Sycamore Row - John Grisham

Dumas Lee entered quietly and, recognizing Buckley, went straight for him. He had a
camera around his neck and a notepad ready for a quote, but when he asked, “Say, Mr.
Buckley, what brings you here?” he was ignored.
“I understand you’re local counsel for Lettie Lang, right?”
“No comment,” Rufus said as he carefully arranged some files, humming.
Things have really changed, Dumas thought. The old Rufus would break his neck to
talk to a reporter, and no one stood between Rufus and a camera.
Dumas drifted away and said something to Mr. Pate, who said, “Get that camera outta
here.” So Dumas left and went outside where he and a colleague waited hopefully for
the possible sighting of a black Rolls-Royce.
Wade Lanier arrived with his associate, Lester Chilcott. They nodded at Buckley, who
was too busy to speak, and were amused by his takeover of the plaintiff’s table. They,
too, went about the urgent task of unpacking heavy briefcases and preparing for battle.
Minutes later, Stillman Rush and Sam Larkin appeared at the bar and said hello to their
semi-colleagues. They were on the same side of the courtroom, and would press many of
the same arguments, but at this early stage of the conflict they were not yet ready to
trust each other. Spectators drifted in and the courtroom buzzed with the low rumble of
anxious greetings and gossip. Several uniformed deputies milled about, cracking jokes
and saying hello to the visitors. Ian and Ramona and their kids arrived in a pack and
sat on the far left, behind their lawyers and as far away as possible from those on the
other side. Nosy lawyers loitered about the bench as if they had business before the
court. They laughed with the clerks. Drama finally arrived when Booker Sistrunk and his
entourage crowded through the door and clogged the aisle and swept into the courtroom
as if it had been reserved for them. Arm in arm with Lettie, he led his crowd down the
aisle, scowling at everyone else, daring anyone to speak, and, as always, looking for
conflict. He parked her on the front row, with Simeon and the kids next to her, and he
positioned a thick-necked young black man in a black suit with a black shirt and tie at
guard in front of her, as if either assassins or admirers might rush from nowhere. Around
Lettie there were various cousins, aunts, uncles, nephews, neighbors, along with
assorted well-wishers.
Buckley watched this parade and could barely suppress his suspicion. For twelve years
he had faced juries in this part of the world. He could pick them, read them, predict
them, talk to them and lead them, for the most part, and he knew in an instant that
Booker Sistrunk and his Big & Black & Bad routine would not fly in this courtroom.
Seriously, a bodyguard? Lettie was a lousy actress. She had been coached to appear
somber, even sad, in mourning, as if her dear departed friend was gone and had left her
a rightful inheritance that the greedy white folks now wanted. She tried to look
mistreated, abused.
Sistrunk and his partner, Kendrick Bost, walked through the bar and exchanged
solemn greetings with their co-counsel, Mr. Buckley. They added to his pile of debris on
the coveted table while they totally ignored the lawyers on the other side. The audience
grew as the clock approached 8:45.
Jake entered from a side door and immediately noticed his place had already been