Sycamore Row - John Grisham

winning the case are far greater than Booker Sistrunk’s. Plus, I’m not getting a cut of
Lettie’s inheritance.”
“How do you get paid?”
“You don’t mind asking questions, do you?”
“Sorry. There’s just so much I don’t know.”
“I’m working by the hour and my fees come from the estate. All reasonable and court
approved.”
She nodded as if she heard this all the time. She coughed and said, “My mouth is dry.
Do you have a soft drink or something?”
“Sure. Follow me.” They went downstairs to the small kitchen where Jake found a diet
soda. To impress her, he took her into the small conference room and showed her where
Quince Lundy was currently doing his work and digging through the Hubbard records.
Lundy had not yet arrived for the day. “How much of the money is in cash?” she asked
timidly, as if she might be out-of-bounds. She stared at the boxes of records as if they
were filled with cash.
“Most of it.”
She admired the shelves packed with thick law books and treatises, few of which had
been touched in years. “You have a nice office here, Jake,” she said.
“It’s a hand-me-down. It belongs to a man named Lucien Wilbanks.”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“Most people have. Have a seat.”
She eased into a thick, leather chair at the long table as Jake closed the door. Roxy, of
course, was nearby and on full radar alert.
Jake sat across from her and said, “So, tell me, Portia, how do you get rid of
Sistrunk?”
In the best military tradition, she instantly blurted, “Keep his big ass in jail.”
Jake laughed and said, “That’s only temporary. Your mother has to fire him. Your
father doesn’t matter; he’s not a party.”
“But they owe him money.”
“They can pay him later. If she’ll listen to me, I’ll walk her through it. But, first, she
has to tell Sistrunk he’s fired. And Buckley too. In writing. I’ll draft a letter if she’ll sign
it.”
“Give me some time, okay?”
“There’s not much time. The longer Sistrunk hangs around the more damage he does.
He’s a publicity hound and loves the attention. Unfortunately, he’s getting the attention
of all the white people in Ford County. Those will be our jurors, Portia.”
“An all-white jury?”
“No, but at least eight or nine of the twelve.”
“Wasn’t the Hailey jury all white?”
“Indeed it was, and it seemed to grow whiter each day. But that was a different trial.”
She took a sip from the can and looked again at the rows of important books covering
the walls. “It must be pretty cool being a lawyer,” she said in awe.
“Cool” was not an adjective Jake would use. He was forced to admit to himself that it