Sycamore Row

Jake delivered the first salvo. The courtroom was, after all, where he’d made his reputation, whatever it happened to be. Mr. McGwyre prepared wills and Mr. Larkin prepared contracts, and, as far as Jake could tell, Stillman’s specialty was defending commercial arson cases, though he fancied himself an aggressive courtroom lawyer.
    The courtroom, Jake’s courtroom, the one across the street in his courthouse, was where the great Hailey trial had raged barely three years earlier, and though the other three would not admit it, they too had watched that trial keenly from a distance. Like every lawyer in the state, they had been green with envy at Jake’s exposure.
    “Is it fair to ask about your relationship with Seth Hubbard?” Stillman asked politely.
    “Never met the man. He died Sunday and his will arrived in my mailbox on Monday.”
    They were fascinated by this and took a moment to absorb it. Jake decided to press on: “I’ll admit I’ve never had a case like this, never probated a handwritten will. I assume you have plenty of copies of the old one, the one your firm prepared last year. Don’t suppose I could have a copy, could I?”
    They shifted and glanced at each other. Stillman said, “Well, Jake, if that will had been admitted to probate, then it would be publicand we’d give you a copy. However, we withdrew it once we learned another will was already in play. So I guess our will is still a confidential document.”
    “Fair enough.”
    The three continued to exchange nervous looks and it was apparent none of them knew exactly what to do next. Jake said nothing but enjoyed watching their discomfort. Stillman, the litigator, said, “So, uh, Jake, we ask you to withdraw the handwritten will and allow us to proceed with the authentic one.”
    “The answer is no.”
    “No surprise. How do you suggest we proceed?”
    “It’s very simple, Stillman. Let’s file a joint request with the court to have a hearing to address the situation. Judge Atlee will look at both wills, and, believe me, he’ll devise a game plan. I practice in his court every month and there’s no doubt who’ll be in charge.”
    “I was thinking the same thing,” Lewis McGwyre said. “I’ve known Reuben for many years, and I think we should start with him.”
    “I’ll be happy to arrange things,” Jake said.
    “So you haven’t spoken to him yet?” Stillman asked.
    “Of course not. He knows nothing about this. The funeral was yesterday, remember?”
    They managed to exchange cordial good-byes and separate peacefully, though all four knew they were in for a brawl.

    Lucien was sitting on his front porch, drinking what appeared to be lemonade, which he occasionally did when his body and his life became so overwhelmed with sour mash that he managed to break free for a week or so and suffer the horrors of detox. The porch wrapped around an old house on a hill just outside Clanton, with a view of the town below and the courthouse cupola square in the middle. The house, like most of Lucien’s assets and burdens, was a hand-me-down from ancestors he deemed wretched, but who, with hindsight, had done an admirable job of securing for him a comfortable life. Lucien was sixty-three but an old man, his face grizzled and whiskered gray to match his long unkempt hair. The whiskey and cigarettes were adding patches of wrinkles to his face. Too much time on the porch was adding a thickness to his waist and a gloominess to his always complicated moods.
    He’d lost his license to practice nine years earlier, and, accordingto the terms of his disbarment, he could now apply for reinstatement. He’d dropped that bomb on Jake a couple of times to gauge his response, but got nothing. Nothing visible anyway, but just under the surface Jake was mortified at the thought of reacquiring a senior partner who owned the building and was impossible to work with, or under. If Lucien became a lawyer again, and moved back in his office, Jake’s current one, and started suing everyone who crossed him and defending pedophiles and rapists and capital murderers, Jake wouldn’t last six months.
    “How are you, Lucien?” Jake said as he climbed the steps.
    Sober, clear-eyed, and feeling fresh, Lucien replied, “I’m fine, Jake. Always a pleasure to see you.”
    “You offered lunch. Have I ever said no to lunch?” Weather permitting, they ate at least twice a month on the porch.
    “Not that I recall,” Lucien said, standing in his bare feet