Sycamore Row

again, he would be required to suffer through the ordeal of the bar exam. If successful, he would have a license to practice, which, of course, would usher him back into Jake’s professional life.
    The image of Lucien sitting at counsel table, not fifteen feet from the jury box, was frightening. To most whites, he was a toxic legend, a crazy old drunk who had embarrassed a once proud family and now shacked up with his housekeeper.
    “We’ll see,” Jake said cautiously.

12
    The Honorable Reuben V. Atlee was recovering from his third heart attack, with the recovery expected to be “full,” if one can physically feel complete after so much cardiac damage. He was gaining strength and endurance and there was evidence of this in the flow of his docket. There were clear signs he was regaining his stride. Lawyers were getting barked at. Deadlines were being enforced. Long-winded witnesses were being cut off. Perjurers were being threatened with jail. Litigants pursuing frivolous claims were finding themselves bounced out of court. Along the hallways of the courthouse, lawyers and clerks and even janitors were saying, “He’s back.”
    He had been on the bench for thirty years and now ran unopposed every four years. He was neither a Democrat nor a Republican, liberal nor conservative, Baptist nor Catholic; he pulled for neither State nor Ole Miss. He had no favorites, no leanings, no preconceived notions about anything or any person. He was a judge, as open, tolerant, and fair-minded as he could possibly be, given his upbringing and genetic composition. He ran his courtroom with a heavy hand, quick to scold an unprepared lawyer, but equally quick to help a struggling one. He could show incredible compassion when it was needed, and he had a mean streak that terrified every lawyer in the county, perhaps with the exception of Harry Rex Vonner.
    Nine days after Seth hung himself, Judge Atlee assumed the bench in the main courtroom and said good morning. In Jake’s opinion, he looked as fit as ever, which was not altogether that healthy but fine given his history. He was a big man, over six feet tall with a protruding midsection that he hid well under his black robe.
    “A nice crowd,” Judge Atlee said with amusement as he scanned the courtroom. With so many lawyers, seating had been a problem. Jake had arrived early and staked his claim to the plaintiff’s table, where he now sat with Russell Amburgh, who had informed Jake that morning that he wanted out. Close behind them, and on their side but not exactly on their team, was Lettie Lang. On each side of Lettie there was a lawyer, both black, both from Memphis.
    Jake’s world had been rattled the day before when he heard the news that Lettie had hired Booker Sistrunk, an infamous bomb thrower whose entry into this case would greatly complicate matters. Jake had tried to call her. He was still stunned by her decision. It was an extremely unwise one.
    Across the way and tucked tight around the defense table was an assemblage of lawyers in nice suits. Beyond the bar and scattered across the rows of ancient wooden pews, there was an impressive crowd, its collective curiosity piqued.
    Judge Atlee said, “Before we get started, it’s best to understand where we are and what we’d like to accomplish here today. We’re not here because of a motion filed by anyone. That’ll happen later. Today our goal is to put together a plan to proceed. As I understand it, Mr. Seth Hubbard left two wills. One offered for probate by you, Mr. Brigance, a handwritten will dated October 1 of this year.” Jake nodded but did not stand. If a lawyer spoke to Judge Atlee, that lawyer had better be on his or her feet. Nodding from a chair was acceptable, barely. “And a second will dated September 7 of last year, though this will was expressly revoked by the handwritten will. Now, does anyone know of another will? Any chance Mr. Hubbard left another surprise?” He paused for only a second as his large brown eyes swept around the courtroom. A pair of cheap thick-rimmed reading glasses stuck to the end of his nose. “Good. Didn’t think so.”
    He shuffled some papers and made a note. “Okay, let’s start over here. Please stand, give me your name, and let’s meet one another.” He was pointing at Jake, so he stood and stated his name. Russell Amburgh stood next and gave his name.
    “And you’re the executor in the handwritten will?” Judge Atlee asked as a formality.
    “Yes sir,