Sycamore Row - John Grisham

guy was seventy-one, a heavy smoker, sick, frail, eaten up with cancer. It’s hard to
imagine him having the energy and stamina to get it on with any woman.”
“He wasn’t sick two years ago.”
“True, but there’s no way to prove it.”
“I’m not talking about proof, Jake. Or evidence or trials or anything else. I’m just
speculating. There’s got to be a reason.”
Then figure it out yourself, asshole, Jake thought but didn’t say. He was amused at
Stillman’s clumsy effort at gossip, as if the two were old drinking buddies who often
shared secrets. Loose lips sink ships, Harry Rex was fond of saying. Loose lips lose
lawsuits.
Jake said, “It’s hard to believe a little sex could be worth twenty-four million.”
Stillman laughed and said, “Not so sure. Wars have been fought over it.”
“True.”
“No interest in pursuing a settlement?”
“No. I have my marching orders.”
“You’ll be sorry.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Not at all. The way we see it, Booker Sistrunk has already pissed off every white
person in Ford County.”
“Didn’t know you were such an expert on Ford County.”
“Look, Jake, you got one huge, sensational verdict here. Don’t let it go to your head.”
“I wasn’t looking for advice.”
“Maybe you need it.”
“From you?”
Stillman drained his mug and sat it hard on the table. “Gotta run. I’ll pay at the bar.”
He was already out of the booth and reaching into a pocket. Jake watched him leave,
cursed him, then eased deeper into the room and slid into the booth opposite Harry Rex.
“Sitting among your friends?” Jake asked.
“Well, well, so Carla let you out of the house.” Harry Rex was working on a Bud Light
and reading a magazine, which he put aside.
“I just had my first and last drink with Stillman Rush.”
“How thrilling. Let me guess. He wants to settle.”
“How’d you know?”
“Figures. A quick deal and those boys make out like bandits.”
Jake described Stillman’s version of a fair settlement, and they had a good laugh. A
waiter delivered a platter of nachos and dip. “Is this your dinner?” Jake asked.
“Naw, this is high tea. I’m headed back to the office. You’ll never guess who’s in
town.”
“Who?”
“Remember Willie Traynor, used to own the Times?”
“Sort of. I met him once or twice, years ago. Seems like he sold the paper about the
time I arrived here.”
“That’s right. Willie bought it in 1970 from the Caudle family. It was in bankruptcy