Sycamore Row - John Grisham

Because of his nature and habits, he often thought of pulling one last drug deal, one
grand slam that would net him a bundle and set him free. Prison, though, terrified him.
At his age, and caught with the quantity he was dreaming about, he would die behind
bars. And, he hated to admit, his previous drug deals had not gone well.
No thanks. He was happy tending bar, chatting up sailors and hookers and dispensing
well-earned advice. He closed the bar each morning at 2:00 and walked, half-sober, to
his cramped room where he lay on a dirty bed and recalled with great nostalgia his days
on the open seas, first in the Navy and later on cruise ships, yachts, even tankers. When
you have no future, you live in the past, and Lonny would be stuck there forever.
He never thought about Mississippi, or his childhood there. As soon as he left, he
somehow trained his mind to instantly negate any thoughts of the place. Like the click
of a camera, he changed scenery and images effortlessly, and after decades he had
convinced himself that he had never lived there at all. His life began when he was
sixteen; nothing happened before then.
Nothing at all.
Early on his second morning of captivity, and not long after a breakfast of cold
scrambled eggs and even colder white toast, Booker Sistrunk was fetched from his cell
and led, without restraints, over to the office of the high sheriff. He went inside while a
deputy waited at the door. Ozzie greeted him warmly and asked if he would like fresh
coffee. Indeed he did. Ozzie also offered fresh doughnuts, and Sistrunk dove right in.
“You can be out in two hours if you want to,” Ozzie said. Sistrunk listened. “All’s you
gotta do is walk into court and apologize to Judge Atlee. You’ll be in Memphis long
before lunch.”
“I kinda like it here,” Sistrunk said with a mouth full.
“No, Booker, what you like is this.” Ozzie slid across the Memphis paper. Front page,
Metro, beneath the fold, a stock photo under a headline that read, SISTRUNK DENIED
FEDERAL HABEAS RELIEF; REMAINS BEHIND BARS IN CLANTON. He read it slowly
as he chomped on another doughnut. Ozzie noticed a slight grin.
“Another day, another headline, huh Booker? Is that all you’re after here?”
“I’m fighting for my client, Sheriff. Good versus evil. I’m surprised you can’t see that.”
“I see everything, Booker, and this is what’s obvious. You’re not gonna handle this
case in front of Judge Atlee. Period. You’ve ripped it with him and he’s tired of you and
your foolishness. Your name’s on his shit list and it’s not comin’ off.”
“No problem, Sheriff. I’m taking it to federal court.”
“Sure, you can file some bullshit civil rights crap in federal court, but it won’t stick.
I’ve talked to some lawyers, some guys who do federal work, and they say you’re full of
shit. Look, Booker, you can’t bully these judges down here the way you can in Memphis.
We got three federal judges here in the Northern District. One’s a former Chancellor, like
Atlee. One’s an ex–district attorney, and one used to be a federal prosecutor. All white.
All fairly conservative. And you think you can walk into federal court down here and