Sycamore Row - John Grisham

estate here and there. One of my jobs is to locate everything and inventory it for the
court, and for the beneficiaries.”
“And I’m one of those—a beneficiary?”
“Oh yes, very much so. Ninety percent.”
“Ninety percent of twenty million?”
“Yes, give or take.”
“Oh my God, Jake.” She reached for the tissues and collapsed again.
Over the next hour, they managed some progress. Between her emotional meltdowns,
Jake laid out the basics of estate administration—time, the people involved, court
appearances, taxes, and lastly, the transfer of assets. The more he talked, though, the
more confused she became, and he suspected that much of what he was saying would be
repeated soon. He dumbed down the issues involved in a will contest and made cautious
predictions as to what might happen. Knowing Judge Atlee and his distaste of lingering
cases and slow lawyers, Jake believed a trial, assuming there was one, would take place
within the next twelve months, probably sooner. With so much at stake, the losing party
would certainly appeal, so tack on two more years before a final outcome. As Lettie
began to grasp the ordeal and how long it might take, her resolve stiffened and she
gathered her emotions.
Twice she asked if there was any way to keep it all quiet. No, Jake explained
patiently, that would not be possible. She feared Simeon and his family of outlaws and
wondered if she should move away. Jake had no advice on that matter, but he had
already envisioned the coming chaos in her life as kinfolks materialized and new friends
came out of the woods.
After two hours, she reluctantly left. Jake escorted her to the front door where she
looked through the glass, across the sidewalk and the street, as if she preferred to stay
inside where she knew it was safe. She had been jolted by the will, then overwhelmed by
the law, and at that moment Jake was the only person she trusted. Her eyes were wet
again when she finally stepped out.
“Are those tears of joy or is she scared to death?” Roxy asked after Jake closed the
door.
“Both, I would say.”
She waved a pink phone message slip and said, “Doofus Lee called. He’s hot on the
trail.”
“Oh come on.”
“Not kidding. Said he might stop by this afternoon and poke around in Seth Hubbard’s
dirty laundry.”
“What’s dirty about it?” Jake asked as he took the slip.
“Everything’s dirty to Doofus.”
Dumas Lee wrote for The Ford County Times and was famous for screwing up the facts
and barely dodging libel suits. While sloppy and easily avoidable, his errors were