Sycamore Row - John Grisham

facing me in Chancery Court, in this county, is not something other lawyers like to think
about. So we pushed and shoved and bitched a little, and I finally got ’em up to one
thirty-five. You’ll clear about forty, no fee for me because that was the deal, and you’re
back on your feet. I’ll call Willie and tell him you and Carla will pay two twenty-five for
the Hocutt place.”
“Not so fast, Harry Rex. I’m hardly rich with forty grand in my pocket.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Jake. You’re clipping the estate for thirty thousand a month.”
“Not quite, and the rest of my practice is disappearing in the process. It’ll take me a
year to get over this case. Same as Hailey.”
“But at least you’re getting paid on this one.”
“I am, and I appreciate you using your amazing skills to settle my fire claim. Thank
you, Harry Rex. I’ll get the paperwork signed by this afternoon. And, I’d feel better if
you would take a fee. A modest one.”
“Not for a friend, Jake, and not a modest one. If it were a fat fee I’d say screw the
friendship. Besides, I can’t take any more income this quarter. Money’s piling up so fast
I can’t stuff any more in the mattress. I don’t want the IRS becoming alarmed and
sending in their goons again. It’s on me. What do I tell Willie?”
“Tell him to keep cutting the price.”
“He’s in town this weekend, throwing another gin-and-tonic party Saturday
afternoon. He told me to invite you and Carla. Ya’ll in?”
“I’ll have to ask the boss.”
Harry Rex climbed to his feet and began stomping away. “See you Saturday.”
“Sure, and thanks again, Harry Rex.”
“Don’t mention it.” He slammed the door, and Jake chuckled to himself. What a relief
to have the lawsuit settled. He could close a rather thick and depressing fish file, pay off
the two mortgages, get the banks off his back, and pocket some cash. He and Carla
could never replace their home, but wasn’t that the case in every major fire claim? They
weren’t the only ones who’d lost everything in a disaster. Finally, they could move on
and put the past behind them.
Five minutes later, Portia knocked on the door. She had something to show Jake, but
they would need to take a short drive.
At noon, they left the office and crossed the tracks and drove through Lowtown, the
colored section. Beyond it, at the far eastern edge of Clanton, was Burley, the old black
elementary and middle school that had been abandoned in 1969 with desegregation. Not
long afterward, it had been reclaimed by the county, spruced up, and put to good use as
a facility for storage and maintenance. The school was a complex of four large, barnlike
buildings of white wood and tin roofs. The parking lot was filled with the vehicles of
county employees. Behind the school was a large maintenance shed with gravel trucks
and machinery scattered around it. East, the black high school, was across the street.
Jake had known many blacks who’d gone to school at Burley, and while they were