Sycamore Row

would leave with nothing.
    The horde of white lawyers sat as stunned as Jake, but Wade Lanier quickly saw the opportunity. He jumped to his feet and blurted, “We have no objection, Your Honor.”
    Judge Atlee snapped, “You have no standing to object to anything.”
    Jake’s second thought was, Fine, get me out of here. With this pack of vultures, there will be nothing left. Life is too short to waste a year dodging bullets in a race war.
    Judge Atlee said, “Anything else, Mr. Sistrunk?”
    “Well, not at this time, Your Honor.” Sistrunk turned and looked smugly at Simeon and the family. He had just proven his backbone. He was fearless, could not be intimidated, and was ready for a street brawl. They had hired the right lawyer. Before he sat, he shot a glance at Herschel Hubbard, and with a smirk seemed to say, “Game on, old boy.”
    Judge Atlee calmly said, “You need to keep researching, Mr. Sistrunk. Our probate laws give supreme deference to the wishes of the person who wrote the will. Mr. Hubbard clearly stated his intentions with regard to the attorney he wanted. There will be no change in that regard. Any other requests you may have should be dealt with by proper motion; that is, once you have associated a lawyer recognized by this court and are duly before it.”
    Jake began to breathe normally again, though he was still shakenby the brazenness of Sistrunk and his ideas. And his greed. There was little doubt he had signed up Lettie to some form of contingency agreement that gave him a cut of her take. Most plaintiffs’ lawyers took one-third of a settlement, 40 percent of a jury verdict, and half where the case was appealed. An ego like Sistrunk, and, admittedly, one with a history of winning, would doubtless be at the top end of those percentages. And if that were not enough, he was craving another pile of cash to be earned by the hour as the probate attorney.
    Judge Atlee was finished. He picked up his gavel, said, “We’ll meet again in thirty days. Adjourned,” and slammed it onto the surface of his bench.
    Lettie was immediately engulfed by her attorneys, who whisked her away, through the railing of the bar and to the front row where she was circled by her family and other clingers. As if her life were in danger, they huddled around, stroking her, cooing, offering encouragement. Sistrunk was admired and congratulated for his bold assertions and positions, while Kendrick Bost kept an arm on Lettie’s shoulder as she whispered gravely to her loved ones. Cypress, her mother, sat in a wheelchair and wiped tears from her cheeks. What an awful thing they were putting the family through.
    Jake was in no mood for small talk, not that anyone tried to engage him. The other lawyers broke off into small pockets of conversation as they repacked their briefcases and prepared to leave. The Hubbard heirs clung together and tried to avoid glaring at the blacks who were after their money. Jake ducked through a side door and was headed for the back stairs when Mr. Pate, the ancient courtroom deputy, called, “Say, Jake, Judge Atlee wants to see you.”
    In the small cramped room where lawyers gathered for coffee and judges held their off-the-record meetings, Judge Atlee was removing his robe. “Close the door,” he said when Jake walked in.
    The judge was no raconteur, no teller of tall legal tales, no jokester. There was little bullshit and rarely was there humor, though, as a judge, he had an audience eager to laugh at anything. “Have a seat, Jake,” he said, and both sat at a small desk.
    “What an ass,” Judge Atlee said. “That might work in Memphis, but not here.”
    “I think I’m still stunned.”
    “Do you know Quince Lundy, lawyer down in Smithfield?”
    “I’ve heard of him.”
    “Older guy, maybe even semiretired. He’s done nothing but probatework for a hundred years, really knows his stuff, and straight as an arrow. Old friend of mine. File a motion suggesting Quince and two others—you pick ’em—as the substitute executor, and I’ll appoint Quince. You’ll get along fine with him. As for you, you’re on board until the end. What’s your hourly rate?”
    “I don’t have one, Judge. My clients work for ten bucks an hour if they’re lucky. They can’t afford to pay a lawyer a hundred.”
    “I think one fifty is a fair rate in today’s market. You agree?”
    “One fifty sounds fine, Judge.”
    “Okay, you’re on the clock at one fifty an hour. I’m assuming you