Sycamore Row - John Grisham

wanted Stillman in the courtroom, bungling things and strutting in front of the jury.
Jake sounded sufficiently sad to say good-bye, but forgot about the call within the
hour.
Portia needed reassuring. They had fallen into the habit of having a morning coffee
around 8:30, always in Jake’s office. The family had received four threatening calls in
the days after the accident, but now the calls seemed to have stopped. A deputy still
hung around the house, sitting in the driveway, checking the rear door at night, and the
family was feeling safer. The Rostons had handled themselves with such grace and
courage that the raw feelings had been contained, at least for now.
However, if Simeon decided he wanted a trial, then the entire nightmare would be
replayed. Portia, Lettie, and the rest of the family were worried about the spectacle of a
trial, of having to face the Roston family in court. Jake doubted that would ever
happen, and if it did it would be at least a year away.
For three months, he had been prodding Lettie to get a job, any job. It would be
important at trial for the jurors to know she was working and trying to support her
family, not retired at forty-seven and expecting the windfall. But no white homemaker
would hire her as a housekeeper, not with her baggage and controversies. She was too
old for the fast-food joints; too black for anyone’s office staff.
“Momma got a job,” Portia said proudly.
“Excellent. Where?”
“The Methodist church. She’ll clean their preschool three days a week. Minimum wage
but that’s all she can find right now.”
“Is she happy?”
“She filed for divorce two days ago, Jake, and her last name is pretty toxic around
here. She has a son in prison, a houseful of deadbeat relatives, a twenty-one-year-old
daughter with two unwanted kids. Life’s pretty tough for my mom. A job that pays three
and a half bucks an hour is not likely to bring much happiness.”
“Sorry I asked.”
They were on his balcony, outside where the air was brisk but not too cold. Jake had a
million things on his mind, and he’d already had a gallon of coffee.
“You remember Charley Pardue, my so-called cousin from Chicago?” she asked. “Met
him at Claude’s a couple of months ago.”
“Sure. You called him a shyster who wants money for a new funeral home.”
“Yep, we’ve been talking on the phone, and he’s found a relative over near
Birmingham. An old guy in a nursing home, last name of Rinds. He thinks this guy could
be the link.”
“But Pardue is after money, right?”
“They’re all after money. Anyway, I’m thinking about driving over this Saturday to
find the old guy and ask him some questions.”
“Is he a Rinds?”
“Yes, Boaz Rinds.”
“Okay. Have you told Lucien?”
“I have, and he thinks it’s worth the effort.”