Sycamore Row - John Grisham

nation, but there was none.
Bost was permitted to rant and pant for half an hour, but said almost nothing of
substance. His ill-grounded claim was that Mr. Sistrunk was the victim of some vague
plot by the authorities in Ford County to remove him from the will contest, and so on.
What was not said was the obvious: Sistrunk expected to be released simply because he
was black and felt mistreated by a white judge.
The petition was denied. Bost immediately prepared an appeal to the Fifth Circuit in
New Orleans. He and Buckley had also filed an appeal challenging the contempt order
to the Mississippi Supreme Court.
Meanwhile, Mr. Sistrunk played checkers with his new cell mate, a hot-check artist.
The maternal side of Carla’s family claimed some German roots, and for this reason
she studied German in high school and for four years at Ole Miss. Clanton rarely
provided the opportunity to practice the language, so she was delighted to welcome
Portia to their modest rental home, even though Jake forgot to tell her about his
invitation until almost 5:00 p.m. “Relax,” he’d said. “She’s a nice girl who might play a
crucial role, plus she’s probably never been invited to a white person’s house for
dinner.” As they had this discussion, a bit tense at first, they finally realized and
admitted that they had never invited a black person to dinner.
Their guest arrived promptly at 6:30, and she brought a bottle of wine, one with a
cork. Though Jake had stressed that the evening was “as casual as possible,” Portia had
changed and was wearing a long, loose, cotton dress. She greeted Carla in German, but
quickly switched to English. She apologized for the bottle of wine—a cheap red from
California—and they had a good laugh over the paltry selections in the local liquor
stores. Jake explained that all wine and booze in the state were in fact purchased by the
State, then doled out to privately owned liquor stores. This led to a lively discussion
about the ridiculous liquor laws in Mississippi, where in some towns you can buy 180-
proof rum but not a single can of beer.
Jake, holding the bottle, said, “We don’t keep alcohol in the house.”
“Sorry,” Portia said, embarrassed. “I’ll be happy to take it home.”
“Why don’t we just drink it?” Carla asked. A great idea. As Jake rummaged for a
corkscrew, the women moved to the stove and looked at dinner. Portia said she’d rather
eat than cook, though she had learned a lot about food in Europe. She had also grown
fond of Italian wines, bottles of which were scarce in Ford County. “You’ll have to go to
Memphis,” Jake said, still searching. Carla had thrown together a pasta sauce with spicy
sausage, and as it simmered she began practicing with a few elementary sentences in
German. Portia responded slowly, sometimes repeating, often correcting. Hanna heard
the strange words and came from the rear of the house. She was introduced to their
guest, who greeted her with “Ciao.”
“What does ‘ciao’ mean?” Hanna asked.
“Among friends it means hello and good-bye in Italian, also in Portuguese, I think,”