Sycamore Row - John Grisham

closed his eyes and heard the voice of the court clerk, Jean Gillespie, read the verdict:
“As to each count of the indictment, we the jury find the defendant not guilty by reason
of insanity.” What a miscarriage! But you can’t gun down two boys in cold blood and
then say you did it because they deserved it. No, you have to find a legal reason for
doing so, and insanity was all Jake Brigance had to offer.
Evidently, it was enough. Carl Lee Hailey was as sane as any man when he killed
those boys.
Moving forward, Rufus remembered the pandemonium in the courtroom as the Hailey
family and all their friends went crazy. Talk about insanity! Seconds later, the mob
surrounding the courthouse exploded when a kid yelled to them, “Not guilty! Not
guilty!”
At the bar, Rufus managed to collect himself and his thoughts. He had work to do and
little time to prepare for it. Like every courtroom, between the bar, or railing, and the
judge’s bench there were two large tables. They were identical but radically different.
The table on the right was the home of the prosecutor in a criminal case—his old turf—
or the plaintiff in a civil case. This table was close to the jury box so that during a trial
he, Rufus, always felt nearer to his people. Ten feet away, the other table was the home
of the defense, both in criminal and civil cases. In the opinions of most lawyers who
spent their careers in courtrooms, seating was important. It conveyed power, or lack
thereof. It allowed certain lawyers or litigants to be seen more, or less, by the jurors,
who were always watching. On occasion it could set the stage for a David and Goliath
struggle as a solitary lawyer and his crippled client faced a throng of corporate suits, or
a beaten-down defendant faced the power of the State. Seating was important to comely
female lawyers with short skirts and a jury box filled with men, and it was equally
important to drugstore cowboys with pointed-toe boots.
As a prosecutor, Rufus never worried about seating because it was never an issue. Will
contests, though, were rare, and he and Mr. Sistrunk had made a decision. If possible,
they would commandeer the table used by the prosecution and plaintiff, the one closest
to the jury, and assert themselves as the true voice of the proponents of the will. Jake
Brigance would probably throw punches, but bring it on. It was time to establish proper
roles, and since their client was the beneficiary of the quite valid last will and testament
of Seth Hubbard, they would stake their claim.
Personally, privately, Rufus wasn’t so sure about this strategy. He was well versed in
the legend of the Honorable Reuben V. Atlee, who, like most old, seasoned, and often
cranky Chancellors in Mississippi, ruled with an iron fist and was often skeptical of
outsiders. Sistrunk, though, was itching for a fight and calling the shots. Regardless of
what happened, it would be exciting and he, Rufus, would be in the middle of it.
He quickly rearranged the chairs around the table on the right, leaving three and
moving the rest off to one side. He unpacked a thick briefcase and scattered papers and
pads all over the table, as if he’d been there for hours with a full day of labor ahead of
him. He spoke to Mr. Pate, a courtroom deputy, as he filled pitchers with ice water.
Once upon a time he and Mr. Pate would have chatted about the weather, but Rufus was
no longer interested in rainfall.