Sycamore Row - John Grisham

“Saturday is your day off. I’m not in charge.”
“Just wanted you to know. And there’s something else, Jake. Lucien told me the
county keeps some of the ancient courthouse records at Burley, the old black school.”
“Yes, that’s true. I went there once, looking for an old file, didn’t find it. The county
stores a lot of junk there.”
“How far back do the records go?”
Jake thought for a moment. His phone rang in the distance. Finally, he said, “The
land records are still in the courthouse because they get used. But a lot of stuff is
basically worthless—marriage and divorce records, birth and death records, lawsuits,
judgments, and so on. Most of it should be tossed out but no one wants to destroy court
documents, not even from a hundred years ago. I heard once there are trial transcripts
dating back to before the Civil War, all handwritten. Interesting, but of little value
today. Too bad the fire didn’t destroy it all.”
“When was the fire?”
“Every courthouse burns at one time or another. Ours was severely damaged in 1948.
A lot of records were lost.”
“Can I dig through the old files?”
“Why? It’s a waste.”
“Because I love the legal history, Jake. I’ve spent hours in the courthouse reading old
court files and land records. You can learn a ton about a place and its people. Did you
know that in 1915 they hung a man in front of the courthouse one month after his trial?
He robbed Security Bank, shot a man but didn’t really hurt him, made off with $200,
then got caught. They tried him on the spot, then strung him up.”
“That’s pretty efficient. I guess they didn’t worry about overcrowded prisons.”
“Or congested dockets. Anyway, I’m fascinated with this stuff. I’ve read an old will
from 1847 where some white guy gave away his slaves; talked about how much he loved
and treasured them, then gave them away like horses and cows.”
“Sounds depressing. You’ll never find a Brigance who owned a slave. We were lucky
to have a cow.”
“Anyway, I need written permission from a member of the bar to get into the old files.
County rule.”
“Done. Just do it after hours. You still digging for your roots?”
“Sure. I’m looking everywhere. The Rindses abruptly left this county in 1930 without a
trace, without a clue, and I want to know why.”
Lunch in the rear of Bates Grocery was a selection of four vegetables chosen at
random from a collection of ten pots and skillets simmering on a large gas stove. Mrs.
Bates herself pointed, dipped, served, and commented as she loaded the plates and
handed them over while Mr. Bates punched the cash register and collected $3.50, iced
tea included, with corn bread. Jake and Harry Rex made the drive out once a month
when they needed to eat and talk without being overheard. It was a rural crowd,