Sycamore Row - John Grisham

pretending to mourn at $200 an hour per man. According to Seth’s final words, a Mr.
Lewis McGwyre had drafted a will in September of 1987, and Jake figured he was one
of the three. Jake did not know McGwyre, but then the firm had so many lawyers. Since
they prepared the will, they naturally assumed they would probate it.
Tomorrow, he thought, they’ll drive over again, at least two but maybe another trio,
and they’ll take their paperwork to the offices of the Chancery Court clerk, on the
second floor of Jake’s courthouse, and they’ll smugly inform either Eva or Sara that they
have arrived for the purposes of opening the estate of Mr. Seth Hubbard for probate.
And either Eva or Sara will suppress a grin while appearing confused. Papers will be
shuffled, questions asked, then a big surprise—you’re a bit late, sirs. That estate has
already been opened!
Either Eva or Sara will show them to the new filings, where they will gawk at the
thin, handwritten will, one that specifically revoked and denounced the thick one they
so cherished, and the war will begin. They will curse Jake Brigance, but once they settle
down they will realize that the war could be profitable for all the lawyers.
Lettie wiped a tear and realized she was probably the only person crying.
In front of the lawyers were some business types, one of whom turned around and
whispered something to Stillman Rush. Jake thought this might be one of the higher-ups
who worked for Seth. He was particularly curious about Mr. Russell Amburgh, described
in the handwritten will as once the vice president of Seth’s holding company and the
man with the knowledge of the assets and liabilities.
Mrs. Nora Baines sang three stanzas of “The Old Rugged Cross,” a somber, surefire
tearjerker at any funeral, but at Seth’s it failed to provoke emotion. Pastor McElwain
read from Psalms and dwelled on the wisdom of Solomon, then two teenage boys with
pimples and a guitar strummed and hummed through something contemporary, a
strained song Seth would not have appreciated. Ramona finally broke down and was
comforted by Ian. Herschel just stared at the floor in front of the casket, never blinking,
never moving. Another woman sobbed loudly in response.
Seth’s cruel plan was to withhold knowledge of his last will until after the funeral. In
his letter to Jake, his exact words were: “Do not mention my last will and testament
until after the funeral. I want my family to be forced to go through all the rituals of
mourning before they realize they get nothing. Watch them fake it—they’re very good at
it. They have no love for me.” As the service dragged on, it became apparent that there
was little faking going on. What was left of his family didn’t care enough to even fake
it. What a sad way to go, thought Jake.
At Seth’s instructions, there were no eulogies. No one spoke but the pastor, though it
was easy to get the impression there might be no volunteers if they opened up the mike.
The pastor finished with a marathon of a prayer, one obviously designed to burn some
clock. Twenty-five minutes after he started, he dismissed them with the invitation to
walk next door to the cemetery for the interment. Outside, Jake managed to dodge
Stillman Rush and the lawyers. Instead, he bumped into the nearest man in a business
suit and said, “Excuse me, but I’m looking for a Russell Amburgh.”
The man politely pointed and said, “Right there.”