Sycamore Row

“I might be onto something. Can you stop by tomorrow?”
    “Of course. What time?”
    “Come early. I’m not as tired in the mornings.”
    “What time will the doctors be finished with their rounds?”
    “I don’t know. Nine or so.”
    “I’ll be there at nine thirty, Lonny.”

39
    Nevin Dark parked his truck facing the courthouse and checked his watch. He was early, but that was the plan. He had never before been summoned for jury duty, and he could grudgingly admit to being somewhat excited. He farmed two hundred acres west of Karaway and rarely made it to Clanton; indeed, he could not remember his last trip to the county seat. For the occasion he wore his newest pair of starched khakis and a leather flight jacket handed down by his father, who’d flown in World War II. His wife had firmly pressed his cotton shirt with buttons on the collar. Nevin was rarely this dressed up. He paused and gazed around the courthouse, looking for others who might be holding a summons.
    Of the case, he knew little. His wife’s brother, a blowhard, had said he thought the trial was over a will that was handwritten, but beyond that the details were scarce. Neither Nevin nor his wife subscribed to the local newspapers. They had not been to church in ten years, so that rich source of gossip had passed them by. The summons said nothing about the type of jury service facing him. Nevin had never heard of Seth Hubbard, nor Lettie Lang. He would recognize the name of Jake Brigance, but only because Jake was from Karaway and the Hailey trial had been so notorious.
    In short, Nevin was a model juror: reasonably smart, fair-minded, and uninformed. The summons was folded in his coat pocket. He walked around the square to kill a few minutes, then wandered over to the courthouse where things were getting busy. He climbed the stairs and joined the crowd milling around the large oak doors of the main courtroom. Two deputies in uniform were holding clipboards. Nevinwas eventually processed through, and as he entered the courtroom a clerk smiled and pointed to a seat on the left side. He sat down next to an attractive lady in a short skirt, and within two minutes she informed Nevin that she taught school with Carla Brigance and would probably not make the cut. When he confessed he knew nothing about the case, she found it hard to believe. All the jurors were whispering away as they watched the lawyers move about with their important airs. The bench was empty. Half a dozen clerks moved papers here and there, doing little really but trying to justify their presence in the biggest will contest in the history of Ford County. Some of the lawyers had no connections at all, no reason to be there, but a courtroom filled with prospective jurors always attracted a few of the courthouse regulars.
    For example, a lawyer named Chuck Rhea had no clients, no office, and no money. He occasionally checked land titles; thus, he was always in the courthouse, killing enormous amounts of time, sipping free coffee from whatever office had the freshest pot, flirting with the clerks who knew him well, gossiping with every lawyer who came within earshot, and in general just being there. Chuck rarely missed a trial. Since he had none of his own, he watched all the others. On this day he was wearing his darkest suit and his wing tips fairly gleamed with fresh polish. He spoke to Jake and Harry Rex—men who knew him all too well—and also to the out-of-town lawyers, who by then knew that Chuck was just another fixture. Every courthouse had them.
    A gentleman to Nevin’s left struck up a conversation. He said he owned a fence company in Clanton and had once put up some chain link for Harry Rex Vonner’s hunting dogs. He pointed and said, “That fat one over there in the bad suit. That’s Harry Rex Vonner. Meanest divorce lawyer in the county.”
    “Is he working with Jake Brigance?” Nevin asked, completely clueless.
    “Looks like it.”
    “Who are those other lawyers?”
    “Who knows? There are so many lawyers around here these days. The square is full of them.”
    A bailiff came to life and yelled, “All rise for the court. The Chancery Court of the Twenty-Fifth Judicial District of Mississippi, the Honorable Reuben V. Atlee presiding.” Judge Atlee appeared from the rear and assumed the bench while the crowd jumped to its feet.
    “Please be seated,” he said. The crowd made a noisy retreat back onto the benches. He said hello and good morning and