few seconds calmly hung up. “He called me a ‘nigger,’ ” she said, stunned. “Said we’ll pay for killin’ those boys.” They panicked and locked the doors. Portia found a handgun in a closet and loaded it. They turned off the lights and huddled together in the den, watching the street. Then the phone rang again. And again. They prayed for sunrise. She said her mother would sign the divorce papers, but once she does, look out for the Langs. Simeon’s brothers and cousins were notorious lowlifes—same gene pool—and they would cause trouble. They’ve been pestering Lettie for money anyway, and if they think they’re getting cut out they’ll do something stupid.
    Lucien had had a rough night, but he was there nonetheless and thinking as clearly as ever. He quickly took the position that the trial over the will must not be held in Ford County. Jake had no choice but to request a change of venue, which Atlee would probably deny, but at the very least it would give them a strong argument on appeal. Lucien had never been excited about Jake’s chances of winning before a jury, and he had long been convinced the pool had been contaminated by Booker Sistrunk. Lettie’s ill-advised decision to move to town, and into a home once owned by a slightly prominent white family, had not helped her standing in the community. There was already resentment and plenty of suspicion. She was not working and had not worked since Hubbard died. And now this. Now she had the most hated name in the county. Filing for divorce was not even an option—it had to be done. But, the divorce could not possibly be finished by the time the trial started on April 3. Her name was Lang in the will; it was Lang now; and it would be Lang during the trial. Put him, Lucien, in Wade Lanier’s shoes, and he would have the jury loathing every Lang who ever