If Jake lost, Ancil would disappear into the night, never to be found again.

After dark, Lucien went to the hotel bar and said good evening to Bo Buck, the bartender, who was now a close friend. Bo Buck had once been a judge in Nevada before things conspired to wreck his life, and he and Lucien enjoyed swapping stories. They talked for a moment as Lucien waited on his first Jack and Coke. He took it to a table and sat down, alone and loving the solitude. Just a man and his sour mash. A minute later, Ancil Hubbard materialized from nowhere and sat across the table.

“Evening Lucien,” he said casually.

Startled, Lucien stared at him for a few seconds to make sure. He was wearing a baseball cap, a sweatshirt, and jeans. That morning he’d been unconscious in a hospital bed with tubes running everywhere.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Lucien said.

“I got tired of the hospital, so I walked out. I guess I’m a fugitive, but that’s nothing new. I kinda like being on the run.”

“What about your head, and the infection?”

“My head’s sore, though not nearly as sore as they thought. Remember, Lucien, I was scheduled to go from the hospital to the jail, a transfer I preferred not to make. Let’s just say I wasn’t nearly as unconscious as they thought. The infection is under control.” He pulled out a bottle of pills. “When I left I took my antibiotics. I’ll be all right.”

“How’d you leave?”

“Walked out. They rolled me downstairs for a scan. I went to the restroom. They thought I couldn’t walk, so I ran down some steps, found the basement, found a locker room, changed clothes. Came out through the service ramp. Cops were swarming last time I checked. I was drinking coffee across the street.”

“This is a small town, Ancil. You can’t hide for long.”

“What do you know about hiding? I have some friends.”

“You want something to drink?”

“No, but I’d love a burger and fries.”

Harry Rex scowled at the witness and demanded, “Did you touch his penis?”

Lettie looked away, embarrassed, then managed a tepid “Yes, yes I did.”

“Of course you did, Lettie,” Jake said. “He was unable to bathe himself, so you had to do it, and you did it more than once. A bath means bathing the entire body. He couldn’t do it; you had to. There was nothing intimate or even remotely sexual about it. You were simply doing your job.”

“I can’t do this,” Lettie said, looking helplessly at Portia. “He won’t ask me these questions, will he?”

“He damned sure will,” Harry Rex growled. “He’ll ask you these and many more and you’d better be ready with the answers.”

“Let’s take a break,” Jake said.

“I need a beer,” Harry Rex said, climbing to his feet. He stomped out of the room as if he were sick of them all. They had been rehearsing for two hours and it was almost 10:00 p.m. Jake asked the easy questions on direct examination, and Harry Rex grilled her relentlessly on cross. At times he was too rough, or rougher than Atlee would allow Lanier to be, but better to be ready for the worst. Portia sympathized with her mother, but she was also frustrated by her fragility. Lettie could be tough, then she would fall apart. There was no confidence that her testimony would go smoothly.

Remember the rules, Lettie, Jake kept saying. Smile, but nothing phony. Speak clearly and slowly. It’s okay to cry if you feel real emotion. If you’re not sure, don’t speak. The jurors are watching intently, and they miss nothing. Look at them occasionally, but with confidence. Don’t let Wade Lanier rattle you. I’ll always be there to protect you.

Harry Rex wanted to scream another piece of advice: “We’re talking about twenty-four million bucks here, so put on the performance of a lifetime!” But he controlled himself. When he returned with a beer, Portia said, “We’ve had enough, Jake. We’ll go home and sit on the porch and talk some more, and we’ll be here early in the morning.”

“Okay. I think we’re all tired.”

After they left, Jake and Harry Rex went upstairs and sat on Jake’s balcony. The night was warm but clear, a perfect spring night that was difficult to appreciate. Jake sipped a beer and relaxed for the first time in many hours.

“Any word from Lucien?” Harry Rex asked.

“No, but I forgot to check the phone messages.”

“We’re lucky, you know. Lucky he’s in Alaska and not sitting right here carping about everything that went wrong today.”

“That’s your job, right?”

“Right, but I got no complaints, so far. You had a good day, Jake. You made a good opening statement, one the jury heard and appreciated, then you called twelve witnesses, and not a one got burned. The evidence leans strongly in your favor, at least at this point. You couldn’t have asked for a better day.”

“And the jury?”

“They like you, but it’s too early to speculate on how much they like or dislike Lettie. Tomorrow will be revealing.”

“Tomorrow is crucial, buddy. Lettie can win the case, or she can lose it.”

43

The lawyers met with Judge Atlee in his chambers at 8:45 Wednesday morning and agreed there were no pending motions or issues to iron out before the trial proceeded. For the third day in a row, His Honor was spry, almost hyper, as if the excitement of a big trial had rejuvenated him. The lawyers had been up all night, either working or worrying, and looked as frayed as they felt. The old judge, though, was ready to go.

In the courtroom he welcomed everyone, thanked the spectators for their keen interest in our judicial system, and told the bailiff to bring in the jurors. When they were seated, he greeted them warmly and asked if there were any problems. Any unauthorized contact? Anything suspicious? Everyone feeling okay? Very well, Mr. Brigance, proceed.

Jake stood and said, “Your Honor, the proponents call Ms. Lettie Lang.”

Portia had told her not to wear anything fitting or tight or even remotely sexy. Early that morning, long before breakfast, they had argued about the dress. Portia won. It was a navy-blue cotton dress with a loose belt, a nice enough dress but one that a housekeeper might wear to work, nothing Lettie would wear to church. The shoes were low-heeled sandals. No jewelry. No watch. Nothing to indicate she had a spare dime or might be contemplating a haul of cash. In the past month she had stopped tinting her gray hair. It was natural now, and she looked all of her forty-seven years.

She was practically stuttering by the time she swore to tell the truth. She looked at Portia sitting behind Jake’s chair. Her daughter gave her a smile—a signal that she should smile too.

The packed courtroom was silent as Jake approached the podium. He asked her name, address, place of employment—softballs that she handled well. Names of children and grandchildren. Yes, Marvis, her oldest, was in prison. Her husband was Simeon Lang, now in jail, awaiting prosecution. She had filed for divorce a month earlier and expected it to become final in a few weeks. Some background—education, church, prior jobs. It was all scripted and at times her answers sounded stiff and rote, even memorized, which they were. She glanced at the jurors, but was rattled when she realized they were staring right back. As her handlers had discussed, when she felt nervous she was to look directly at Portia. At times, she couldn’t take her eyes off her daughter.

Jake eventually made it to the subject of Mr. Seth Hubbard. Or simply Mr. Hubbard, as she was to always call him in court. Never Seth. Never Mr. Seth. Mr. Hubbard hired her as a part-time housekeeper three years earlier. How did she hear about the job opening? She did not. He called her and said a friend knew she was out of work. He happened to be looking for a part-time maid. She went through her history with Mr. Hubbard, his rules, habits, routines, and, later, his preferences in food and cooking. Three days a week became four. He gave her a raise, then another. He traveled a lot and she was often in the house with little to do. Not once in three years did he entertain or have another person over for a meal. She met Herschel and Ramona, but rarely saw them. Ramona visited once a year, and for only a few hours, and Herschel’s drop-ins were not much more frequent. She had never met any of Mr. Hubbard’s four grandchildren.