Sycamore Row

was fatigued, and he napped often. Usually, he left around three or four.
    Jake was able to paint the picture of a man still in charge, the boss at work as if all was well. For five consecutive days before he wrote a new will, Seth Hubbard was at the office, on the phone, tending to his business.
    Wade Lanier began his cross-examination with “Let’s talk about this timberland in South Carolina, Ms. Trotter. Did Seth Hubbard sell these three tracts of land?”
    “Yes sir, he did.”
    “And when?”
    “On that Friday morning.”
    “The Friday morning before he wrote his will on Saturday, correct?”
    “Correct.”
    “Did he sign any sort of contract?”
    “He did. It was faxed to my desk and I took it to him. He signed it, and I faxed it back to the attorneys in Spartanburg.”
    Lanier picked up a document and said, “Your Honor, I have here Exhibit C-5, which has already been stipulated to and admitted.”
    Judge Atlee said, “Proceed.”
    Lanier handed the document to Arlene and said, “Could you please identify that?”
    “Yes sir. It’s the contract Seth signed on Friday morning, selling the three tracts of land in South Carolina.”
    “And how much was Seth to receive?”
    “A total of $810,000.”
    “Eight ten. Now, Ms. Trotter, how much did Seth pay for this timberland?”
    She paused for a moment, glanced nervously at the jurors, and said, “You have the paperwork, Mr. Lanier.”
    “Of course.” Lanier produced three more exhibits, all of which had been marked and admitted beforehand. There were no surprises here; Jake and Lanier had haggled over the exhibits and documents for weeks. Judge Atlee had long since ruled them admissible.
    Arlene slowly reviewed the exhibits as the courtroom waited. Finally, she said, “Mr. Hubbard purchased this land in 1985 and paid a total of one point one million.”
    Lanier scribbled this down as if it were new. Peering over his reading glasses, with his eyebrows arched in disbelief, he said, “A loss of $300,000!”
    “Apparently so.”
    “And this was only twenty-four hours before he made his handwritten will?”
    Jake was on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. Calls for speculation on the part of the witness. Counsel can save it for his closing argument.”
    “Sustained.”
    Lanier ignored the commotion and zeroed in on the witness. “Any idea, Ms. Trotter, why Seth would do such a bad deal?”
    Jake rose again. “Objection, Your Honor. More speculation.”
    “Sustained.”
    “Was he thinking clearly, Ms. Trotter?”
    “Objection.”
    “Sustained.”
    Lanier paused and flipped a page of notes. “Now, Ms. Trotter, who was in charge of cleaning the office building where you and Seth worked?”
    “A man named Monk.”
    “Okay, tell us about Monk.”
    “He’s a longtime employee at the lumber yard, sort of a general helper who does all sorts of odd jobs, mainly cleaning. He also paints, fixes everything, even washed Mr. Hubbard’s vehicles.”
    “How often does Monk clean the offices?”
    “Every Monday and Thursday morning, from nine until eleven, without fail, for many years now.”
    “Did he clean the offices on Thursday, September 29, of last year?”
    “He did.”
    “Has Lettie Lang ever cleaned the offices?”
    “Not to my knowledge. There was no need for her to do so. Monk was in charge of that. I’ve never seen Ms. Lang until today.”

    Throughout the day, Myron Pankey moved around the courtroom. His job was to watch the jury constantly, but to do so without being obvious required a number of tricks. Different seats, different vantage points, a change in sports coats, shielding his face behind a larger person sitting in front of him, the use of various eyeglasses. He spent his career in courtrooms, listening to witnesses and watching jurors react to them. In his learned opinion, Jake had done a steady job of laying out his case. Nothing fancy, nothing memorable, but no blunders either. The majority of the jurors liked him and believed that he was searching for the truth. Three apparently did not. Frank Doley, Number Twelve, was firmly in their corner and would never vote to give all that money to a black housekeeper. Pankey did not know the tragic story of Doley’s niece, but he could tell from the opening statements the man distrusted Jake and did not like Lettie. Number Ten, Debbie Lacker, a fifty-year-old white woman, and quite rural, had shot several hard looks at Lettie throughout the day, little messages that Myron