Sycamore Row - John Grisham

usually minor and harmless and had never risen to the level of outright defamation. He
butchered dates and names and places but had never seriously embarrassed anyone. He
had an ear for the street, an uncanny nose for picking up a story immediately after it
happened, or while it was unfolding, and though he was too lazy for prolonged digging
he could be counted on to stir things up. He preferred to cover the courthouse, primarily
because it was across the street from the newspaper’s offices and many of its records
were public.
He strode into the law offices of Jake Brigance late Wednesday afternoon, took a
chair near Roxy’s desk, and demanded to see the lawyer. “I know he’s here,” he said
with a killer smile that Roxy ignored. He liked the ladies and labored under the
permanent illusion that every woman was eyeing him.
“He’s busy,” she said.
“So am I.” He opened a magazine and began whistling softly. Ten minutes later, Roxy
said, “He’ll see you now.”
Jake and Dumas had known each other for years and never had a problem. Jake was
one of the few lawyers around the square who had never threatened to sue him, and
Dumas appreciated it.
“Tell me about Seth Hubbard,” he said, pulling out his notepad and uncapping his
pen.
“I assume you’ve seen the will,” Jake replied.
“Got a copy. They’re everywhere. How much is he worth?”
“Nothing. He’s dead.”
“Ha-ha. His estate then.”
“I can’t say anything, Dumas, at this time. I don’t know much and I can’t say
anything.”
“Okay, let’s go off the record.” With Dumas, nothing was off the record, and every
lawyer, judge, and clerk knew it.
“I’m not off the record. I’m not on the record. I’m not talking, Dumas. It’s that simple.
Maybe later.”
“When are you going to court?”
“The funeral was yesterday, okay? There’s no rush.”
“Oh really? No rush? Why did you file your petition twenty minutes after the funeral
was over?”
Jake paused, nailed, busted, great question. “Okay, maybe I had a reason to rush my
petition.”
“The old race to the courthouse, huh?” Dumas said with a goofy smirk as he scribbled
something on his pad.
“No comment.”
“I can’t find Lettie Lang. Any idea where she is?”
“No comment. And she will not talk to you, or any other reporter.”
“We’ll see. I tracked down a guy in Atlanta, writes for a business magazine, said an
LBO group bought a holding company owned by Mr. Seth Hubbard for fifty-five million.
Happened late last year. Ring a bell?”