Sycamore Row - John Grisham

analyzed at Pankey’s home office in Cleveland. Race was not a factor in any part of the
survey.
Based on the preliminary numbers, Wade Lanier was optimistic. He ate a sandwich
while standing and talking and sipping a Diet Coke through a straw. Copies of the jury
lists were made and scattered across the conference table. Each of the nine members of
the Sullivan firm was given a copy and asked to review the names as soon as possible,
though all were swamped as usual and just couldn’t see how they could add five more
minutes of work to their overloaded schedules.
A greatly enlarged road map of Ford County was mounted along one wall. A former
Clanton cop named Sonny Nance was already sticking numbered pins onto streets and
roads where the jurors lived. Nance was from Clanton, married to a woman from
Karaway, and said he knew everyone. He’d been hired by Myron Pankey to showcase
this knowledge. At 1:30, four more new employees arrived and received their
instructions. Lanier was blunt but precise. He wanted color photos of each home, each
neighborhood, each vehicle if possible. If there were stickers on the bumpers, take
photos. But do not, under any circumstances, take the risk of getting caught. Pose as
survey takers, bill collectors, insurance runners delivering checks, door-to-door
proselytizers, whatever might be believable, but talk to the neighbors and learn what
you can without being suspicious. Do not, under any circumstances, have direct contact
with any potential juror. Find out where these people work, worship, and send their
kids to school. We have the basics—name, age, sex, race, address, voting precinct—and
nothing else. So there are a lot of blanks to be filled in.
Lanier said, “You cannot get caught. If your activity arouses suspicion, then
immediately disappear. If you are confronted, give them a bogus name and report back
here. Even if you think you might be spotted, leave, disappear, and eventually call in.
Questions?”
None of the four were from Ford County, so the chances of being recognized were
zero. Two were former cops, two were part-time investigators; they knew how to work
the streets. “How much time do we have?” one asked.
“The trial starts two weeks from today. Check in every other day and give us the info
you’ve collected. Friday of next week is the deadline.”
“Let’s go,” one said.
“And don’t get caught.”
Jake’s expert trial consultant was also his secretary/paralegal. Since Judge Atlee was
now administering the estate as if all funds came directly from his own tight pocket, a
real consultant was out of the question. Portia would be in charge of gathering the data,
or rather, keeping up with all of it. At 4:30 Monday afternoon, she, Jake, Lucien, and
Harry Rex gathered in a workroom on the second floor, next to her old office. Present
also was Nick Norton, a lawyer from across the square who had represented Marvis
Lang two years earlier.