“Not much of a loss. Just one less lawyer to deal with. I found Stillman less than impressive.”

Jake bit his tongue and managed to say nothing. If His Honor wanted to trash another lawyer, Jake was certainly willing to participate. But he had a hunch that nothing else would be said, not by the old guy.

“Have you met this fella Arthur Welch, from Clarksdale?” Judge Atlee asked.

“No sir. I just know he’s a friend of Harry Rex’s.”

“We spoke by phone this morning and he says he’ll represent Mr. Lang in the divorce also, though there won’t be much to do. He says his client will agree to waive everything and get it over with. Not that it matters. With his bail, and the charges, he won’t be getting out anytime soon.”

Jake nodded in agreement. Arthur Welch was doing exactly what Harry Rex told him to do, and Harry Rex was briefing Jake on all of it.

“Thanks for granting the restraining order,” Jake said. “That certainly read well in the newspaper.”

“It seems rather foolish to tell a man who’s in jail and locked up for a while that he can’t get near his wife and family, but not everything I do makes sense.”

True, Jake thought, but said nothing. They watched the grass bend with the wind and the leaves scatter. Judge Atlee sipped his drink and thought about what he’d just said. Changing the subject, he asked, “Any news on Ancil Hubbard?”

“Nothing, really. We’ve spent $30,000 so far and still don’t know if he’s alive. The pros suspect he is, though, primarily because they can find no evidence that he’s ever died. But they’re digging.”

“Stay after it. I’m still cautious about proceeding to trial without something definite.”

“We really should delay it for a few months, Judge, while we finish the search.”

“And while the people around here get over the Roston tragedy.”

“That too.”

“Bring it up when we meet on March 20. I’ll consider it then.”

Jake took a deep breath and said, “Judge, I need to hire a jury consultant for the trial.”

“What’s a jury consultant?”

Jake was not surprised by the question. Jury consultants did not exist back in the judge’s heyday as a lawyer, nor did His Honor pay attention to trends. Jake said, “An expert who does several things. First, he will study the demographics of the county and analyze this in light of the case to compose the model juror. He will then do a telephone survey using generic names but similar facts to gauge the public’s reaction. Once we get the names in the pool, he’ll do background research on all of the prospective jurors, at a safe distance of course. When the selection process begins, he’ll actually be in the courtroom to observe the pool. These guys are quite good at reading body language and such. And once the trial starts he’ll be in the courtroom every day reading the jurors. He’ll know which witnesses are believed, which are not believed, and which way the jury is leaning.”

“That’s a lot. How much does he cost?”

Jake gritted his teeth and said, “Fifty thousand dollars.”

“The answer is no.”

“Sir?”

“No. I will not authorize the expenditure of that kind of money from the estate. Sounds like a waste to me.”

“It’s pretty standard these days in big jury trials, Judge.”

“I find such a fee unconscionable. It’s the lawyer’s job to pick the jury, Jake, not some fancy consultant’s. Back in my day, I relished the challenge of reading the minds and body language of prospective jurors and picking just the right ones. I had a real talent for it, Jake, if I do say so myself.”

Yes sir. Like the case of the One-Eyed Preacher.

Back in his day, some thirty years earlier, young Reuben Atlee was hired by the First United Methodist Church of Clanton to defend it in a lawsuit brought by a Pentecostal evangelist who was in town whipping up the devotees in the annual Fall Revival. Part of his routine was to visit other mainstream churches in town and exorcise evil spirits on their front steps. He and a handful of his rabid followers claimed that these older, more sedate congregations were corrupting the Word of God and placating backsliders and otherwise serving as havens for alleged Christians who were lukewarm at best. God had ordered him to call out these heretics on their own turf, and so each afternoon during Revival Week! he and his little gang huddled at the various churches for prayers and rants. For the most part, they were ignored by the Methodists, Presbyterians, Baptists, and Episcopalians. At the Methodist church, the evangelist, while praying at full throttle and with his eyes fiercely closed, lost his balance and fell down eight marble steps. He was grievously wounded and suffered brain damage. He lost his right eye. A year later (1957) he filed suit, claiming negligence on the part of the church. He wanted $50,000.

Reuben Atlee was incensed over the lawsuit and eagerly took on the defense of the church, and for no fee. He was a man of faith and considered it his Christian duty to defend a legitimate house of worship from such a worthless claim. During jury selection, he famously and arrogantly told the judge, “Give me the first twelve.”

The lawyer for the preacher wisely acceded, and the first twelve were sworn in and seated in the jury box. The lawyer proved the church’s front steps were in bad repair and had been neglected for years. There had been complaints, and so on. Reuben Atlee stomped around the courtroom, full of arrogance and bluster and indignation that the lawsuit had even been filed. After two days, the jury gave the preacher $40,000, a record for Ford County. It was a nasty rebuke to lawyer Atlee and he was ridiculed for years, until he got himself elected Chancellor.

Later, it was learned that five of the first twelve jurors were also Pentecostals, a notoriously clannish and sensitive bunch. A cursory probing by any lawyer would have revealed this. Thirty years on, “Give me the first twelve” was often mumbled in jest by lawyers as they surveyed the pool of prospects sitting expectantly in the main courtroom.

The One-Eyed Preacher was later elected to the state senate, brain damage and all.

Jake said, “I’m sure Wade Lanier will have a jury consultant. He uses them all the time. I’m just trying to level the playing field. That’s all.”

“Did you use one in the Hailey trial?” Judge Atlee asked.

“No sir. I got paid $900 for that trial, Judge. By the time it was over I couldn’t afford my telephone bill.”

“And you won anyway. I’m getting concerned over the costs of this administration and litigation.”

“The estate’s worth twenty-four million, Judge. We haven’t spent 1 percent of that.”

“Yes, but at the rate you’re going it won’t be long.”

“I’m not exactly padding the file.”

“I’m not questioning your fees, Jake. But we’ve paid accountants, appraisers, Quince Lundy, you, investigators, court reporters, and now we’re paying experts to testify at trial. I realize we’re doing this because Seth Hubbard was foolish enough to make such a will, and he knew there would be a nasty fight over it, but, nonetheless, we have a duty to protect his estate.” He made it sound as though the money was coming out of his own pocket. His tone was clearly unsympathetic, and Jake was reminded of Harry Rex’s warnings.

He took a deep breath and let it pass. With two strikes—no change of venue, no jury consultant—Jake decided to leave things alone; he would try again another day. Not that it mattered. Judge Atlee was suddenly snoring.

Boaz Rinds lived in a sad, run-down nursing home on the edge of the north-south highway leading to and from the small town of Pell City, Alabama. After a four-hour drive, with some detours, wrong turns and dead ends, Portia and Lettie found the place just after lunch on a Saturday. Talking to distant kinfolk in Chicago, Charley Pardue had been able to track down Boaz. Charley was working hard to keep in touch with his newest and favorite cousin. The profit outlook for the funeral home was looking stronger each week, and it would soon be time to strike.