Sycamore Row - John Grisham

windows, arranged magazines, even washed the dishes in the small kitchen. No, she did
not empty the wastebaskets. From the moment they entered the offices until they left,
she did not speak to nor see Mr. Hubbard. She had no idea what he was doing in his
office; she never thought about asking. He walked in with a briefcase, and walked out
holding the same one. She drove back to his house, then she returned home, around
noon. Late Sunday night, Calvin Boggs called with the news that Mr. Hubbard had hung
himself.
At 11:00 a.m., after almost two hours on the stand, Jake tendered the witness for
cross-examination. During a quick recess, he told Lettie she did a fabulous job. Portia
was thrilled and very proud; her mother had kept her composure and been convincing.
Harry Rex, who’d been watching from the back row, said her testimony could not have
been better.
By noon, their case was in shambles.
He was certain harboring a fugitive was against the law in every state, including
Alaska, so jail time was a possibility, though Lucien wasn’t worried about that at the
moment. He woke up at sunrise, stiff from sleeping off and on in a chair. Ancil had the
bed, all of it. He had volunteered to sleep on the floor or in a chair, but Lucien was
concerned about his head injuries and insisted he take the bed. A painkiller knocked him
out, and for a long time Lucien sat in the dark, nursing his last Jack and Coke, listening
to the old boy snore.
He dressed quietly and left the room. The lobby of the hotel was deserted. There were
no cops poking around, searching for Ancil. Down the street he bought coffee and
muffins and hauled them back to the room, where Ancil was awake now and watching
the local news. “Not a word,” he reported.
“No surprise,” Lucien said. “I doubt if they’ve brought in the bloodhounds.”
They ate, took turns showering and dressing, and at 8:00 a.m. left the room. Ancil
was wearing Lucien’s black suit, white shirt, paisley tie, and the same cap pulled low to
hide his face. They hurriedly walked three blocks to the law office of Jared Wolkowicz, a
lawyer referred by Bo Buck at the Glacier Inn bar. Lucien had visited Mr. Wolkowicz
late the day before, retained him, and organized the deposition. A court reporter and a
videographer were waiting in the conference room. At one end of the table, Mr.
Wolkowicz stood, raised his right hand, repeated after the court reporter, and swore to
tell the truth, then sat facing the camera. He said, “Good morning. My name is Jared
Wolkowicz and I’m an attorney, duly licensed by the State of Alaska. Today is
Wednesday, April 5, 1989, and I’m sitting here in my law office on Franklin Street in
downtown Juneau, Alaska. Here with me is Lucien Wilbanks, of Clanton, Mississippi,
and also a man by the name of Ancil F. Hubbard, who currently resides in Juneau. The
purpose of the deposition is to record the testimony of Mr. Hubbard. I know nothing
about the case that brings us here. My role is to simply vouch for the fact that this will
be an accurate recording of what takes place here. If any of the lawyers or judges