Sycamore Row - John Grisham

on, “Now, and listen to me, I will not tolerate contact with these people. As I
understand the nature of big lawsuits these days, it’s not unusual for the attorneys to
investigate the jury pool as thoroughly as possible. Go right ahead. But do not contact
them, or follow them, or frighten them, or in any way harass them. I will deal harshly
with anyone who does. Keep these lists close. I do not want the entire county knowing
who’s in the pool.”
Wade Lanier asked, “In what order will they be seated for selection, Your Honor?”
“Entirely at random.”
The lawyers were silent as they rapidly read through the names. Jake had a distinct
advantage because it was home turf. Every time he looked at a jury list, though, he was
astonished at how few names he recognized. A former client here, a church member
there. A high school buddy from Karaway. His mother’s first cousin. A quick review
yielded maybe twenty hits out of ninety-seven. Harry Rex would know even more. Ozzie
would know all the black ones and many of the whites. Lucien would boast about how
many he knew, but in reality he’d been sitting on the front porch for too long.
Wade Lanier and Lester Chilcott, from Jackson, recognized no one, but they would
have plenty of help. They were chumming up with the Sullivan firm, at nine lawyers
still the biggest in the county, and there would be a lot of advice.
At 12:30, Judge Atlee was tired and dismissed everyone. Jake hurried out of the
courtroom, wondering if the old man was physically up to a grueling trial. He was also
worried about which rules would control the trial. It was obvious the official rules, the
new ones on the books, would not be strictly adhered to.
Regardless of the rules, Jake, and every other lawyer in the state, knew the Supreme
Court of Mississippi was famous for deferring to the wisdom of local Chancellors. They
were there, in the heat of the battle. They saw the faces, heard the testimony, felt the
tension. Who are we, the Supreme Court had asked itself over the decades, to sit here far
removed and dispassionately substitute our judgment for Chancellor So-and-So?
As always, the trial would be governed by Reuben’s Rules.
Whatever they happened to be at any particular moment.
Wade Lanier and Lester Chilcott walked straight to the offices of the Sullivan firm and
made their way to a conference room on the second floor. A platter of sandwiches was
waiting, as was a feisty little man with a crisp Upper Midwest accent. He was Myron
Pankey, a former lawyer who’d found a niche in the relatively new field of jury
consultation, an area of expertise now nudging itself into many major trials. For a
handsome fee, Pankey and his staff would work all sorts of miracles and deliver the
perfect jury, or at least the best available. A phone survey had already been done. Two
hundred registered voters in counties adjoining Ford County had been interviewed. Fifty
percent said a person should be able to leave his or her estate to anyone, even at the
expense of his or her own family. But 90 percent would be suspicious of a handwritten
will that left everything to the last caregiver. The data had piled up and was still being