Sycamore Row

was over I couldn’t afford my telephone bill.”
    “And you won anyway. I’m getting concerned over the costs of this administration and litigation.”
    “The estate’s worth twenty-four million, Judge. We haven’t spent 1 percent of that.”
    “Yes, but at the rate you’re going it won’t be long.”
    “I’m not exactly padding the file.”
    “I’m not questioning your fees, Jake. But we’ve paid accountants, appraisers, Quince Lundy, you, investigators, court reporters, and now we’re paying experts to testify at trial. I realize we’re doing this because Seth Hubbard was foolish enough to make such a will, and he knew there would be a nasty fight over it, but, nonetheless, we have a duty to protect his estate.” He made it sound as though the money was coming out of his own pocket. His tone was clearly unsympathetic, and Jake was reminded of Harry Rex’s warnings.
    He took a deep breath and let it pass. With two strikes—no change of venue, no jury consultant—Jake decided to leave things alone; he would try again another day. Not that it mattered. Judge Atlee was suddenly snoring.

    Boaz Rinds lived in a sad, run-down nursing home on the edge of the north-south highway leading to and from the small town of Pell City, Alabama. After a four-hour drive, with some detours, wrong turns and dead ends, Portia and Lettie found the place just after lunch on a Saturday. Talking to distant kinfolk in Chicago, Charley Pardue had been able to track down Boaz. Charley was working hard to keepin touch with his newest and favorite cousin. The profit outlook for the funeral home was looking stronger each week, and it would soon be time to strike.
    Boaz was in poor health and could barely hear. He was in a wheelchair but unable to maneuver it himself. They rolled him outside onto a concrete deck and left him there for the two ladies to interrogate. Boaz was just happy to have a visitor. There appeared to be no others on that Saturday. He said he was born “around” 1920 to Rebecca and Monroe Rinds, somewhere near Tupelo. That would mean he was around sixty-eight years old, which they found shocking. He looked much older, with snow-white hair and layers of wrinkles around his glassy eyes. He said he had a bad heart and had once smoked heavily.
    Portia explained that she and her mother were trying to put together their family tree and there was a chance they might be related to him. This made him smile, a jagged one with missing teeth. Portia knew there was no birth record of a Boaz Rinds in Ford County, but by then she knew perfectly well how spotty the record keeping had been. He said he had two sons, both dead, and his wife had died years earlier. If he had grandkids he didn’t know it. No one ever came to visit him. From the looks of the place, Boaz was not the only resident who’d been abandoned.
    He spoke slowly, stopping occasionally to scratch his forehead while he tried to remember. After ten minutes, it was obvious he was suffering from some type of dementia. He’d had a harsh, almost brutal life. His parents were farmworkers who drifted throughout Mississippi and Alabama, dragging their large family—seven kids—from one cotton field to the next. He remembered picking cotton when he was five years old. He never went to school, and the family never stayed in one place. They lived in shacks and tents and hunger was not uncommon. His father died young and was buried behind a black church near Selma. His mother took up with a man who beat the kids. Boaz and a brother ran away and never went back.
    Portia took notes as Lettie prodded with soft questions. Boaz loved the attention. An orderly brought them iced tea. He could not remember the names of his grandparents and did not remember anything about them. He thought they lived in Mississippi. Lettie asked about several names, all in the Rinds family. Boaz would grin, nod, then admit he didn’t know the person. But when she said “Sylvester Rinds,” he kept nodding, and nodding, and finally he said, “He was my uncle. Sylvester Rinds. He and my daddy were cousins.”
    Sylvester was born in 1898 and died in 1930. He owned the eighty acres that was deeded by his wife to Cleon Hubbard, father of Seth.
    If Monroe Rinds, father of Boaz, was a cousin to Sylvester, then he wasn’t really an uncle of Boaz’s. However, in light of the meandering nature of the Rinds tree, they were not about to correct him. They were too thrilled to get this information.