Sycamore Row - John Grisham

three hours before being asked by Herschel to leave. On her way out, he informed her
that her employment would be terminated as of 3:00 p.m. Wednesday, the following
day. At that point, the house would be locked up and deserted until further orders from
the court. Lettie had $400 in her checking account, one she kept away from Simeon, and
she had $300 in a pickle jar hidden in the pantry. Beyond that, she was broke and had
slim prospects for meaningful work. She had not spoken to her husband in almost three
weeks. Occasionally, he would return home with a paycheck or some cash; usually,
though, he was just drunk and needed to sleep it off.
Soon to be unemployed, with bills and people to feed, Lettie could have sat there
listening to the organ and fretted over her future, but she did not. Mr. Hubbard had
promised her more than once that when he died, and he knew his death was imminent,
he would leave a little something for her. How little, or how much? Lettie could only
dream. Four rows behind her, Jake thought to himself, If she only knew. She had no idea
he was there, or why. She would later claim she recognized his name because of the
Hailey trial, but she had never actually seen Mr. Brigance.
In the center, on the row directly in front of the casket, Ramona Dafoe sat with Ian to
her left and Herschel to her right. None of their children, Seth’s grandchildren, had been
able to make the drive. Their lives were just too busy; not that their parents had pushed
too hard. Behind them was a row of relatives so distant they had to introduce themselves
in the parking lot, and their names were quickly forgotten. Seth Hubbard’s parents had
been dead for decades. His only sibling, Ancil, was long gone. There had never been
much family to begin with and the years had decimated the rest.
Behind the family, and throughout the dim sanctuary, there were several dozen other
mourners—employees of Seth’s, friends, fellow church members. When Pastor Don
McElwain stepped to the pulpit precisely at 4:00 p.m., he and everyone else knew the
service would be brief. He led them in prayer and recited a quick obituary: Seth was
born May 10, 1917, in Ford County, where he died on October 2, 1988. Preceded in
death by parents so-and-so; two surviving children, some grandchildren, et cetera.
Jake spotted a familiar profile several rows up and to his left, a man in a nice suit.
Same age, same law class. Stillman Rush, attorney-at-law, third-generation prick from a
family of same, blue bloods from the big leagues of corporate and insurance law, or as
big as they could possibly be in the rural South. Rush & Westerfield, the largest firm in
north Mississippi, based in Tupelo with offices coming soon to a shopping center near
you. Seth Hubbard mentioned the Rush firm in his letter to Jake, and also in his
handwritten will, so there was little doubt Stillman Rush and the other two well-dressed
gentlemen with him had come to check on their investment. Typically, the insurance
boys worked in pairs. It took two to perform even the most mundane legal tasks: two to
file papers in court; two to answer a docket call; two for an uncontested hearing; two to
drive here and there; and, of course, two to jack up the billing and pad the file. Big law
firms vigorously worshipped inefficiencies: more hours meant more fees.
But three? For a quick funeral out in the boonies? This was impressive, and exciting. It
meant money. There was no doubt in Jake’s hyperactive mind that the three had turned
on their meters when they’d left their offices in Tupelo and were now sitting over there