Sycamore Row - John Grisham

“What? You want nicer digs? Maybe a duplex, or a double-wide?”
“Don’t start with me.”
“The fees could be substantial, not that I’ve considered the subject.”
“Substantial?”
“Sure. The fees are based on actual work, billable hours, something we know so little
about. The attorney for the estate gets to punch the clock each day and actually get paid
for his time. This is unheard-of for us. All fees must be approved by the judge, who in
this case is our dear friend, the Honorable Reuben Atlee, and since he knows we’re
starving he’ll probably be in a generous mood. A big estate, a pile of money, a hotly
contested will, and we just might avoid bankruptcy.”
“A pile of money?”
“Just a figure of speech, dear. We shouldn’t get greedy at this point.”
“Don’t patronize me,” she said as she looked into the twinkling eyes of a hungry
lawyer.
“Right.” But Carla was mentally packing boxes and preparing to move. She had made
the same mistake a year earlier when the law offices of Jake Brigance attracted a young
couple whose newborn died in a Memphis hospital. A promising case of medical
malpractice wilted under the scrutiny of expert review, and Jake had no choice but to
settle for nuisance value.
She asked, “And you went to see Lettie Lang?”
“I did. She lives out from Box Hill in a community called Little Delta; not too many
white folks around. Her husband is a drunk who comes and goes. I didn’t go in the house
but I got the impression it’s crowded in there. I checked the land records; they don’t own
the place. It’s a cheap little rental, similar—”
“Similar to this dump, right?”
“Similar to our home. Probably built by the same hack, who no doubt went bankrupt.
But, anyway, there are only three of us here and probably a dozen in Lettie’s house.”
“Is she nice?”
“Nice enough. We didn’t talk long. I got the impression she’s a fairly typical black
woman for these parts, with a houseful of kids, a part-time husband, a minimum-wage
job, a hard life.”
“That’s pretty harsh.”
“Yes, but it’s also pretty accurate.”
“Is she attractive?”
Under the quilt, Jake began massaging her right calf. He thought for a moment, then
said, “I couldn’t really tell; it was getting dark in a hurry. She’s about forty-five, seemed
to be in fairly good shape, certainly not unattractive. Why do you ask? You think sex
could be behind Mr. Hubbard’s last will and testament?”
“Sex? Who mentioned sex?”
“That’s exactly what you’re thinking. Did she screw her way into his will?”
“All right, sure, that’s what I’m thinking, and that’s what the entire town will be
buzzing about by noon tomorrow. This has sex written all over it. He was a dying man
and she was his caregiver. Who knows what they did?”