Sycamore Row

had handled two of Welch’s, and they owed each other so many favors and debts and IOUs that keeping score was impossible. Harry Rex needed him instantly in Clanton, and Welch, cursing for two hours, made the drive. He had no plans to represent Simeon Lang beyond the indictment and would punt the case in a month or so.
    As Harry Rex explained, in some of the most colorful and abusive language imaginable, it was important for the local folks to see and realize that Simeon Lang was not represented by Jake Brigance, but rather by some scumbag they’d never heard of.
    Welch understood perfectly. It was another clear example of what was never taught in law school.

    It was early on Friday afternoon, the weather was cold and damp, and Jake was suffering through the weekly ritual of trying to tie up some of the week’s loose ends so they wouldn’t grow and fester and ruin his Monday. Among his many unwritten but nonetheless serious rules was one that required him to return every phone call by noon Friday. He preferred to avoid most of his phone calls, but that was not possible. Returning them was easy to put off. They often slid from one workday to the next, but he was determined not to drag them through the weekend. Another rule forbade him to take worthless cases that would pay little or nothing and turn his obnoxious clients into people he could choke. But, like every other lawyer, he routinely said yes to some deadbeat whose mother taught Jake in the fourth grade, or whose uncle knew his father, or the broke widow from church who couldn’t afford a lawyer but couldn’t live without one. Invariably, these matters turned into “fish files,” the ones that grew fouler the longer they sat in a corner, untouched. Every lawyer had them. Every lawyer hated them. Every lawyer swore he would never take another; you could almost smell them the first time the client walked in the door.
    Freedom for Jake would be an office free from fish files, and he stillapproached every new year with the determination to say no to the deadbeats. Years ago, Lucien had said repeatedly, “It’s not the cases you take that make you, it’s the cases you don’t take.” Just say no. Nonetheless, his special drawer for fish files was depressingly full, and every Friday afternoon he stared at them and cursed himself.
    Without knocking, Portia walked into his office, obviously upset. She was patting her chest as if she couldn’t breathe. “There’s a man here,” she said, almost in a whisper because she couldn’t speak any louder.
    “Are you okay?” he asked, once again tossing aside a fish file.
    She shook her head rapidly. “No. It’s Mr. Roston. The boys’ father.”
    “What?” Jake said as he bolted to his feet.
    She kept patting her chest. “He wants to see you.”
    “Why?”
    “Please, Jake, don’t tell him who I am.” They stared at each other for a second, neither with a clue.
    “Okay, okay. Put him in the conference room. I’ll be down in a minute.”
    Jeff Roston was not much older than Jake, but under the circumstances he was a very old man. He sat with his hands together and his shoulders sagging, as if burdened by an enormous weight. He wore heavily starched khakis and a navy blazer, and looked more like a casual preppy than a man who grew soybeans. He also wore the face of a father in the midst of an unspeakable nightmare. He rose and they shook hands and Jake said, “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Roston.”
    “Thank you. Let’s go with Jeff and Jake, okay?”
    “Sure.” Jake sat beside him along one side of the table and they faced each other. After an awkward pause, Jake said, “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”
    “No, you can’t,” he said softly and slowly, each word laden with grief. “I can’t either. I think we’re just sort of sleepwalking, you know, just going through the motions, trying to survive this hour so we can deal with the next one. We’re praying for time. Praying for the days to turn into weeks and then months, and then maybe one day years from now the nightmare will be over and we can manage the pain and the sorrow. But at the same time we know that’ll never happen. You’re not supposed to bury your kids, Jake. It’s just not the natural course of things.”
    Jake nodded along, unable to add anything thoughtful or intelligent or helpful. What do you say to a father whose two sons were nowlying in caskets waiting for their funeral? “I can’t begin to