Sycamore Row - John Grisham

would doubtless be at the top end of those percentages. And if that were not enough, he
was craving another pile of cash to be earned by the hour as the probate attorney.
Judge Atlee was finished. He picked up his gavel, said, “We’ll meet again in thirty
days. Adjourned,” and slammed it onto the surface of his bench.
Lettie was immediately engulfed by her attorneys, who whisked her away, through the
railing of the bar and to the front row where she was circled by her family and other
clingers. As if her life were in danger, they huddled around, stroking her, cooing,
offering encouragement. Sistrunk was admired and congratulated for his bold assertions
and positions, while Kendrick Bost kept an arm on Lettie’s shoulder as she whispered
gravely to her loved ones. Cypress, her mother, sat in a wheelchair and wiped tears
from her cheeks. What an awful thing they were putting the family through.
Jake was in no mood for small talk, not that anyone tried to engage him. The other
lawyers broke off into small pockets of conversation as they repacked their briefcases
and prepared to leave. The Hubbard heirs clung together and tried to avoid glaring at
the blacks who were after their money. Jake ducked through a side door and was headed
for the back stairs when Mr. Pate, the ancient courtroom deputy, called, “Say, Jake,
Judge Atlee wants to see you.”
In the small cramped room where lawyers gathered for coffee and judges held their
off-the-record meetings, Judge Atlee was removing his robe. “Close the door,” he said
when Jake walked in.
The judge was no raconteur, no teller of tall legal tales, no jokester. There was little
bullshit and rarely was there humor, though, as a judge, he had an audience eager to
laugh at anything. “Have a seat, Jake,” he said, and both sat at a small desk.
“What an ass,” Judge Atlee said. “That might work in Memphis, but not here.”
“I think I’m still stunned.”
“Do you know Quince Lundy, lawyer down in Smithfield?”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“Older guy, maybe even semiretired. He’s done nothing but probate work for a
hundred years, really knows his stuff, and straight as an arrow. Old friend of mine. File
a motion suggesting Quince and two others—you pick ’em—as the substitute executor,
and I’ll appoint Quince. You’ll get along fine with him. As for you, you’re on board until
the end. What’s your hourly rate?”
“I don’t have one, Judge. My clients work for ten bucks an hour if they’re lucky. They
can’t afford to pay a lawyer a hundred.”
“I think one fifty is a fair rate in today’s market. You agree?”
“One fifty sounds fine, Judge.”
“Okay, you’re on the clock at one fifty an hour. I’m assuming you have the time.”
“Oh yes.”
“Good. Because this will eat up your life for the near future. Every sixty days or so,
file a petition and ask for attorney’s fees. I’ll make sure you get paid.”
“Thanks, Judge.”
“There are a lot of rumors about the size of the estate. Any idea what’s true?”
“Russell Amburgh says it’s at least twenty million, with most of that in cash. Hidden