Sycamore Row - John Grisham

had been a long time since he viewed his profession as something other than tedious.
The Hailey trial had been a great triumph, but for all the hard labor, harassment,
physical threats, and raw emotions, he had been paid $900. For that, he’d lost his home
and almost his family.
“It has its moments,” he said.
“Tell me, Jake, are there any black female lawyers in Clanton?”
“No.”
“How many black lawyers are there?”
“Two.”
“Where’s the nearest black woman with her own law office?”
“There’s one over in Tupelo.”
“Do you know her? I’d like to meet her.”
“I’ll be happy to make the phone call. Her name is Barbara McNatt, a nice lady. She
was a year ahead of me in law school. Does primarily family law but also mixes it up
with the cops and prosecutors. She’s a good lawyer.”
“That’d be great, Jake.”
She took another sip as they waited through an uncomfortable gap in the
conversation. Jake knew where he wanted to go but couldn’t be in a hurry. “You
mentioned law school,” he said, and this grabbed her attention. They talked about it at
length, with Jake careful not to make his description as dreadful as the three-year ordeal
itself. Occasionally, like all lawyers, Jake was asked by students if he would recommend
the law as a profession. He had never found an honest way to say no, though he had
many reservations. There were too many lawyers and not enough good jobs. They were
packed along Main Streets in countless small towns, and they were stacked on top of
each other in the tall buildings downtown. Still, at least half of all Americans who need
legal help can’t afford it, so more lawyers are needed. Not more corporate lawyers or
insurance lawyers, and certainly not more small-town street lawyers like himself. He
had a hunch that if Portia Lang became a lawyer, she would do it the right way. She
would help her people.
Quince Lundy arrived and broke up the conversation. Jake introduced Portia to him,
and then walked her to the front door. Outside, under the terrace, he invited her to
supper.
The hearing on Kendrick Bost’s petition for habeas corpus relief was held on the
second floor of the federal courthouse in Oxford, as scheduled at 1:00 that afternoon. By
then, the Honorable Booker F. Sistrunk had been wearing the county-jail coveralls for
over twenty-four hours. He was not present at the hearing, nor was his presence
expected.
A U.S. magistrate presided and did so with little interest. There was no precedent, at
least not in the Fifth Circuit, for a federal court to get involved in a contempt ruling in
state court. The magistrate asked repeatedly for some authority, from anywhere in the