Sycamore Row

like a millionaire; at others he was consumed with the awful emptiness of seeing the riches slip away and being leftwith nothing. Why did the old man do it? Herschel was willing to accept and shoulder more than his share of responsibility for their fractious relationship, but he could not begin to comprehend getting cut out completely. He could have loved Seth more, but then Seth gave little love in return. He could have spent more time here, in the house, but then Seth didn’t want him around. Where had they gone wrong? How young was Herschel when he realized his father was cold and distant? A child can’t chase a father who has no time for him.
    But Herschel had never fought his father, had never embarrassed him with open rebellion or worse—addictions, arrests, a life of crime. He parted with Seth when he was eighteen and left home to become a man. If he neglected Seth as an adult, it was because Seth had neglected him as a little boy. A child is not born with the tendency to neglect; it has to be acquired. Herschel learned from a master.
    Would the money have changed things? If Herschel had known the extent of his father’s wealth, what would he have done differently? One hell of a lot, he was finally admitting to himself. Initially, he had taken the high road and said, at least to his mother, that he wouldn’t have changed a thing. No sir. If Seth wanted no part of his only son, then the son would certainly allow him to have it that way. Now, though, as time passed and his own unhappy world was growing darker, Herschel knew he would have been here, in the house, taking care of his dear old dad. He would have shown an enthusiastic burst of interest in lumber and furniture. He would have begged Seth to teach him the business and possibly groom him as a successor. He would have swallowed hard and returned to Ford County, renting a place somewhere nearby. And, he definitely would have kept an eye on Lettie Lang.
    Getting shut out of such a large inheritance was so humiliating. His friends had whispered behind his back. His enemies had reveled in his misfortune. His ex-wife loathed him almost as much as she despised Seth, and she had gleefully spread the awful but true gossip around Memphis. Even though her children also got the ax, she couldn’t stop herself from piling on poor Herschel. For six months he had found it difficult to run his business and concentrate on his affairs. The bills and debts were adding up; his mother was becoming less sympathetic and helpful. On two occasions she had asked him to leave her home and find another place to live. He wanted to, but he couldn’t afford it.
    His fate now lay in the hands of a crafty lawyer named Wade Lanier, a cranky old judge named Reuben Atlee, and a haphazard gangof accidental jurors in rural Mississippi. At times he was confident. Justice would prevail; right over wrong and all that. It was simply wrong for a housekeeper, whatever her skin color, to appear in the final years of a long life and manipulate things in such a fiendish manner. Fairness was on their side. At other times, though, he could still feel the unspeakable pain of having it slip away. If it could happen once, it could certainly happen again.
    The walls inched closer and the musty air grew thicker. It had been a joyless home with two parents who despised each other. He cursed them for a while, both of them equally, then concentrated more on Seth. Why have children if you don’t want them? But he had wrestled with these questions for years and there were no answers. Let it go.
    Enough. He locked the house, left it, and drove to Clanton, where he was expected around 6:00 p.m. Ian and Ramona were already there, in the large conference room on the second floor of the Sullivan firm. Their ace jury consultant, Myron Pankey, was going on about their meticulous research when Herschel arrived. Cursory greetings and introductions were made. Pankey had two staffers with him, two attractive young ladies preoccupied with note-taking.
    Wade Lanier and Lester Chilcott sat at the center on one side of the table, flanked by paralegals. Pankey was saying, “Our phone survey also revealed that when given the additional facts that the will was written by a wealthy man, age seventy, and the caregiver was an attractive woman much younger, over half of those surveyed asked if sex was involved. We never mentioned sex, but it’s often the automatic response. What was really going on? Race was never mentioned,