Sycamore Row

deposition in the near future, in a room full of hyped-up lawyers all clamoring for the floor and the chance to grill her about what she and Mr. Hubbard did and did not do. He already felt sorry for her.
    When she was composed and under control, he said, “I need to explain the relationships here, Lettie. I am not your lawyer. I am the lawyer for Mr. Hubbard’s estate, and in that capacity it’s my job to advocate in favor of this will and to follow its terms. I have to work with the executor, and we’re assuming it will be Mr. Amburgh, to do certain things the law requires, such as notifying potential creditors, protecting assets, preparing an inventory of everything he owned, and so forth. If the will is contested, and I’m sure it will be, then it’s my job to go into court and fight to uphold this will. I’m not your lawyer because you are a beneficiary of the will—the same as his brother, Ancil Hubbard, and the same as his church. However, you and I are on the same side here because we both want this will to prevail. Does this make any sense?”
    “I suppose. Do I need a lawyer?”
    “Not really, not at this point. Don’t hire a lawyer until you need one.” The vultures would soon be circling and the courtroom would get crowded. Drop $20 million on the table and get out of the way.
    “Will you tell me if I need one?” she asked innocently.
    “Yes, I will,” Jake said, though he had no idea how he would give such advice. He poured more coffee and noticed she had not touched hers. He glanced at his watch. They had been together for thirty minutes and she had yet to ask about the size of the estate. A white person wouldn’t have made it five minutes without such an inquiry. At times she seemed to absorb each word, and at times she seemed to deflect them, as if overwhelmed.
    She cried again and wiped her cheeks.
    “Are you curious about how much?” Jake asked.
    “I figured you’d tell me sooner or later.”
    “I’ve seen nothing in the way of financial statements. I’ve not been inside his office, though that should happen soon. But, according to Mr. Amburgh, Seth Hubbard recently sold his company and cleared about $20 million. Mr. Amburgh thinks this is probably sitting in a bank somewhere. Cash. Plus there are a few other assets, maybe some real estate here and there. One of my jobs is to locate everything and inventory it for the court, and for the beneficiaries.”
    “And I’m one of those—a beneficiary?”
    “Oh yes, very much so. Ninety percent.”
    “Ninety percent of twenty million?”
    “Yes, give or take.”
    “Oh my God, Jake.” She reached for the tissues and collapsed again.

    Over the next hour, they managed some progress. Between her emotional meltdowns, Jake laid out the basics of estate administration—time, the people involved, court appearances, taxes, and lastly, the transfer of assets. The more he talked, though, the more confused she became, and he suspected that much of what he was saying would be repeated soon. He dumbed down the issues involved in a will contest and made cautious predictions as to what might happen. Knowing Judge Atlee and his distaste of lingering cases and slow lawyers, Jake believed a trial, assuming there was one, would take place within the next twelve months, probably sooner. With so much at stake, the losing party would certainly appeal, so tack on two more years before a final outcome. As Lettie began to grasp the ordeal and how long it might take, her resolve stiffened and she gathered her emotions.
    Twice she asked if there was any way to keep it all quiet. No, Jake explained patiently, that would not be possible. She feared Simeon and his family of outlaws and wondered if she should move away. Jake hadno advice on that matter, but he had already envisioned the coming chaos in her life as kinfolks materialized and new friends came out of the woods.
    After two hours, she reluctantly left. Jake escorted her to the front door where she looked through the glass, across the sidewalk and the street, as if she preferred to stay inside where she knew it was safe. She had been jolted by the will, then overwhelmed by the law, and at that moment Jake was the only person she trusted. Her eyes were wet again when she finally stepped out.
    “Are those tears of joy or is she scared to death?” Roxy asked after Jake closed the door.
    “Both, I would say.”
    She waved a pink phone message slip and said, “Doofus Lee called. He’s hot on the