“The answer is no.”

“No surprise. How do you suggest we proceed?”

“It’s very simple, Stillman. Let’s file a joint request with the court to have a hearing to address the situation. Judge Atlee will look at both wills, and, believe me, he’ll devise a game plan. I practice in his court every month and there’s no doubt who’ll be in charge.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Lewis McGwyre said. “I’ve known Reuben for many years, and I think we should start with him.”

“I’ll be happy to arrange things,” Jake said.

“So you haven’t spoken to him yet?” Stillman asked.

“Of course not. He knows nothing about this. The funeral was yesterday, remember?”

They managed to exchange cordial good-byes and separate peacefully, though all four knew they were in for a brawl.

Lucien was sitting on his front porch, drinking what appeared to be lemonade, which he occasionally did when his body and his life became so overwhelmed with sour mash that he managed to break free for a week or so and suffer the horrors of detox. The porch wrapped around an old house on a hill just outside Clanton, with a view of the town below and the courthouse cupola square in the middle. The house, like most of Lucien’s assets and burdens, was a hand-me-down from ancestors he deemed wretched, but who, with hindsight, had done an admirable job of securing for him a comfortable life. Lucien was sixty-three but an old man, his face grizzled and whiskered gray to match his long unkempt hair. The whiskey and cigarettes were adding patches of wrinkles to his face. Too much time on the porch was adding a thickness to his waist and a gloominess to his always complicated moods.

He’d lost his license to practice nine years earlier, and, according to the terms of his disbarment, he could now apply for reinstatement. He’d dropped that bomb on Jake a couple of times to gauge his response, but got nothing. Nothing visible anyway, but just under the surface Jake was mortified at the thought of reacquiring a senior partner who owned the building and was impossible to work with, or under. If Lucien became a lawyer again, and moved back in his office, Jake’s current one, and started suing everyone who crossed him and defending pedophiles and rapists and capital murderers, Jake wouldn’t last six months.

“How are you, Lucien?” Jake said as he climbed the steps.

Sober, clear-eyed, and feeling fresh, Lucien replied, “I’m fine, Jake. Always a pleasure to see you.”

“You offered lunch. Have I ever said no to lunch?” Weather permitting, they ate at least twice a month on the porch.

“Not that I recall,” Lucien said, standing in his bare feet and offering a hand. They shook heartily, did the quick shoulder-pat thing that men do when they really don’t want to hug one another, and took their seats in aging white wicker chairs that had not been moved more than six inches since Jake’s first visit a decade earlier.

Sallie eventually appeared and said hi to Jake. He said iced tea would be fine and she strolled away, never in a hurry. She had been hired as a housekeeper, then promoted to a nurse to care for Lucien when he threw a bender and checked out for two weeks. At some point, she moved in, and for a while the gossip rippled through Clanton. It died soon enough, though, because nothing Lucien Wilbanks could do would really shock anyone.

Sallie brought the iced tea and poured more lemonade. When she was gone, Jake said, “On the wagon?”

“No, never. Just taking a break. I’d like to live for twenty more years, Jake, and I worry about my liver. I don’t want to die and I don’t want to give up Jack Daniel’s, so I’m in a constant quandary. I worry about this all the time, and the worry and stress and pressure eventually become too much and can only be alleviated by the Jack.”

“Sorry I asked.”

“Are you drinking?”

“Not really. An occasional beer, but we don’t keep it around the house. Carla frowns on it, you know.”

“My second wife frowned on it too and she didn’t last a year. But, then, she didn’t look like Carla.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“Don’t mention it. Sallie’s cooking vegetables if that’s okay.”

“Delicious.”

There was an unwritten checklist of topics they always covered and usually in an order that was so predictable Jake often suspected that Lucien had notes tucked away somewhere. The family—Carla and Hanna; the office and the current secretary and any profitable cases that had popped up since the last visit; the lawsuit against the insurance company; the investigation into the Klan; the latest on Mack Stafford, the attorney who had disappeared and taken his clients’ money; gossip about other lawyers, and judges; college football; and, of course, the weather.

They moved to a small table at the other end of the porch where Sallie was arranging lunch—butter beans, squash, stewed tomatoes, and corn bread. They filled their plates, and she disappeared again.

After a few bites, in total silence, Jake asked, “Did you ever know Seth Hubbard?”

“I saw it in the paper this morning. Quite sad. I met him once or twice fifteen years ago, some trifling legal matter. Never sued him, though, so I’ll always regret that. He might’ve had some assets. I tried to sue everyone with assets, which, as you know, is a pretty damned small class around here. Why?”

“I have a hypothetical for you.”

“Can’t it wait? I’m eating.”

“No, listen. You have some assets, no wife, no kids, some distant relatives, and you have a lovely black housekeeper who gives appearances of being something a little more than just a housekeeper.”

“This sounds like meddling. Where are we going?”

“If you wrote a new will today, who might get your assets?”

“Damned sure wouldn’t be you.”

“No surprise, and I can assure you you’re not mentioned in my will either.”

“No loss. By the way, you haven’t paid last month’s rent.”

“Check’s in the mail. Can you answer my question?”

“No. I don’t like your question.”

“Come on. Play along. Humor me. If you wrote a new will right now, who would get everything?”

Lucien shoved corn bread into his mouth and chewed slowly. He glanced around to make sure Sallie wasn’t listening. Finally, he said, “None of your business. Why?”

Jake reached into his coat pocket and whipped out some papers. “Get a load of this. The last will and testament of Seth Hubbard, written last Saturday in thoughtful consideration of what he was about to do on Sunday. The original arrived in my office mailbox on Monday.”

Lucien adjusted his reading glasses, sipped some lemonade, and read Seth’s will. As he flipped to the second page, his face relaxed considerably and he began to smile. He was nodding along with old Seth by the time he finished. “I like it,” he said, lowering it and grinning at Jake. “I’m assuming Lettie is the black housekeeper.”

“Correct. I met her yesterday for the first time. Name ring a bell?”

Lucien thought for a moment as he held the will and forgot about lunch. “I don’t recall any Taybers, perhaps a Lang or two. Box Hill is a strange part of the county and I never spent any time up there.” He read it again as Jake continued eating.