Pankey passed out thick booklets for their reading pleasure, though the lawyers had already spent hours with the material. Beginning with Ambrose and ending with Young, there was a one- or two-page summary of each juror. Many included photos of homes and automobiles, and a few had actual photos of the jurors. These were taken from church and club directories, high school yearbooks, and a few candid shots handed over on the sly by friends.

Pankey was saying, “Our perfect juror is a Caucasian over the age of fifty. The younger people went to integrated schools and tend to be more tolerant on race, and obviously we are not looking for tolerance. Sadly for us, the more racist the better. White women are slightly preferable over white men, and this is because they tend to show more jealousy toward another woman who has managed to manipulate the will. A man might excuse another man for fooling around with his housekeeper, but a woman is not so understanding.”

Seventy-five thousand for this? Herschel doodled to himself. Isn’t this fairly obvious? He shot a bored look at his sister, who was looking old and tired. Things were not going well with Ian, and the Hubbard siblings had spoken on the phone more in the past three months than in the past ten years. Ian’s deals were not paying off, and the strained marriage was continuing to crack. Ian spent most of his time on the Gulf Coast where he and some partners were renovating a mall. This was fine with her; she didn’t want him at home. She talked openly of divorce, to Herschel anyway. But if they lost this case, she might be stuck. We’re not going to lose, Herschel kept reassuring her.

They slogged through the research until 7:30, when Wade Lanier said he’d had enough. They drove to a fish shack overlooking Lake Chatulla, and enjoyed a long meal, just the lawyers and their clients. After a few drinks their nerves were settled, and they managed to relax. Like most trial lawyers, Wade Lanier was a gifted storyteller and he regaled them with hilarious tales from his courtroom brawls. More than once, he said, “We’re gonna win, folks. Just trust me.”

Lucien was in his hotel room, a Jack on the rocks on his nightstand, his nose stuck deep into another impenetrable Faulkner novel, when the phone rang. A weak voice on the other end said, “Is this Mr. Wilbanks?”

“It is,” Lucien said, gently closing the book and swinging his feet to the floor.

“This is Lonny Clark, Mr. Wilbanks.”

“Please call me Lucien, and I’ll call you Lonny, okay?”

“Okay.”

“How are you feeling tonight, Lonny?”

“Better, much better. You came to my room last night, didn’t you, Lucien? I know you did. I thought I was dreaming last night when a stranger appeared in my room and said something to me, but then when I met you today I recognized you and I recalled your voice.”

“I’m afraid you were indeed dreaming, Lonny.”

“No, I wasn’t. Because you came the night before too. Friday night and Saturday night, it was you. I know it was.”

“No one can get in your room, Lonny. There’s a cop at the door, around the clock I’m told.”

Lonny paused as if he didn’t know this; or if he did, then how could a stranger sneak into his room? Finally he said, “The stranger said something about Sylvester Rinds. Do you know Sylvester Rinds, Lucien?”

“Where is he from?” Lucien asked, casually taking a sip.

“I’m asking you, Lucien. Do you know Sylvester Rinds?”

“I’ve lived in Ford County all my life, Lonny. I know everyone, black and white. But something tells me Sylvester Rinds died before I was born. Did you know him?”

“I don’t know. It’s all so muddled now. And so long ago …” His voice faded as if he’d dropped the phone.

Keep him talking, Lucien said to himself. “I’m much more interested in Ancil Hubbard,” he said. “Any luck with that name, Lonny?”

Weakly, he said, “I might be onto something. Can you stop by tomorrow?”

“Of course. What time?”

“Come early. I’m not as tired in the mornings.”

“What time will the doctors be finished with their rounds?”

“I don’t know. Nine or so.”

“I’ll be there at nine thirty, Lonny.”

39

Nevin Dark parked his truck facing the courthouse and checked his watch. He was early, but that was the plan. He had never before been summoned for jury duty, and he could grudgingly admit to being somewhat excited. He farmed two hundred acres west of Karaway and rarely made it to Clanton; indeed, he could not remember his last trip to the county seat. For the occasion he wore his newest pair of starched khakis and a leather flight jacket handed down by his father, who’d flown in World War II. His wife had firmly pressed his cotton shirt with buttons on the collar. Nevin was rarely this dressed up. He paused and gazed around the courthouse, looking for others who might be holding a summons.

Of the case, he knew little. His wife’s brother, a blowhard, had said he thought the trial was over a will that was handwritten, but beyond that the details were scarce. Neither Nevin nor his wife subscribed to the local newspapers. They had not been to church in ten years, so that rich source of gossip had passed them by. The summons said nothing about the type of jury service facing him. Nevin had never heard of Seth Hubbard, nor Lettie Lang. He would recognize the name of Jake Brigance, but only because Jake was from Karaway and the Hailey trial had been so notorious.

In short, Nevin was a model juror: reasonably smart, fair-minded, and uninformed. The summons was folded in his coat pocket. He walked around the square to kill a few minutes, then wandered over to the courthouse where things were getting busy. He climbed the stairs and joined the crowd milling around the large oak doors of the main courtroom. Two deputies in uniform were holding clipboards. Nevin was eventually processed through, and as he entered the courtroom a clerk smiled and pointed to a seat on the left side. He sat down next to an attractive lady in a short skirt, and within two minutes she informed Nevin that she taught school with Carla Brigance and would probably not make the cut. When he confessed he knew nothing about the case, she found it hard to believe. All the jurors were whispering away as they watched the lawyers move about with their important airs. The bench was empty. Half a dozen clerks moved papers here and there, doing little really but trying to justify their presence in the biggest will contest in the history of Ford County. Some of the lawyers had no connections at all, no reason to be there, but a courtroom filled with prospective jurors always attracted a few of the courthouse regulars.

For example, a lawyer named Chuck Rhea had no clients, no office, and no money. He occasionally checked land titles; thus, he was always in the courthouse, killing enormous amounts of time, sipping free coffee from whatever office had the freshest pot, flirting with the clerks who knew him well, gossiping with every lawyer who came within earshot, and in general just being there. Chuck rarely missed a trial. Since he had none of his own, he watched all the others. On this day he was wearing his darkest suit and his wing tips fairly gleamed with fresh polish. He spoke to Jake and Harry Rex—men who knew him all too well—and also to the out-of-town lawyers, who by then knew that Chuck was just another fixture. Every courthouse had them.

A gentleman to Nevin’s left struck up a conversation. He said he owned a fence company in Clanton and had once put up some chain link for Harry Rex Vonner’s hunting dogs. He pointed and said, “That fat one over there in the bad suit. That’s Harry Rex Vonner. Meanest divorce lawyer in the county.”