Sycamore Row

single juror, and their ages, addresses, jobs, education, churches, as much info as they could gather.
    Once the ninety-seven names were filed away, Portia was given the task of wading through the courthouse records. She spent hours in the deed books and land records searching for transactions over the past ten years. She combed the court dockets, looking for plaintiffs and defendants, winners and losers. Of the ninety-seven, sixteen had gone through a divorce in the past ten years. She wasn’t sure what that meant in the course of a trial over a will, but she had the knowledge anyway. One gentleman, a Mr. Eli Rady, had filed four lawsuits and lost them all. She checked the lien books and found dozens of claims for unpaid taxes, unpaid supplies, unpaid subcontractors. A few of their prospective jurors owed the county money for property taxes. In the tax assessor’s office, she dug through property tax receipts and made a register of which jurors owned what make and model of vehicles. Not surprisingly, there were a lot of pickup trucks.
    The work was tedious and often mind-numbing, but she never slowed down, never thought of quitting. After two weeks of living with these people, she was confident she knew them.
    After coffee, they grudgingly went back to work. Jake began roughing out an outline for his opening statement. Portia returnedto the conference room and to her ninety-seven new friends. At ten, Harry Rex finally rolled in with a sackful of greasy sausage biscuits straight from Claude’s. He handed one to Jake, insisted he take it, then slid across an envelope.
    “It’s a check from your insurance company, Land Fire and Casualty, a bunch of crooked morons, so don’t ever buy another policy from them, understand? A hundred and thirty-five thousand bucks. Settlement in full. And not a dime of it siphoned off for attorney’s fees, so you owe me big-time, buddy.”
    “Thanks. Since your fees are so cheap, get busy.”
    “I’m really tired of this case, Jake. On Monday, I’m gonna help you pick the jury, then I’m outta there. I got my own cases to lose.”
    “Fair enough. Just be there for the selection.” Jake knew Harry Rex would in fact miss little of the actual courtroom testimony, then he would park himself in the downstairs conference room each evening as they ate pizza and sandwiches and argued about what went wrong and what might happen the following day. He would second-guess every move Jake made; excoriate Wade Lanier with scathing criticism; curse the negative rulings made by Judge Atlee; offer unsolicited advice at every turn; maintain the constant gloom of losing an unwinnable case; and at times be so unbearable Jake would want to throw something at him. But he was seldom wrong. He knew the law and its intricacies. He read people like others read magazines. Without being obvious, he watched the jurors as they watched Jake. And his advice would be invaluable.
    Despite Seth Hubbard’s rather explicit command that no other lawyer in Ford County profit from his estate, Jake was determined to find a way to channel some fees to Harry Rex. Seth wanted his last-minute, handwritten will to survive all challenges, and whether he liked it or not, Harry Rex Vonner was crucial to the effort.
    The phone on Jake’s desk started a muted ringing. He ignored it. Harry Rex said, “Why have ya’ll stopped answering the phones around here? I’ve called ten times this week and nobody answered.”
    “Portia’s been in the courthouse. I’ve been busy. Lucien doesn’t answer the phone.”
    “Think of all the car wrecks and divorces and shoplifting cases you’re missing. All the human misery out there trying like hell to get through.”
    “I’d say we’re tied up right now.”
    “Any word from Lucien?”
    “Nothing this morning, but then it’s only six in Alaska. I doubt if he’s up and about yet.”
    “He’s probably just now getting in. You’re an idiot, Jake, for sending Lucien on a road trip. Hell, he gets drunk between here and his house. Put him on the road, in airport lounges, hotel bars, you name it, and he’ll kill himself.”
    “He’s cutting back. He plans to study for the bar and get reinstated.”
    “Cutting back for that old goat means stopping at midnight.”
    “When did you get so clean and sober, Harry Rex? You’ve been drinking Bud Light for breakfast.”
    “I know how to pace myself. I’m a professional. Lucien’s just a drunk, that’s all.”
    “Are you going to