Sycamore Row - John Grisham

The nurse glared at Lucien and seemed ready to pounce. He did not acknowledge her
presence. He carefully sat his battered leather briefcase on the foot of the bed so Lonny
could see it. It probably contained something important. Lucien said, “Have you ever
been to Mississippi, Mr. Clark?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure I’m sure.”
“Well, hey, that’s a real surprise, because we thought you were born there. We’ve paid
a lot of money to some high-priced investigators who’ve been tracking Ancil Hubbard.
When your name popped up, they took off after you and found several Lonny Clarks.
One of them was born in Mississippi sixty-six years ago. You are sixty-six years old,
aren’t you, Mr. Clark?”
Lonny stared at him, overwhelmed and uncertain. Slowly, he said, “I am.”
“So what’s your connection to Ancil Hubbard?”
The nurse said, “He said he didn’t know him.”
Lucien snapped at her: “And I’m not talking to you! This is an important legal matter,
a big case involving dozens of lawyers, several courts, and a pile of money, and if I
need you to stick your nose into the middle of it, then I’ll let you know. Until then,
please butt out.” Her cheeks blushed crimson as she gasped for breath.
Lonny despised that particular nurse and said to her, “Don’t speak for me, okay? I can
take care of myself.” The nurse, completely chastised, took a step back from the bed.
Lucien and Lonny, now joined in their contempt for the nurse, looked at each other
carefully. Lonny said, “I’ll have to sleep on it. My memory is coming and going these
days, and they got me so doped up, you know?”
“I’ll be happy to wait,” Lucien said. “It’s very important that we find Ancil Hubbard.”
He pulled a business card from a pocket and handed it to Lonny. “This is my boss, Jake
Brigance. You can call him and check me out. He’s the lead lawyer in the case.”
“And you’re a lawyer too?” Lonny asked.
“I am. I just ran out of cards. I’m staying at the Glacier Inn on Third Street.”
Late in the afternoon, Herschel Hubbard unlocked the door to his father’s house and
stepped inside. It had been empty now, for how long? He paused and did the math. His
father had killed himself on October 2, a Sunday. Today was April 2, a Sunday. To his
knowledge, the house had not been cleaned since the day Lettie was fired, the day after
the funeral. A thick layer of dust covered the television console and bookcases. The smell
was of stale tobacco and stagnant air. He flipped a switch and the lights came on. He’d
been told that Quince Lundy, the administrator, was in charge of paying the utility bills.
The kitchen counters were spotless; the refrigerator empty. A faucet dripped slowly into
a brown stain in the porcelain sink. He made his way to the rear of the house, and in
the room he’d once called his own he slapped the bedspread to stir the dust, then he
stretched out on the bed and gazed at the ceiling.