Sycamore Row - John Grisham

in various modes. A lot of fish were caught. A lot of beer consumed. A lot of legal
business got delayed until Monday. And on dreary Friday afternoons in January,
lawyers and nonlawyers alike quietly closed their offices early and left the square.
Judge Atlee was on the front porch under a quilt when Jake arrived around 4:00. The
wind was still and a cloud of pipe smoke hung over the front steps. A sign at the
mailbox gave the name of the place as Maple Run. It was a stately old semi-mansion
with Georgian columns and sagging shutters, another of the many hand-me-downs in
Clanton and Ford County. The roof of the Hocutt House was visible two blocks over.
Reuben Atlee earned $80,000 a year as a judge and spent little of it on his estate. His
wife had been dead for years, and from the flower beds and the sagging wicker porch
furniture and the torn curtains hanging in the upstairs windows, it was obvious the
place was missing the feminine touch it was not getting. He lived alone. His longtime
maid was dead too and he had not bothered with a replacement. Jake saw him in church
every Sunday morning and had noticed a general decline in his appearance as the years
went by. His suits were not as clean. His shirts were not as starched. The knots in his
neckties were not as crisp. He was often in need of a good haircut. It had become
obvious that Judge Atlee left the house each morning without getting properly
inspected.
He wasn’t much of a drinker but enjoyed a toddy most afternoons, especially Fridays.
Without inquiring, he fixed Jake a generous whiskey sour and placed it on the wicker
table between them. Doing business with the judge on his porch meant having a toddy.
He kicked back in his favorite rocker, took a long soothing sip, and said, “Rumor has it
Lucien’s hanging around your office these days.”
“It’s his office,” Jake said. They were gazing across the front lawn, brown and dismal
in the dead of winter. Both wore their overcoats, and if the whiskey didn’t kick in soon
Jake, quiltless, might request a move inside.
“What’s he up to?” Judge Atlee asked. He and Lucien went back many years, with
many chapters in their history.
“I asked him to do some title work on Seth Hubbard’s property, and some research,
just basic legal stuff like that.” Jake would never reveal what Lucien told him that
morning, especially to Reuben Atlee. If word got out that Lucien Wilbanks was plotting
a comeback, most judges in the area would resign.
“Keep him close,” Judge Atlee said, once again dispensing advice that had not been
sought.
“He’s harmless,” Jake said.
“He’s never harmless.” He rattled the ice around, seemed oblivious to the temperature.
“What’s the latest on the search for Ancil?”
Jake avoided his ice and tried to suck down some more bourbon. His teeth were
starting to chatter. He replied, “Not much. Our guys found an ex-wife in Galveston who
reluctantly admitted she married a man named Ancil Hubbard thirty-five years ago.
They were married for three years, had two kids, then he skipped town. Owes a fortune
in child support and alimony but she doesn’t care. It looks like he stopped using his real
name fifteen years ago and went underground. We’re still digging.”