Sycamore Row

but of the black respondents almost 80 percent were suspicious of sexual activity. Of the white, 55 percent.”
    “So the issue is very much in the air, though unspoken,” Lanier said.
    Didn’t we know this six months ago? Herschel asked himself as he doodled on a legal pad. So far, they had paid Pankey two-thirds of his $75,000 fee. The money was now being fronted by Wade Lanier’s law firm, which was paying all the litigation expenses. Ian had chipped in $20,000; Herschel nothing. If there was a recovery, there would also be a war dividing it.
    Pankey passed out thick booklets for their reading pleasure, though the lawyers had already spent hours with the material. Beginning with Ambrose and ending with Young, there was a one- or two-page summary of each juror. Many included photos of homes and automobiles, and a few had actual photos of the jurors. These were taken fromchurch and club directories, high school yearbooks, and a few candid shots handed over on the sly by friends.
    Pankey was saying, “Our perfect juror is a Caucasian over the age of fifty. The younger people went to integrated schools and tend to be more tolerant on race, and obviously we are not looking for tolerance. Sadly for us, the more racist the better. White women are slightly preferable over white men, and this is because they tend to show more jealousy toward another woman who has managed to manipulate the will. A man might excuse another man for fooling around with his housekeeper, but a woman is not so understanding.”
    Seventy-five thousand for this? Herschel doodled to himself. Isn’t this fairly obvious? He shot a bored look at his sister, who was looking old and tired. Things were not going well with Ian, and the Hubbard siblings had spoken on the phone more in the past three months than in the past ten years. Ian’s deals were not paying off, and the strained marriage was continuing to crack. Ian spent most of his time on the Gulf Coast where he and some partners were renovating a mall. This was fine with her; she didn’t want him at home. She talked openly of divorce, to Herschel anyway. But if they lost this case, she might be stuck. We’re not going to lose, Herschel kept reassuring her.
    They slogged through the research until 7:30, when Wade Lanier said he’d had enough. They drove to a fish shack overlooking Lake Chatulla, and enjoyed a long meal, just the lawyers and their clients. After a few drinks their nerves were settled, and they managed to relax. Like most trial lawyers, Wade Lanier was a gifted storyteller and he regaled them with hilarious tales from his courtroom brawls. More than once, he said, “We’re gonna win, folks. Just trust me.”

    Lucien was in his hotel room, a Jack on the rocks on his nightstand, his nose stuck deep into another impenetrable Faulkner novel, when the phone rang. A weak voice on the other end said, “Is this Mr. Wilbanks?”
    “It is,” Lucien said, gently closing the book and swinging his feet to the floor.
    “This is Lonny Clark, Mr. Wilbanks.”
    “Please call me Lucien, and I’ll call you Lonny, okay?”
    “Okay.”
    “How are you feeling tonight, Lonny?”
    “Better, much better. You came to my room last night, didn’t you,Lucien? I know you did. I thought I was dreaming last night when a stranger appeared in my room and said something to me, but then when I met you today I recognized you and I recalled your voice.”
    “I’m afraid you were indeed dreaming, Lonny.”
    “No, I wasn’t. Because you came the night before too. Friday night and Saturday night, it was you. I know it was.”
    “No one can get in your room, Lonny. There’s a cop at the door, around the clock I’m told.”
    Lonny paused as if he didn’t know this; or if he did, then how could a stranger sneak into his room? Finally he said, “The stranger said something about Sylvester Rinds. Do you know Sylvester Rinds, Lucien?”
    “Where is he from?” Lucien asked, casually taking a sip.
    “I’m asking you, Lucien. Do you know Sylvester Rinds?”
    “I’ve lived in Ford County all my life, Lonny. I know everyone, black and white. But something tells me Sylvester Rinds died before I was born. Did you know him?”
    “I don’t know. It’s all so muddled now. And so long ago …” His voice faded as if he’d dropped the phone.
    Keep him talking, Lucien said to himself. “I’m much more interested in Ancil Hubbard,” he said. “Any luck with that name, Lonny?”
    Weakly, he said,