Sycamore Row - John Grisham

that he was a tax lawyer with a three-hundred-man firm in Atlanta. For the past thirty
years he had specialized in estate planning. He drafted wills, thick ones, for wealthy
people who wanted to avoid as much of the death taxes as possible. He had reviewed
the inventory of assets filed by Quince Lundy, and he had reviewed the handwritten will
signed by Seth Hubbard. Lanier then flashed onto a large screen a series of calculations,
and McClennan launched into a windy explanation of how federal and state death taxes
gobbled up the unprotected estate. He apologized for the intricacies, the contradictions,
the mind-numbing banalities of “our dear tax code,” and apologized for its complexities.
Twice he said, “I didn’t write this. Congress did.” Lanier knew perfectly well that the
jury would be bored if not repulsed by this testimony, so he labored diligently to skip
along, hitting the high points and leaving much of the code in the dust.
Jake was not about to object and prolong this agony. The jurors were already antsy.
When McClennan mercifully got to the bottom line, he said, “In my opinion, the total
tax bill, state and federal, will be 51 percent.” On the screen, in bold letters, Lanier
wrote, “$12,240,000 in taxes.”
But the fun was just starting. McClennan had analyzed the will prepared by Lewis
McGwyre. It was primarily a collection of related and complicated trusts that gave $1
million outright to Herschel and Ramona each, then tied up the remainder for many
years while doling it out to the family. He and Lanier had no choice but to discuss it in
detail. Jake watched the jurors as they began to nod off. Even McClennan’s light version
of what the will was intended to do was dense and, at times, comically impenetrable.
Lanier, though, was on a mission. He plowed ahead and began running the numbers on
the big screen. The bottom line was that the tax bill under the 1987 will would be, in
McClennan’s expert opinion, only “$9,100,000, state and federal, give or take a few
bucks.”
The difference of $3,140,000 was printed in bold numbers on the screen.
The point was well made. Seth’s hastily written holographic will cost his estate a lot of
money; more proof he was not thinking clearly.
Jake had learned to avoid the IRS code in law school, and for the past ten years had
readily stiff-armed any potential client looking for tax advice. He had none to offer
because he knew so little about that area of the law. When Lanier tendered the witness,
Jake passed. He knew the jurors were bored and ready for lunch.
“We’ll be in recess until one thirty,” Judge Atlee said. “Mr. Brigance.” Jake planned to
grab Wade Lanier and ask if he had five minutes to chat, but his plans were suddenly
changed. He met Judge Atlee in his office down the hall. After His Honor removed his
robe and lit his pipe, he sat down, stared at Jake, and calmly said, “You’re not pleased
with my rulings.”
Jake snorted and said, “No, I am not. You’ve allowed Wade Lanier to hijack this trial
with a couple of dirty tricks, a couple of surprise witnesses that I had no chance to
prepare for.”
“But your client lied.”
“She’s not my client. The estate is my client. But, yes, Lettie was not truthful. She was
caught off guard, Judge, ambushed. In her deposition she clearly stated she could not