Sycamore Row - John Grisham

incident when a friend or business acquaintance came to the house, not in the three
years she worked there.
Perfect, Jake said to himself.
Bad lawyers tried to trick witnesses, or pin them down, or confuse them, all in an
effort to win the deposition. Good lawyers preferred to win at trial, and used
depositions as a means to gather information that could be used to set traps later. Great
lawyers skipped depositions altogether, and orchestrated beautiful ambushes in front of
the jury. Wade Lanier and Stillman Rush were good lawyers, and they spent the first
day collecting data. During eight hours of direct examination, there was not the first
cross word, not the first hint of disrespect for the witness.
Jake was impressed with his opponents. Later, in his office, he explained to Lettie and
Portia that both Lanier and Rush were basically acting. They were presenting
themselves as friendly guys who really liked Lettie and were just searching for the truth.
They wanted Lettie to like them, to trust them, so that at the trial she might drop her
guard. “They’re a couple of wolves,” he said. “At trial, they’ll go for your throat.”
Lettie, exhausted, asked, “Jake, I won’t be on the stand for no eight hours, will I?”
“You’ll be ready.”
She had her doubts.
Zack Zeitler led off the following morning with a series of probing questions about
Mr. Hubbard’s last days. He struck pay dirt when he asked, “Did you see him on
Saturday, October 1?”
Jake braced himself for what would follow. He had known it for several days, but
there was no way to avoid it. The truth was the truth.
“I did,” Lettie answered.
“I thought you said you never worked on Saturdays.”
“That’s right, but Mr. Hubbard asked me to come in that Saturday.”
“And why was that?”
“He wanted me to go to his office with him, to clean it. The regular guy was off sick
and the place needed cleaning.” Around the table, Lettie’s response was far more
effective than the morning coffee. Eyes opened, spines stiffened, rear ends inched to the
edges of chairs, a couple of telling glances were exchanged.
Smelling blood, Zeitler pressed on cautiously. “What time did you arrive at Mr.
Hubbard’s house?”
“Around nine that mornin’.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said he wanted me to go with him to his office. So we got in the car and went to
his office.”
“Which car?”
“His. The Cadillac.”
“Who drove?”