Sycamore Row

beer,” Harry Rex said, climbing to his feet. He stomped out of the room as if he were sick of them all. They had been rehearsing for two hours and it was almost 10:00 p.m. Jake asked the easy questions on direct examination, and Harry Rex grilled her relentlessly on cross. At times he was too rough, or rougher than Atlee would allow Lanier to be, but better to be ready for the worst. Portia sympathized with her mother, but she was also frustrated by her fragility. Lettie could be tough, then she would fall apart. There was no confidence that her testimony would go smoothly.
    Remember the rules, Lettie, Jake kept saying. Smile, but nothing phony. Speak clearly and slowly. It’s okay to cry if you feel real emotion.If you’re not sure, don’t speak. The jurors are watching intently, and they miss nothing. Look at them occasionally, but with confidence. Don’t let Wade Lanier rattle you. I’ll always be there to protect you.
    Harry Rex wanted to scream another piece of advice: “We’re talking about twenty-four million bucks here, so put on the performance of a lifetime!” But he controlled himself. When he returned with a beer, Portia said, “We’ve had enough, Jake. We’ll go home and sit on the porch and talk some more, and we’ll be here early in the morning.”
    “Okay. I think we’re all tired.”
    After they left, Jake and Harry Rex went upstairs and sat on Jake’s balcony. The night was warm but clear, a perfect spring night that was difficult to appreciate. Jake sipped a beer and relaxed for the first time in many hours.
    “Any word from Lucien?” Harry Rex asked.
    “No, but I forgot to check the phone messages.”
    “We’re lucky, you know. Lucky he’s in Alaska and not sitting right here carping about everything that went wrong today.”
    “That’s your job, right?”
    “Right, but I got no complaints, so far. You had a good day, Jake. You made a good opening statement, one the jury heard and appreciated, then you called twelve witnesses, and not a one got burned. The evidence leans strongly in your favor, at least at this point. You couldn’t have asked for a better day.”
    “And the jury?”
    “They like you, but it’s too early to speculate on how much they like or dislike Lettie. Tomorrow will be revealing.”
    “Tomorrow is crucial, buddy. Lettie can win the case, or she can lose it.”

43
    The lawyers met with Judge Atlee in his chambers at 8:45 Wednesday morning and agreed there were no pending motions or issues to iron out before the trial proceeded. For the third day in a row, His Honor was spry, almost hyper, as if the excitement of a big trial had rejuvenated him. The lawyers had been up all night, either working or worrying, and looked as frayed as they felt. The old judge, though, was ready to go.
    In the courtroom he welcomed everyone, thanked the spectators for their keen interest in our judicial system, and told the bailiff to bring in the jurors. When they were seated, he greeted them warmly and asked if there were any problems. Any unauthorized contact? Anything suspicious? Everyone feeling okay? Very well, Mr. Brigance, proceed.
    Jake stood and said, “Your Honor, the proponents call Ms. Lettie Lang.”
    Portia had told her not to wear anything fitting or tight or even remotely sexy. Early that morning, long before breakfast, they had argued about the dress. Portia won. It was a navy-blue cotton dress with a loose belt, a nice enough dress but one that a housekeeper might wear to work, nothing Lettie would wear to church. The shoes were low-heeled sandals. No jewelry. No watch. Nothing to indicate she had a spare dime or might be contemplating a haul of cash. In the past month she had stopped tinting her gray hair. It was natural now, and she looked all of her forty-seven years.
    She was practically stuttering by the time she swore to tell thetruth. She looked at Portia sitting behind Jake’s chair. Her daughter gave her a smile—a signal that she should smile too.
    The packed courtroom was silent as Jake approached the podium. He asked her name, address, place of employment—softballs that she handled well. Names of children and grandchildren. Yes, Marvis, her oldest, was in prison. Her husband was Simeon Lang, now in jail, awaiting prosecution. She had filed for divorce a month earlier and expected it to become final in a few weeks. Some background—education, church, prior jobs. It was all scripted and at times her answers sounded stiff and rote,