Sycamore Row - John Grisham

him. What do you think?”
In situations like this, Judge Atlee did not really care what you thought. The decision
was made, and he was just trying to be polite.
“A great idea,” Jake said, something all judges like to hear.
“I’ll approve it. What about the other expenses?”
“Well, Judge, delighted you asked. I need to get paid.” Jake was handing over a
summary of his time on the case. Judge Atlee studied it, frowned as if Jake were robbing
the estate, then said, “One hundred and eighty hours. What rate did I approve?”
He knew exactly what he had approved. “One fifty per hour,” Jake said.
“So a total of, let’s see.” He was peering down his nose through the thick reading
glasses perched on the tip, still frowning mightily as if he’d been insulted. “Twentyseven
thousand dollars?” His voice rose with fake incredulity.
“At least that much.”
“Seems a bit steep?”
“On the contrary, Judge. It’s a bargain.”
“It’s also a nice start to the holiday season.”
“Oh yes, that too.” Jake knew Atlee would approve his fees if his hours had been
doubled.
“Approved. Other expenses?” He reached into his coat pocket and removed a tobacco
pouch.
Jake slid over more paperwork. “Yes, Judge, quite a few. Quince Lundy needs to get
paid. He’s showing 110 hours, at a hundred bucks per. And we need to pay the
appraisers, the accountants, and the consulting firm. I have the documentation here,
along with orders for you to sign. May I suggest that we move some cash from the bank
in Birmingham to the estate account here at First National?”
“How much?” he asked, striking a match and waving it over the bowl of tobacco.
“Not much, because I don’t like the idea of anybody at the bank seeing the money. It’s
tucked away over in Birmingham, let’s leave it there as long as we can.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Judge Atlee said, something he often said when confronted
with a good idea. He discharged a blast of thick smoke that engulfed the table.
“I’ve already prepared the order,” Jake said, shoving over even more paperwork and
trying to ignore the smoke. Judge Atlee pulled the pipe from his teeth, a trail of smoke
behind it. He began scribbling his name in his distinctive style, one that could never be
deciphered but was recognizable nonetheless. He paused and looked at the order
transferring the money. He said, “And with the stroke of my pen, I can move half a
million bucks. Such power.”
“That’s more than I’ll net in the next ten years.”
“Not the way you’re billing. You must think you’re a big-firm lawyer.”
“I’d rather dig ditches, Judge.”
“So would I.” For a few silent moments he smoked and signed his name, alternating
between puffing and scribbling. When the stack was finished, he said, “Let’s talk about
next week. Is everything in order?”
“As far as I know. Lettie’s deposition is set for Monday and Tuesday. Herschel