Sycamore Row

asked. When did you find out about the Pickerings?”
    “During discovery. Again, Jake, it’s another example of us outworking you. We found more witnesses. We’ve been out there beating the bushes, working our asses off. I don’t know what you’ve been doing.”
    “And the rules require you to submit the names of your witnesses. Two weeks ago you dumped the names of forty-five new ones on the table. You’re not playing by the rules here, Wade. Judge, this is a clear violation of the rules.”
    Judge Atlee raised a hand and said, “Enough. Allow me to think a moment.” He stood, walked to his desk, took one of a dozen pipes from a rack, stuffed it with Sir Walter Raleigh, lit up, blew a thick cloud of smoke toward the ceiling, and drifted away. On one side of the table, Wade Lanier, Lester Chilcott, Zack Zeitler, and Joe Bradley Hunt sat smugly, silently, waiting for a decision that would send the trial either north or south, with no return. On the other side, Jake sat alone, scribbling notes that not even he could decipher. He felt ill and couldn’t make his hands stop shaking.
    Wade Lanier had pulled a masterful dirty trick, and it was infuriating. At the same time, Jake wanted to grab Lettie and lash out at her. Why had she not mentioned the Pickering matter? They had spent countless hours together since October.
    His Honor blew more smoke and said, “This is too crucial to keep out. I’ll allow Mr. Pickering to testify, but within limits.”
    Angrily, Jake said, “Trial by ambush. This will be automatically reversible. We’ll be back in two years to do this all over again.”
    Angrily, Judge Atlee barked, “Don’t lecture, Jake. I’ve never been reversed by the Supreme Court. Never.”
    Jake took a deep breath and said, “Sorry.”

    Ancil’s narrative ran for fifty-eight minutes. When he finished, he wiped moisture from his eyes, said he was exhausted and couldn’t continue, and left the room. Lucien thanked Jared Wolkowicz for his accommodations. He had not told the lawyer that Ancil was a man on the run.
    Walking back to the hotel, they saw several policemen loitering around a street corner and decided to duck into a coffee shop. Theyhid in a booth and tried to maintain small talk. Lucien was still rattled by the stories Ancil told, but neither was in the mood to pursue them.
    Lucien said, “I’ve paid for two more nights at the hotel; it’s all yours. I’m leaving now. You can have the clothes, toothpaste, everything. There’s a pair of old khakis hanging in the closet with three hundred bucks in the front pocket. It’s yours.”
    “Thanks, Lucien.”
    “What are your plans?”
    “I don’t know. I really don’t want to go to prison, so I’ll probably skip town, as usual. Just disappear. These clowns can’t catch me. This is pretty routine for me.”
    “Where will you go?”
    “Well, I might mosey on down to Mississippi since my dear old brother thought so highly of me. When might I see some of his estate?”
    “Who knows? They’re fighting over it as we speak. Could be a month. Could be five years. You have my phone number. Call me in a few weeks and we’ll catch up.”
    “I’ll do that.”
    Lucien paid for the coffee and they left through a side door. In an alley, they said good-bye. Lucien was headed for the airport; Ancil, the hotel. When he got there, the detective was waiting.

    In a crowded courtroom that was silent, even stunned, Fritz Pickering told his story, every devastating detail. Lettie absorbed it in total defeat, her head bowed, her eyes on the floor, then her eyes closed in agony. She shook her head from time to time as if she disagreed, but no one in the courtroom believed her.
    Lies, lies, lies.
    Fritz produced a copy of his mother’s handwritten will. Jake objected to its admission into evidence on the grounds that there was no way to prove Irene Pickering’s handwriting, but Judge Atlee barely heard him. It became evidence. Wade Lanier asked his witness to read the fourth paragraph, the one giving $50,000 to Lettie Lang. He read it slowly and loudly. A couple of the jurors shook their heads in disbelief.
    Wade Lanier hammered away. “So, Mr. Pickering, you and your sister sat Lettie Lang down at the kitchen table and showed her the will handwritten by your mother, correct?”
    “Correct.”
    “And if she testified earlier that she had never seen a will, then she was lying, correct?”
    “I suppose.”
    “Objection,” Jake