Sycamore Row - John Grisham

14
The Berring Lumber Company was a compound of mismatched metal buildings encircled
with chain link eight feet tall and secured behind heavy gates partially opened, as if
visitors weren’t really that welcome. It was hidden at the end of a long asphalt drive,
unseen from Highway 21 and less than a mile from the Tyler County line. Once inside
and just past the main gate, office buildings were to the left and acres of raw timber
were to the right. Straight ahead was a series of semi-attached buildings where the pine
and hardwoods were cleaned, sized, cut, and treated before being stored in warehouses.
A parking lot to the right was filled with well-worn pickup trucks, a sign that business
was booming; folks had jobs, which were always scarce in this part of the country.
Seth Hubbard lost the lumber yard in his second divorce, only to get it back a few
years later. Harry Rex engineered the forced sale, for $200,000, and made off with the
money, for his client, of course. Seth, true to form, waited patiently in the bushes until a
downturn, then squeezed the desperate owner for a quick sale. No one knew where the
name Berring came from. As Jake was learning, Seth pulled names randomly from the
air and stuck them on his corporations. When he owned it the first time around, it was
Palmyra Lumber. To confuse anyone who might be watching, he selected Berring for the
second go.
Berring was his home office, though he had others at various times. After he sold out,
and after he was diagnosed with lung cancer, he consolidated his records and spent
more time at Berring. The day after his death, Sheriff Ozzie Walls stopped by and had a
friendly chat with the office employees. He strongly suggested that nothing be touched.
The lawyers would soon follow and from there things would only get complicated.
Jake had spoken twice on the phone with Arlene Trotter, Seth’s secretary. She had
been pleasant enough, though certainly not eager to help. On Friday, almost two weeks
after the suicide, Jake walked through the front door and into a reception area with a
desk in the center of it. Behind the desk was a heavily made-up young lady with wild
black hair, a tight sweater, and the unmistakable look of a woman who was fast and
loose. A brass plate gave only her first name—Kamila—and Jake’s second or third
impression was that the exotic name matched the person. She offered a comely smile
and Jake was already thinking about the comment “Seth had zipper problems.”
He introduced himself. She did not stand but gave a soft handshake. “Arlene’s
waiting,” she cooed as she pushed a button to someone’s office.
“I’m very sorry about your boss,” Jake said. He did not remember seeing Kamila at
the funeral, and he was certain he would have remembered the face and figure had she