Sycamore Row - John Grisham

“No. My job is to protect the will and follow its wishes. I do my job, and she gets her
money. There’s no reason for her to hire a lawyer.”
“Did you explain this to her?”
“I did, and I thought she understood it.”
“What happened? Why are they involved?”
Jake took another sip and reminded himself to be careful. The two often swapped
inside information, but delicate matters were still off-limits. “I don’t know, but I suspect
somebody in Memphis heard about the will. Word filtered up to Booker Sistrunk. He
smelled money, so he made the drive down, pulled up in front of her house in his black
Rolls-Royce, and swooped her away. He promised her the moon, and in return he gets a
piece.”
“How much?”
“Only they know. It’s a confidential matter that’s never revealed.”
“A black Rolls-Royce? Are you kidding, Jake?”
“Nope, they spotted him yesterday as he arrived in court; parked in front of Security
Bank. He was driving, his co-counsel was riding shotgun. And Lettie was in the rear seat
with a guy in a dark suit, probably a bodyguard of some variety. They’re putting on a
show and Lettie’s fallen in with them.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Neither do I.”
“Prather was saying this morning that they might try and change venue. Move it to
another county where they can get more black jurors. Any truth to it?”
“Just a rumor, I guess. You know Marshall. I swear I think he starts half the gossip in
town. Any more rumors?”
“Oh yes, Jake. They’re buzzing everywhere. The guys lay off when you walk in, but as
soon as you’re gone it’s all they talk about.” The door opened and two clerks from the
tax collector’s office walked in and sat at a table nearby. Jake knew them and nodded
politely. They were close enough to hear, and they would indeed absorb everything.
He leaned toward Dell and said softly, “Keep your ears open, okay?”
“Jake, honey, you know I miss nothing.”
“I know.” Jake left a dollar for the coffee and said good-bye.
Still unwilling to return to his desk, Jake strolled around the square and stopped at
the office of Nick Norton, another sole practitioner who had graduated from the Ole
Miss Law School the year Jake started. Nick had inherited the law office from his uncle
and was, in all likelihood, somewhat busier than Jake. They referred clients back and
forth across the square, and in ten years had managed to avoid any unpleasant
disagreements.
Two years earlier, Nick had represented Marvis Lang when he pleaded guilty to drug
trafficking and assault with a deadly weapon. The family had paid a fee of $5,000 in
cash, less than what Nick wanted but more than what most of his clients could pay.
Marvis had been dead guilty and there had been little wiggle room; plus, he had been
unwilling to squeal on his co-defendants. Nick negotiated a twelve-year sentence. Four
days earlier, over lunch, Nick had told Jake everything he could about the Lang family