Sycamore Row - John Grisham

41
In his defense of Carl Lee Hailey, Jake’s opening statement to the jury lasted only
fourteen minutes. Rufus Buckley had kicked things off with a one-and-a-half-hour
marathon that had put the jury to sleep, and Jake’s concise follow-up had been well
received and much appreciated. The jury had listened to him and absorbed every word.
“Jurors are captives,” Lucien always said. “So keep it short.”
In the matter of the last will and testament of Henry Seth Hubbard, Jake was aiming
for ten minutes. He stepped to the podium, smiled to the fresh and eager faces, and
began with “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, your job is not to give away Seth
Hubbard’s money. There’s a lot of it, and all of it was earned by Seth Hubbard himself.
Not by you, not by me, not by any of the lawyers in this courtroom. He took chances,
borrowed heavily at times, ignored the advice of his trusted lieutenants, mortgaged his
own house and land, made deals that looked bad on paper, borrowed even more, took
risks that seemed outrageous, and in the end, when Seth Hubbard was told he was dying
of lung cancer, he sold out. He cashed in his chips, paid off the banks, and counted his
money. He won. He was right and everybody else was wrong. You can’t help but admire
Seth Hubbard. I never met the man, but I wish I had.
“How much money? You will hear testimony from Mr. Quince Lundy, the gentleman
sitting right here, and the court-appointed administrator of Seth Hubbard’s estate, that
the estate has a value of approximately $24 million.”
Jake was pacing slowly, and when he gave the amount he stopped and looked at
some of the faces. Almost every juror smiled. Go, Seth. Attaboy. A couple were obviously
shocked. Tracy McMillen, Juror Number Two, looked at Jake with wide eyes. But the
moment passed quickly. No one in Ford County could grasp a number like that.
“Now, if you think a man who put together a $24 million fortune in about ten years
knows what he’s doing with his money, then you’re right. Because Seth knew exactly
what he was doing. The day before he hung himself he went to his office, locked his
door, sat down at his desk, and wrote a new will. A handwritten will, one perfectly
legal, nice and legible, easy to understand, not the least bit complicated or confusing.
He knew he was going to commit suicide the following day, Sunday, October 2, and he
was putting everything in order. He planned it all. He wrote a note to a man named
Calvin Boggs, an employee, in which he explained he was taking his own life. You will
see the original. He wrote detailed funeral and burial instructions. You will see the
originals. And on that same Saturday, presumably at his office while he was writing his
will, he wrote a letter to me and gave me specific instructions. Again, you will see the