Sycamore Row - John Grisham

notoriously clannish and sensitive bunch. A cursory probing by any lawyer would have
revealed this. Thirty years on, “Give me the first twelve” was often mumbled in jest by
lawyers as they surveyed the pool of prospects sitting expectantly in the main
courtroom.
The One-Eyed Preacher was later elected to the state senate, brain damage and all.
Jake said, “I’m sure Wade Lanier will have a jury consultant. He uses them all the
time. I’m just trying to level the playing field. That’s all.”
“Did you use one in the Hailey trial?” Judge Atlee asked.
“No sir. I got paid $900 for that trial, Judge. By the time it was over I couldn’t afford
my telephone bill.”
“And you won anyway. I’m getting concerned over the costs of this administration
and litigation.”
“The estate’s worth twenty-four million, Judge. We haven’t spent 1 percent of that.”
“Yes, but at the rate you’re going it won’t be long.”
“I’m not exactly padding the file.”
“I’m not questioning your fees, Jake. But we’ve paid accountants, appraisers, Quince
Lundy, you, investigators, court reporters, and now we’re paying experts to testify at
trial. I realize we’re doing this because Seth Hubbard was foolish enough to make such a
will, and he knew there would be a nasty fight over it, but, nonetheless, we have a duty
to protect his estate.” He made it sound as though the money was coming out of his own
pocket. His tone was clearly unsympathetic, and Jake was reminded of Harry Rex’s
warnings.
He took a deep breath and let it pass. With two strikes—no change of venue, no jury
consultant—Jake decided to leave things alone; he would try again another day. Not
that it mattered. Judge Atlee was suddenly snoring.
Boaz Rinds lived in a sad, run-down nursing home on the edge of the north-south
highway leading to and from the small town of Pell City, Alabama. After a four-hour
drive, with some detours, wrong turns and dead ends, Portia and Lettie found the place
just after lunch on a Saturday. Talking to distant kinfolk in Chicago, Charley Pardue had
been able to track down Boaz. Charley was working hard to keep in touch with his
newest and favorite cousin. The profit outlook for the funeral home was looking
stronger each week, and it would soon be time to strike.
Boaz was in poor health and could barely hear. He was in a wheelchair but unable to
maneuver it himself. They rolled him outside onto a concrete deck and left him there for
the two ladies to interrogate. Boaz was just happy to have a visitor. There appeared to
be no others on that Saturday. He said he was born “around” 1920 to Rebecca and
Monroe Rinds, somewhere near Tupelo. That would mean he was around sixty-eight
years old, which they found shocking. He looked much older, with snow-white hair and