Sycamore Row

before; he had never asked her to. It was the first and only time the two had been together in an automobile. When they were leaving the house, she had made some silly comment about never having driven a Cadillac, so he insisted. She was nervous and drove slowly. He sipped on coffee from a paper cup. He seemed to be relaxed and pain-free, and he seemed to enjoy the fact that Lettie was so uptight driving down a highway with virtually no other traffic.
    Jake asked her what they talked about during the ten-minute drive. She thought for a moment, glanced at the jurors, who still had not missed a word, and said, “We talked about cars. He said a lot of white people don’t like Cadillacs anymore because nowadays so many black people drive them. He asked me why a Cadillac was so important to a black person, and I said don’t ask me. I never wanted one. I’ll never have one. My Pontiac’s twelve years old. But then I said it’s because it’s the nicest car and it’s a way of showin’ other folk that you’ve made it. You got a job, got a little money in your pocket, got some success in life. Something’s workin’ okay. That’s all. He said he’s always liked a Cadillac too, said he lost his first one in his first divorce, lost his second one in his second divorce, but since he gave up on marriage nobody’s bothered him or his Cadillacs. He was kinda funny about it.”
    “So he was in a good mood, sort of joking?” Jake asked.
    “A very good mood that mornin’, yes sir. He even laughed at me and my drivin’.”
    “And his mind was clear?”
    “Clear as a bell. He said I was drivin’ his seventh Cadillac and he remembered all of them. Said he trades every other year.”
    “Do you know if he was taking medication for pain that morning?”
    “No sir, I don’t know. He was funny about his pills. He didn’t like to take them and he kept them in his briefcase, away from me. The only time I saw them was when he was flat on his back, deathly sick, and he asked me to get them. But no, he didn’t appear to be on any pain medication that mornin’.”
    Under Jake’s guidance, she continued her narrative. They arrived at Berring Lumber Company, the first and only time she’d ever beenthere, and while he spent the time in his office with the door locked, she cleaned. She vacuumed, dusted, scrubbed most of the windows, arranged magazines, even washed the dishes in the small kitchen. No, she did not empty the wastebaskets. From the moment they entered the offices until they left, she did not speak to nor see Mr. Hubbard. She had no idea what he was doing in his office; she never thought about asking. He walked in with a briefcase, and walked out holding the same one. She drove back to his house, then she returned home, around noon. Late Sunday night, Calvin Boggs called with the news that Mr. Hubbard had hung himself.
    At 11:00 a.m., after almost two hours on the stand, Jake tendered the witness for cross-examination. During a quick recess, he told Lettie she did a fabulous job. Portia was thrilled and very proud; her mother had kept her composure and been convincing. Harry Rex, who’d been watching from the back row, said her testimony could not have been better.
    By noon, their case was in shambles.

    He was certain harboring a fugitive was against the law in every state, including Alaska, so jail time was a possibility, though Lucien wasn’t worried about that at the moment. He woke up at sunrise, stiff from sleeping off and on in a chair. Ancil had the bed, all of it. He had volunteered to sleep on the floor or in a chair, but Lucien was concerned about his head injuries and insisted he take the bed. A painkiller knocked him out, and for a long time Lucien sat in the dark, nursing his last Jack and Coke, listening to the old boy snore.
    He dressed quietly and left the room. The lobby of the hotel was deserted. There were no cops poking around, searching for Ancil. Down the street he bought coffee and muffins and hauled them back to the room, where Ancil was awake now and watching the local news. “Not a word,” he reported.
    “No surprise,” Lucien said. “I doubt if they’ve brought in the bloodhounds.”
    They ate, took turns showering and dressing, and at 8:00 a.m. left the room. Ancil was wearing Lucien’s black suit, white shirt, paisley tie, and the same cap pulled low to hide his face. They hurriedly walked three blocks to the law office of Jared Wolkowicz, a lawyer referred by Bo Buck at