Sycamore Row - John Grisham

“We’ll see. Maybe it’s not over.”
“Looks bad.”
“Keep a lid on it.”
“Don’t worry.”
They were not celebrating with champagne at the Sullivan firm, though fine wine was
being poured. Walter Sullivan, the retired partner who founded the firm forty-five years
earlier, was a connoisseur who had recently discovered fine Italian Barolos. After a light
working dinner in the conference room, he pulled some corks, brought in some fine
crystal goblets, and a tasting came to life.
The mood was nothing short of triumphant. Myron Pankey had watched a thousand
juries and had never seen one flip so quickly and so thoroughly. “You own them, Wade,”
he said. Lanier was being revered as a courtroom magician, able to pull rabbits out of
hats in spite of the rules of evidence. “Give the judge the credit,” he said modestly, and
more than once. “He just wants a fair trial.”
“Trials are not about fairness, Wade,” Mr. Sullivan chided. “Trials are about winning.”
Lanier and Chilcott could almost smell the money. Eighty percent of the gross estate
for their clients, less taxes and so forth, and their little ten-man litigation firm would net
a fee in excess of $2 million. It could arrive quickly. After the handwritten will was
declared void, they would move on to the prior will. The bulk of the money was in cash.
A lengthy probate might be avoided.
Herschel was in Memphis, commuting to the trial with his two children. The Dafoe
family was staying in the guesthouse of a friend near the country club. All were in fine
spirits and eager to get the money and get on with their lives. After he finished his wine,
Wade would call them and receive their accolades.
An hour after he spoke to Tully Still, Ozzie was leaning on the hood of his patrol car
in front of Jake’s house, smoking a cigar with his favorite lawyer. Ozzie was saying,
“Tully says it’s ten to two.”
Jake puffed and said, “No real surprise there.”
“Well, it looks like it’s time to fold up your chair and go home, Jake. This little party’s
over. Get somethin’ for Lettie and get the hell out. She don’t need much. Settle this
damned thing before it goes to the jury.”
“We’re trying, Ozzie, okay? Harry Rex approached Lanier’s guys twice this afternoon.
They laughed at him. You can’t settle a case when the other side is laughing at you. I’d
take a million bucks right now.”
“A million! How many black folk around here got a million bucks, Jake? You’re
thinkin’ too much like a white man. Get half a million, get a quarter, hell, get
somethin’.”
“We’ll try again tomorrow. I’ll see how the morning goes, then approach Wade Lanier