Sycamore Row

offices of Jake Brigance attracted a young couple whose newborn died in a Memphis hospital. A promising case of medical malpractice wilted under the scrutiny of expert review, and Jake had no choice but to settle for nuisance value.
    She asked, “And you went to see Lettie Lang?”
    “I did. She lives out from Box Hill in a community called Little Delta; not too many white folks around. Her husband is a drunk who comes and goes. I didn’t go in the house but I got the impression it’s crowded in there. I checked the land records; they don’t own the place. It’s a cheap little rental, similar—”
    “Similar to this dump, right?”
    “Similar to our home. Probably built by the same hack, who no doubt went bankrupt. But, anyway, there are only three of us here and probably a dozen in Lettie’s house.”
    “Is she nice?”
    “Nice enough. We didn’t talk long. I got the impression she’s a fairly typical black woman for these parts, with a houseful of kids, a part-time husband, a minimum-wage job, a hard life.”
    “That’s pretty harsh.”
    “Yes, but it’s also pretty accurate.”
    “Is she attractive?”
    Under the quilt, Jake began massaging her right calf. He thought for a moment, then said, “I couldn’t really tell; it was getting dark in a hurry. She’s about forty-five, seemed to be in fairly good shape, certainly not unattractive. Why do you ask? You think sex could be behind Mr. Hubbard’s last will and testament?”
    “Sex? Who mentioned sex?”
    “That’s exactly what you’re thinking. Did she screw her way into his will?”
    “All right, sure, that’s what I’m thinking, and that’s what the entire town will be buzzing about by noon tomorrow. This has sex written all over it. He was a dying man and she was his caregiver. Who knows what they did?”
    “You have a filthy mind. I love it.”
    His hand moved to her thigh but there it was blocked. The phonerang, startling both of them. Jake walked to the kitchen, answered it, then hung up. “It’s Nesbit, outside,” he said to her. He found a cigar and a box of matches and left the house. At the end of the short driveway, by the mailbox, he lit the cigar and blew a cloud of smoke into the cool, crisp evening air. A minute later, a patrol car turned onto the street and rolled to a quiet stop near Jake. Deputy Mike Nesbit grappled his overweight self out of the car, said, “Evenin’ Jake,” and lit a cigarette.
    “Evenin’ Mike.”
    Both blowing smoke, they leaned against the hood of the patrol car. Nesbit said, “Ozzie’s found nothin’ on Hubbard. He ran a search through Jackson and came up dry. Looks like the ol’ boy kept his toys somewhere else; ain’t no records in this state except for his house, cars, acreage, and the lumber yard up near Palmyra. Beyond that, not a trace. I mean nothin’. No bank accounts. No corporations. No LLCs. No partnerships. A couple of insurance policies where you’d expect to find them, but that’s all. Rumors that he did business in other states, but we ain’t got that far yet.”
    Jake nodded and smoked. By now, he was not surprised. “And Amburgh?”
    “Russell Amburgh is from Foley, Alabama, way down south close to Mobile. He was a lawyer there until he got himself disbarred about fifteen years ago. Commingling client funds, but no indictment. No criminal record. Freed from the legal profession, he went into the timber business and it’s safe to assume that’s where he met Seth Hubbard. As far as we can tell, everything’s on the up-and-up. Not sure why he moved to a dead-end place like Temple.”
    “I’m driving to Temple in the morning. I’ll ask him.”
    “Good.”
    An elderly couple walked by with an elderly poodle. They exchanged pleasantries without slowing down. When they were gone, Jake blew more smoke and asked, “Any luck with Ancil Hubbard, the brother?”
    “Not a peep. Nothin’.”
    “No surprise.”
    “It’s funny. I’ve lived here all my life, never heard of Seth Hubbard. My dad’s eighty, lived here all his life, and he’s never heard of Seth Hubbard.”
    “There are thirty-two thousand people in this county, Mike. You can’t know all of them.”
    “Ozzie does.”
    They had a quick laugh. Nesbit flipped his cigarette butt into the street and stretched his back. “Guess I need to get home, Jake.”
    “Thanks for stopping by. I’ll talk to Ozzie tomorrow.”
    “You do that. See ya.”

    He found Carla in the empty bedroom, sitting in a