Sycamore Row

you’re not driving. I’d hate to see you busted for a DUI.”
    “I’d just hire Jake to postpone it forever. You got some names?”
    Ozzie handed him a sheet of paper and said, “A few. That Oscar Peltz guy we were talkin’ about yesterday, from down near Lake Village, well, he goes to the same church with the Roston family.” Portia picked up the card with “OSCAR PELTZ” written in a black marker across the top.
    “I’d stay away from him,” Ozzie said.
    Harry Rex looked at his notes and said, “We had him as a five anyway, not too attractive.”
    “Mr. Raymond Griffis, lives down from Parker’s Country Store, south of here. What do you have on him?”
    Portia picked up another card and said, “White male, age forty-one, works for a fencing contractor.” Harry Rex added, “Divorced, remarried, father died in a car wreck about five years ago.”
    Ozzie said, “Stay away from him. I got a source says his brother was involved with the Klan three years ago during the Hailey trial. Don’t think the brother ever joined up, but he was a bit too close. They might be presentable on the surface, but could be a rough bunch.”
    “I had him as a four,” Harry Rex said. “I thought you were going after all the black folks.”
    “That’s a waste of time. All black folks get automatic tens in this trial.”
    “How many are on the list, Portia?”
    “Twenty-one, out of ninety-seven.”
    “We’ll take ’em.”
    “Where’s Lucien?” Ozzie asked.
    “Jake ran him off. Any luck with Pernell Phillips? You thought Moss Junior might know him.”
    “He’s Moss Junior’s wife’s third cousin, but they try to avoid family gatherings. Backwater Baptists. He wouldn’t get too many points from me.”
    “Portia?”
    “Let’s give him a three,” she said, with the authority of a veteran jury consultant.
    “That’s the problem with this damn pool,” Harry Rex said. “Far too many threes and fours, not enough eights and nines. We’re gonna get clobbered.”
    “Where’s Jake?” Ozzie asked.
    “Upstairs, fighting the phone.”

    Lucien drove to Memphis, flew to Chicago, and from there flew all night to Seattle. He drank on the flight but went to sleep before being excessive. He killed six hours in the Seattle airport, then caught a two-hour flight to Juneau on Alaska Air. He checked into a hotel downtown, called Jake, slept three hours, showered, even shaved, and dressed himself in an old black suit that hadn’t been worn in a decade. With the white shirt and paisley tie, he could pass himself off as a lawyer, which was exactly what he planned to do. With a battered briefcase in hand, he walked to the hospital. Twenty-two hours after leaving Clanton, he said hello to the detective and got the latest scoop over coffee.
    The update revealed little. An infection was causing his brain to swell and Lonny was not in the mood to talk. His doctors wanted things quiet and the detective had not spoken to him that day. He showed Lucien the fake paperwork they found in the flophouse, along with the naval discharge. Lucien showed the detective two enlarged photos of Seth Hubbard. Maybe there was a vague resemblance, maybe not. It was a long shot. The detective called the owner of the bar and insisted he come to the hospital. Since he knew Lonny well, he could look at the photos. He did, and saw nothing.
    After the owner left, and with little else to do, Lucien explained tothe detective the purpose of his visit. They had been looking for Ancil for six months, but it had been a cold trail. His brother, the one in the photos, had left him some money in a will. Not a fortune, but certainly enough to scramble Lucien from Mississippi to Alaska overnight.
    The detective had little interest in a lawsuit so far away. He was more concerned with the cocaine. No, he did not believe Lonny Clark was a drug dealer. They were about to crack a syndicate out of Vancouver, and they had a couple of informants. The buzz was that Lonny was simply hiding the stuff for a fee. Sure, he would serve some time, but time measured in months and not years. And no, he would not be allowed to travel back to Mississippi for any reason, if in fact his name was really Ancil Hubbard.
    After the detective left, Lucien roamed around the hospital to familiarize himself with the maze of corridors and annexes and split-levels. He found Lonny’s room on the third floor and saw a man standing nearby, flipping through a magazine, trying to stay awake.