Sycamore Row

his patrol car in front of Jake’s house, smoking a cigar with his favorite lawyer. Ozzie was saying, “Tully says it’s ten to two.”
    Jake puffed and said, “No real surprise there.”
    “Well, it looks like it’s time to fold up your chair and go home, Jake. This little party’s over. Get somethin’ for Lettie and get the hell out. She don’t need much. Settle this damned thing before it goes to the jury.”
    “We’re trying, Ozzie, okay? Harry Rex approached Lanier’s guys twice this afternoon. They laughed at him. You can’t settle a case when the other side is laughing at you. I’d take a million bucks right now.”
    “A million! How many black folk around here got a million bucks, Jake? You’re thinkin’ too much like a white man. Get half a million, get a quarter, hell, get somethin’.”
    “We’ll try again tomorrow. I’ll see how the morning goes, then approach Wade Lanier during lunch. He knows the score and he obviously knows how to play the game. He’s been in my shoes before. I think I can talk to him.”
    “Talk fast, Jake, and get out of this damned trial. You want no part of this jury. This ain’t nothin’ like Hailey.”
    “No, it’s not.”
    Jake thanked him and went inside. Carla was already in bed, reading and worrying about her husband. “What was that all about?” she asked as he undressed.
    “Just Ozzie. He’s concerned about the trial.”
    “Why is Ozzie out roaming around at this hour?”
    “You know Ozzie. He never sleeps.” Jake fell across the end of the bed and rubbed her legs under the sheets.
    “Neither do you. Can I ask you something? Here you are in the middle of another big trial. You haven’t slept four hours in the past week, and when you are asleep you fidget and have nightmares. You’re not eating well. You’re losing weight. You’re preoccupied, off in la-la land half the time. You’re stressed-out, jumpy, testy, sometimes even nauseous. You’ll wake up in the morning with a knot in your stomach.”
    “The question?”
    “Why in the world do you want to be a trial lawyer?”
    “This might not be the best time to ask that question.”
    “No, it’s the perfect time. How many jury trials have you had in the last ten years?”
    “Thirty-one.”
    “And you’ve lost sleep and weight during each one, right?”
    “I don’t think so. Most are not quite this significant, Carla. This is exceptional.”
    “My point is that trial work is so stressful. Why do you want to do it?”
    “Because I love it. It’s what being a lawyer is all about. Being in the courtroom, in front of a jury, is like being in the arena, or on the field. The competition is fierce. The stakes are high. The gamesmanship is intense. There will be a winner and a loser. There is a rush of adrenaline each time the jury is led in and seated.”
    “A lot of ego.”
    “A ton. You’ll never meet a successful trial lawyer without an ego. It’s a requirement. You gotta have the ego to want the work.”
    “You should do well, then.”
    “Okay, I admit I have the ego, but it might get crushed this week. It might need soothing.”
    “Now or later?”
    “Now. It’s been eight days.”
    “Lock the door.”

    Lucien blacked out somewhere over Mississippi at thirty-five thousand feet. When the plane landed in Atlanta, the flight attendants helped him off. Two guards put him in a wheelchair and rolled him to the gate for the flight to Memphis. They passed several airport lounges, all ofwhich he noticed. When the guards parked him he thanked them, then got up and staggered to the nearest bar and ordered a beer. He was cutting back, being responsible. He slept from Atlanta to Memphis, landing there at 7:10 a.m. They dragged him off the plane, called security, and security called the police.
    Portia took the call at the office. Jake was upstairs frantically reviewing witness statements when she buzzed through with “Jake, it’s a collect call from Lucien.”
    “Where is he?”
    “Don’t know but he sounds awful.”
    “Take the call and put him through.”
    Seconds later, Jake picked up the receiver and said, “Lucien, where are you?”
    With great effort, he was able to convey the message that he was in the Memphis City Jail and needed Jake to come get him. He was thick-tongued, erratic, obviously bombed. Sadly, Jake had heard it all before. He was suddenly angry and unsympathetic.
    “They won’t let me talk,” Lucien mumbled, barely intelligible. Then he seemed to