Sycamore Row - John Grisham

always grateful for an integrated system, there was usually a twinge of nostalgia for the
old place and the old ways. They got the leftovers, the worn-out desks, books,
chalkboards, typewriters, file cabinets, athletic gear, band instruments, everything.
Nothing was new, it was all discarded from the white schools in Ford County. The white
teachers earned less than those in any other state, and the black teachers earned only a
fraction of that. Combined, there wasn’t enough money for a single good school system,
but for decades the county, like all the rest, tried to maintain two. Separate but equal
was a cruel farce. But in spite of its sizable disadvantages, Burley was a place of pride
for those lucky enough to study there. The teachers were tough and dedicated. The odds
were against them, so their successes were even sweeter. Occasionally, an alum made it
through college, and he or she became a model for the younger generations.
“You say you’ve been here,” Portia said as they walked up the steps to what was once
the administration building.
“Yes, once, during my rookie year with Lucien. He sent me on a goose chase to find
some ancient court records. I struck out.”
They climbed the stairs to the second floor. Portia knew exactly where to go and Jake
followed along. The classrooms were now packed with recycled Army file cabinets filled
with old tax records and property assessments. Nothing but junk, Jake thought to
himself as he read the index placards on the doors. One room held car registration
records, another archived ancient editions of the local newspapers. And so on. What a
waste of space and manpower.
Portia flipped on the light to a dark, windowless room, also lined with file cabinets.
From a shelf she carefully lifted a heavy tome and placed it gently on a table. It was
bound in dark green leather, cracked now after decades of aging and neglect. In the
center was one word: “Docket.” She said, “This is a docket book from the 1920s,
specifically August of 1927 through October of 1928.” She opened it slowly and with
great care began turning the yellow and fragile, almost flaky pages. “Chancery Court,”
she said, much like a curator in command of her subject matter.
“How much time have you spent here?” Jake asked.
“I don’t know. Hours. I’m fascinated by this stuff, Jake. The history of the county is
right here in the history of its legal system.” She turned more pages, then stopped. “Here
it is. June of 1928, sixty years ago.” Jake leaned down for a closer look. All entries were
by hand and the ink had faded significantly. With an index finger she went down one
column and said, “On June 4, 1928.” She moved to the right, to the next column. “The
plaintiff, a man named Cleon Hubbard, filed a lawsuit against the defendant.” She
moved to the next column. “A man named Sylvester Rinds.” She moved to the next
column. “The lawsuit was described simply as a property dispute. Next column shows
the attorney. Cleon Hubbard was represented by Robert E. Lee Wilbanks.”
“That’s Lucien’s grandfather,” Jake said. Both were hunched over the docket book,
shoulder to shoulder. She said, “And the defendant was represented by Lamar Thisdale.”
“An old guy, dead for thirty years. You still see his name on wills and deeds. Where’s
the file?” Jake asked, taking a step back. She stood straight and said, “I can’t find it.”
She waved an arm around the room. “If it exists, it should be in here, but I’ve looked