Sycamore Row - John Grisham

since Hubbard died. And now this. Now she had the most hated name in the county.
Filing for divorce was not even an option—it had to be done. But, the divorce could not
possibly be finished by the time the trial started on April 3. Her name was Lang in the
will; it was Lang now; and it would be Lang during the trial. Put him, Lucien, in Wade
Lanier’s shoes, and he would have the jury loathing every Lang who ever lived.
“Sorry, Portia,” Lucien said. “No offense. That’s just the way it would be.” She
understood, or at least tried to. She was too exhausted to say much. She had left her
mother and sisters wrapped in their bathrobes, huddled by the fireplace, with the gun on
the mantel, wondering whether they should send the children to school and what they
should tell them. Kirk, a sophomore at Clanton High, knew the Roston boys and was
swearing he would never return to the school. They were such nice boys. And he hated
his father. His life was over. He wanted to get away, like Portia, join the Army and
never come back.
Jake and Harry Rex had discussed ways to postpone the trial. Drag it out, burn some
clock, give Harry Rex enough time to get the divorce final, give the system enough time
to dispose of Simeon and ship him away, and give the county some distance between the
horror of the moment, the two burials, and the fight over the estate of Seth Hubbard.
Where would they all be in six months? Lettie would be divorced; she could even adopt
her old name. Lettie Tayber. It sounded much better, though Portia reminded herself she
would still be stuck with Lang. Simeon would be gone. Sistrunk would be all but
forgotten. Surely, things would be more conducive to a fair trial in six months. His
opponents would object vociferously, and with such momentum on their side, why not?
Jake was slightly optimistic he could have a chat with Judge Atlee, perhaps another
late Friday afternoon meeting on the porch with whiskey sours, and after the edge was
knocked off he could broach the notion of a delay or change of venue. It was worth a
try. The only downside was the risk of angering the judge by such an overt attempt at
earwigging, and what would the judge do other than to tell Jake to shut up? He
wouldn’t do that, not after a couple of whiskey sours. He might not like the
conversation, but he would never chastise Jake. A slight scolding maybe, but nothing
close to permanent damage.
Let some time pass, Jake said. Let the rage and horror and sadness lose some of their
sting, then die down. They would file the divorce on Monday, and in a week or so Jake
would approach Judge Atlee.
Quince Lundy arrived for one of two weekly visits. He found them in the conference
room, gathered glumly around the table, quiet, subdued, almost mournful as they stared
at the walls and looked at a bleak future. He had heard the news on the Clanton radio
station as he drove over from Smithfield. He wanted to ask what the tragedy meant for
the trial, but after a few moments in the conference room he suspected the trial was in
serious trouble.
Willie Hastings was one of four black deputies on Ozzie’s staff. His cousin was Gwen