Sycamore Row - John Grisham

Ozzie said, “No, Lucien, you’re drunk. You cannot drive.”
Lucien angrily replied, “Ozzie, we’re in Memphis and you got no jurisdiction here.
Kiss my ass! I’ll do any damn thing I want to do.”
Ozzie threw up his hands and walked away with Prather. They tried to follow Lucien
as they left Memphis at rush hour, but couldn’t keep up with the dirty little Porsche as
he weaved dangerously through heavy traffic. They drove on to Clanton, to Jake’s
office, and arrived there just before seven. Jake was waiting for the debriefing.
The only slightly good news in an otherwise dreadful and frustrating day was Lucien’s
arrest for public drunkenness and resisting arrest. It would kill any talk of a possible
reinstatement to the practice of law, but at the moment that was small satisfaction,
something Jake could not even mention. Other than that, things were as grim as they
could possibly be.
Two hours later, Jake drove to Lucien’s house. As he pulled in to the driveway, he
noticed the Porsche wasn’t there. He spoke briefly to Sallie on the front porch and she
promised to call as soon as he came home.
Miraculously, Lucien’s briefcase arrived in Memphis at midnight. Deputy Willie
Hastings picked it up and drove to Clanton.
At 7:30 Friday morning, Jake, Harry Rex, and Ozzie gathered in the conference room
downstairs and locked the door. Jake inserted the cassette into his video recorder and
turned down the lights. The words Juneau, Alaska … April 5, 1989 appeared on the
television screen, then disappeared after a few seconds. Jared Wolkowicz introduced
himself and explained what they were doing. Lucien introduced himself and said that
this was a deposition and he would be asking the questions. He looked clear-eyed, sober.
He introduced Ancil F. Hubbard, who was sworn in by the court reporter.
Small, frail, his head as slick as a white onion, he was wearing Lucien’s black suit and
white shirt, both several sizes too big. There was a bandage on the back of his head, and
a strip of the adhesive tape holding it was barely visible above his right ear. He
swallowed hard, looked at the camera as if in terror, then said, “My name is Ancil F.
Hubbard. I live in Juneau, Alaska, but I was born in Ford County, Mississippi, on August
first, 1922. My father was Cleon Hubbard, my mother Sarah Belle, my brother Seth. Seth
was five years older than me. I was born on the family farm, near Palmyra. I left home
when I was sixteen and never went back. Never. Never wanted to. Here’s my story.”
When the screen went blank fifty-eight minutes later, the three men sat for a while
and stared at it. It was not something they ever wanted to see or hear again, but that
would not be the case. Finally, slowly, Jake rose and pushed the eject button. “We’d
better go see the judge.”
“Can you get it admitted?” Ozzie asked.
“No way in hell,” Harry Rex said. “I can think of ten different ways to keep it out, and