Sycamore Row - John Grisham

43
The lawyers met with Judge Atlee in his chambers at 8:45 Wednesday morning and
agreed there were no pending motions or issues to iron out before the trial proceeded.
For the third day in a row, His Honor was spry, almost hyper, as if the excitement of a
big trial had rejuvenated him. The lawyers had been up all night, either working or
worrying, and looked as frayed as they felt. The old judge, though, was ready to go.
In the courtroom he welcomed everyone, thanked the spectators for their keen interest
in our judicial system, and told the bailiff to bring in the jurors. When they were seated,
he greeted them warmly and asked if there were any problems. Any unauthorized
contact? Anything suspicious? Everyone feeling okay? Very well, Mr. Brigance, proceed.
Jake stood and said, “Your Honor, the proponents call Ms. Lettie Lang.”
Portia had told her not to wear anything fitting or tight or even remotely sexy. Early
that morning, long before breakfast, they had argued about the dress. Portia won. It was
a navy-blue cotton dress with a loose belt, a nice enough dress but one that a
housekeeper might wear to work, nothing Lettie would wear to church. The shoes were
low-heeled sandals. No jewelry. No watch. Nothing to indicate she had a spare dime or
might be contemplating a haul of cash. In the past month she had stopped tinting her
gray hair. It was natural now, and she looked all of her forty-seven years.
She was practically stuttering by the time she swore to tell the truth. She looked at
Portia sitting behind Jake’s chair. Her daughter gave her a smile—a signal that she
should smile too.
The packed courtroom was silent as Jake approached the podium. He asked her name,
address, place of employment—softballs that she handled well. Names of children and
grandchildren. Yes, Marvis, her oldest, was in prison. Her husband was Simeon Lang,
now in jail, awaiting prosecution. She had filed for divorce a month earlier and
expected it to become final in a few weeks. Some background—education, church, prior
jobs. It was all scripted and at times her answers sounded stiff and rote, even
memorized, which they were. She glanced at the jurors, but was rattled when she
realized they were staring right back. As her handlers had discussed, when she felt
nervous she was to look directly at Portia. At times, she couldn’t take her eyes off her
daughter.
Jake eventually made it to the subject of Mr. Seth Hubbard. Or simply Mr. Hubbard,
as she was to always call him in court. Never Seth. Never Mr. Seth. Mr. Hubbard hired
her as a part-time housekeeper three years earlier. How did she hear about the job
opening? She did not. He called her and said a friend knew she was out of work. He