“Okay. This pie you’re talking about, how do you want to slice it?”
A long gulp, followed by a backhand wipe of the mouth, and Stillman lunged onward. “Let’s be honest, Jake, Lettie Lang is entitled to very little. In the scheme of things, and in the normal transition of assets and estates, she just doesn’t figure in. She’s not family, and regardless of how screwed up a family might be, the money almost always gets handed down to the next generation. You know that. Ninety percent of all money that flows through wills goes to family members. Ninety percent in Mississippi, same in New York and California, where they have, shall we say, bigger estates. And look at the law. If a person dies with no will, then all money and assets go to blood kin and no one else. Keeping the money in the family is preferred by the law.”
“True, but we can’t settle this case if Lettie is told she gets nothing.”
“Of course not, Jake. Give her a couple of million. Can you imagine that? Lettie Lang, unemployed, a career housekeeper, suddenly walks away with two million bucks, and that’s after taxes? I’m not denigrating the woman, Jake; hell, I came to like her during her deposition. She’s pleasant, even funny, a good person. I’m not being critical of her, but come on, Jake, do you know how many black people in Mississippi are worth seven figures?”
“Enlighten me.”
“According to the 1980 census, seven black folks in this state claimed to be worth more than a million dollars. All men, most were in construction or real estate. Lettie would be the richest black woman in the state.”
“And your client and his sister split the remaining ten million?” Jake asked.
“Something like that. Give a nice gift to the church, and we’ll split the rest.”
“That would be a good deal for you guys,” Jake said. “You’ll rake off a third of almost five million. Not a bad payday.”
“I didn’t say we’re getting a third, Jake.”
“But you’re getting a percentage?”
“I can’t say, but sure, it’ll be a nice payday.”
For some, thought Jake. If the case settled now, his fees would be severely reined in. “Have you discussed this with Wade Lanier?”
Stillman grimaced at the mention of his name. “That’s another story. Lanier wants my client, who, for now, is sticking with me. I don’t trust Lanier and I’ll spend the next six months looking over my shoulder. What a snake.”
“So the answer is no?”
“The answer is no. I haven’t discussed it with anyone.”
“I take it things are tense between your client and his client.”
“I suppose. Herschel and Ramona can get along when they have to, but Ian is the problem. Herschel said he and Ian can’t stand one another, never have. He sees Ian as a privileged little prick from a stuffy old family that managed to lose it all, and so he’s trying hard to regain some status and play the big shot. He’s always looked down on the Hubbards as something slightly above white trash, until now of course. Now he’s suddenly enamored with the family and has deep concerns for its well-being.”
It was not lost on Jake that Stillman referred to someone else as a “privileged little prick from a stuffy old family.”
“What a surprise,” he said. “Look, Stillman, I just spent eight and a half hours playing pitch and catch with Ramona, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say the woman drinks too much. The red, leaky eyes, the puffiness partially hidden under makeup, the extra layer of wrinkles that seem too much for a woman of only forty-two. I’m an expert on drunks because I’m close to Lucien Wilbanks.”
“Herschel says she’s a lush who’s been threatening to leave Ian for years,” Stillman said, and Jake was impressed with his candor.
“Now, she can’t run him off,” Jake said.
“Oh no. I think Ian is once again madly in love with his wife. I have a pal in Jackson who knows some of Ian’s drinking buddies. They say he likes the ladies.”
“I’ll ask him about it tomorrow.”
“Do that. The point is, Herschel and Ian will never trust each other.”
They ordered more beers and finished off their first round. Stillman said, “You don’t seem too excited about the prospects of a settlement.”
“You’re ignoring what the old man wanted. He was very clear, both in his will and in his letter to me. He directed me to defend his handwritten will at all costs, to the bitter end.”
“He directed you?”
“Yes. In a letter that accompanied the will. You’ll see it later. He was very specific in his desire to cut out his family.”
“But he’s dead.”
“It’s still his money. How can we redirect his money when his wishes were quite clear? It’s not right, and I doubt if Judge Atlee would approve it.”
“And if you lose?”
“Then I’ll lose doing what I was directed to do. Defend the will at all costs.”
The second beers arrived just as Harry Rex lumbered by without speaking. He seemed preoccupied and did not look at Jake. It was not yet 6:00 p.m., too early for Harry Rex to leave the office. He crawled into a booth by himself in a corner and tried to hide.
Stillman wiped foam from his mouth again and asked, “Why’d he do it, Jake? Any clues so far?”
“Not really,” Jake said with a shrug, as though he would honestly share inside dirt with his opponent. He wouldn’t give Stillman Rush the time of day if it could possibly help his cause.
“Sex?”
Another casual shrug, a quick shake of the head, a frown. “I don’t think so. The old guy was seventy-one, a heavy smoker, sick, frail, eaten up with cancer. It’s hard to imagine him having the energy and stamina to get it on with any woman.”
“He wasn’t sick two years ago.”
“True, but there’s no way to prove it.”
“I’m not talking about proof, Jake. Or evidence or trials or anything else. I’m just speculating. There’s got to be a reason.”
Then figure it out yourself, asshole, Jake thought but didn’t say. He was amused at Stillman’s clumsy effort at gossip, as if the two were old drinking buddies who often shared secrets. Loose lips sink ships, Harry Rex was fond of saying. Loose lips lose lawsuits.
Jake said, “It’s hard to believe a little sex could be worth twenty-four million.”
Stillman laughed and said, “Not so sure. Wars have been fought over it.”
“True.”
“No interest in pursuing a settlement?”
“No. I have my marching orders.”
“You’ll be sorry.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Not at all. The way we see it, Booker Sistrunk has already pissed off every white person in Ford County.”
“Didn’t know you were such an expert on Ford County.”
“Look, Jake, you got one huge, sensational verdict here. Don’t let it go to your head.”
“I wasn’t looking for advice.”
“Maybe you need it.”
“From you?”
Stillman drained his mug and sat it hard on the table. “Gotta run. I’ll pay at the bar.” He was already out of the booth and reaching into a pocket. Jake watched him leave, cursed him, then eased deeper into the room and slid into the booth opposite Harry Rex.
“Sitting among your friends?” Jake asked.
“Well, well, so Carla let you out of the house.” Harry Rex was working on a Bud Light and reading a magazine, which he put aside.
“I just had my first and last drink with Stillman Rush.”
“How thrilling. Let me guess. He wants to settle.”
“How’d you know?”
“Figures. A quick deal and those boys make out like bandits.”
Jake described Stillman’s version of a fair settlement, and they had a good laugh. A waiter delivered a platter of nachos and dip. “Is this your dinner?” Jake asked.
“Naw, this is high tea. I’m headed back to the office. You’ll never guess who’s in town.”
“Who?”
“Remember Willie Traynor, used to own the Times?”
“Sort of. I met him once or twice, years ago. Seems like he sold the paper about the time I arrived here.”
“That’s right. Willie bought it in 1970 from the Caudle family. It was in bankruptcy and I think he paid something like fifty grand for it. Sold it ten years later for one point five mill.” Harry Rex loaded up a nacho and stuffed it in his mouth. Pausing only slightly, he continued, “He never really fit in around here, so he went back to Memphis, where he was from, and lost his ass in real estate. Then his grandmother died and left him another bundle. He’s in the process of losing it too, I think. We were pretty close back in the day and he pops in from time to time, looking for a drink.”