Sycamore Row - John Grisham

here, Wade. Judge, this is a clear violation of the rules.”
Judge Atlee raised a hand and said, “Enough. Allow me to think a moment.” He stood,
walked to his desk, took one of a dozen pipes from a rack, stuffed it with Sir Walter
Raleigh, lit up, blew a thick cloud of smoke toward the ceiling, and drifted away. On
one side of the table, Wade Lanier, Lester Chilcott, Zack Zeitler, and Joe Bradley Hunt
sat smugly, silently, waiting for a decision that would send the trial either north or
south, with no return. On the other side, Jake sat alone, scribbling notes that not even
he could decipher. He felt ill and couldn’t make his hands stop shaking.
Wade Lanier had pulled a masterful dirty trick, and it was infuriating. At the same
time, Jake wanted to grab Lettie and lash out at her. Why had she not mentioned the
Pickering matter? They had spent countless hours together since October.
His Honor blew more smoke and said, “This is too crucial to keep out. I’ll allow Mr.
Pickering to testify, but within limits.”
Angrily, Jake said, “Trial by ambush. This will be automatically reversible. We’ll be
back in two years to do this all over again.”
Angrily, Judge Atlee barked, “Don’t lecture, Jake. I’ve never been reversed by the
Supreme Court. Never.”
Jake took a deep breath and said, “Sorry.”
Ancil’s narrative ran for fifty-eight minutes. When he finished, he wiped moisture
from his eyes, said he was exhausted and couldn’t continue, and left the room. Lucien
thanked Jared Wolkowicz for his accommodations. He had not told the lawyer that Ancil
was a man on the run.
Walking back to the hotel, they saw several policemen loitering around a street
corner and decided to duck into a coffee shop. They hid in a booth and tried to maintain
small talk. Lucien was still rattled by the stories Ancil told, but neither was in the mood
to pursue them.
Lucien said, “I’ve paid for two more nights at the hotel; it’s all yours. I’m leaving now.
You can have the clothes, toothpaste, everything. There’s a pair of old khakis hanging in
the closet with three hundred bucks in the front pocket. It’s yours.”
“Thanks, Lucien.”
“What are your plans?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t want to go to prison, so I’ll probably skip town, as usual.
Just disappear. These clowns can’t catch me. This is pretty routine for me.”
“Where will you go?”
“Well, I might mosey on down to Mississippi since my dear old brother thought so
highly of me. When might I see some of his estate?”
“Who knows? They’re fighting over it as we speak. Could be a month. Could be five
years. You have my phone number. Call me in a few weeks and we’ll catch up.”
“I’ll do that.”
Lucien paid for the coffee and they left through a side door. In an alley, they said