“What’s he worth?” Lucien asked as he refolded the sheets of paper and handed them back to Jake.

“Twenty million, give or take,” Jake said nonchalantly, as if that was the typical estate in Ford County. “He did well in furniture and timber.”

“Evidently.”

“Now it’s all in cash, for the most part.”

Lucien began laughing. “Just what this town needs,” he said as he shook. “A brand-new black millionaire with more money than anyone else.”

“She doesn’t have it yet,” Jake said, enjoying the levity. “I just met with some lawyers from the Rush firm and they basically promised a war.”

“Of course. Wouldn’t you fight over that kind of money?”

“Sure. I’d fight over a lot less.”

“So would I.”

“Did you ever handle a nasty will contest?”

“Oh, so that’s where we’re going. You need some free legal advice from a disbarred lawyer.”

“These cases are pretty rare.”

Lucien worked a mouthful and scratched his beard. He shook his head and said, “No, nothing. Look, the Wilbanks family has fought over its land and stocks and deposits for a hundred years; everything has been fought over, bitterly at times. There have been fistfights, divorces, suicides, duels, threats of murder, you name it and a Wilbanks has done it. But, we’ve always managed to keep it out of the courts.”

Sallie appeared and topped off their glasses. They ate in silence for a few minutes. Lucien was staring at the front lawn, his eyes glowing, his mind racing. “Fascinating, isn’t it, Jake?”

“It is indeed.”

“And either side can demand a trial by jury, right?”

“Yes, the law has not been changed. And, the request for a jury trial must be made before any hearing, so it must be dealt with soon. That’s what I want you to ponder, Lucien. That’s the big issue of the day. Do I play it before a jury, or do I trust Judge Atlee with the decision?”

“What if Atlee recuses himself?”

“He won’t because this case will be too much fun. The largest estate he’ll ever see, a packed courtroom, high drama, and, if there’s a jury, then Atlee gets to preside over the circus while hiding behind its verdict.”

“You may be right.”

“The question is, Can you trust a Ford County jury? Three blacks, four at the most.”

“The Hailey jury was all white as I recall.”

“This is not Carl Lee Hailey, Lucien. Far from it. That was all about race. This is all about money.”

“Everything is about race in Mississippi, Jake, don’t ever forget that. A simple black woman on the verge of inheriting what might be the largest fortune this county has ever seen, and the decision rests with a jury that’s predominantly white. It’s race and money, Jake, a rare combination around here.”

“So you wouldn’t risk a jury?”

“I didn’t say that. Allow me to consider this for a spell, okay? My valuable advice, though still free to you, often needs proper reflection.”

“Fair enough.”

“I might stop by this afternoon. I’m looking for an old book that might be in the attic.”

“You own the place,” Jake said, shoving away his plate.

“And you’re late with the rent.”

“Sue me.”

“I’d love to but you’re broke. You’re living in a rental house and your car has almost as many miles as mine.”

“I guess I should’ve gone into the furniture business.”

“Anything but the law. I like this case, Jake. I might want to work on it.”

“Sure, Lucien,” Jake managed to say without hesitation. “Stop by late this afternoon and we’ll chat.” He stood and dropped his napkin on the table.

“No coffee?”

“No, I need to run. Thanks for lunch and pass along my regards to Sallie.”

11

A nosy paralegal sniffing through old land records down the hall heard the gossip as it drifted over from a watercooler, and went to make copies of the latest will to be filed for probate in Ford County. Back at the office, he showed it to his bosses, made even more copies, and began faxing here and there. His bosses faxed it too, and by noon Wednesday copies of Seth’s two-page will were popping up all over the county. The “perish in pain” wish was a favorite touch, but speculation about the deceased’s net worth soon dominated the discussion.

As soon as Herschel left his father’s home, he called his lawyer in Memphis to pass along the wonderful news that he would soon be inheriting “several” million dollars. Of particular concern was his ex-wife—he was still bleeding from the divorce—and he was curious if she could make a claim. No she could not, his lawyer assured him. The lawyer called a lawyer friend down in Tupelo for no reason other than to spread rumors, and in doing so managed to include the bit about Seth Hubbard having a net worth “in excess of $20 million.” The lawyer in Tupelo called some friends. The size of the estate began to grow.

As soon as Ian Dafoe got on the Natchez Trace Parkway and headed south, he set his cruise control on fifty and settled in for the pleasant drive. Traffic was light; the sun was up; the leaves were beginning to change and some were dropping in the breeze. Though his wife, as always, was complicating his life, he had reason to smile. He had managed to defuse the divorce talk, at least for the moment. She was hungover and she had just buried her father and her nerves were shot anyway, and even on a good day Ramona dealt poorly with adversity. He could pacify her, bring her around, kiss her ass enough to gloss over their problems, and set about the task of managing their new wealth. Together. He was certain he could handle this.

She was lying across the rear seat, on her back with a forearm over her eyes, trying to sleep it off. She had stopped talking and her breathing was heavy. He turned around often to make sure she was out of it, then he carefully reached for his new car phone and called the office. Speaking as softly as possible, he offered only the minimum to Rodney, his partner: “The old boy’s gone … estate’s somewhere north of twenty mill … furniture and lumber … pretty amazing … had no idea … just saw the will … 40 percent, after taxes … not bad … about a year … not kidding … more later.”

Ian drove on, smiling at the foliage and dreaming of a better life. Even if they got a divorce, he’d still get a piece of her inheritance, right? He thought about calling his lawyer, but wisely decided to wait. The phone rang suddenly, startling him and waking up Ramona. “Hello,” he said.

On the other end, a stiff male voice said, “Yes, hello, Ian, Stillman Rush here, hope I didn’t disturb. We’re on our way back to Tupelo.”

“Not at all. We’re on the Trace with a couple of hours to go. Nothing to do but talk.”

“Yes, well, look, there’s been a slight complication, so I’ll just go ahead and get right to the point.” His voice had a nervous tinge to it, and Ian knew immediately that something was wrong. Ramona sat up in the rear seat and rubbed her swollen eyes.

Stillman went on: “We didn’t get the chance to open Mr. Hubbard’s estate after we saw you this morning because another will has already been presented. Seems as though a lawyer in Clanton hustled over to the courthouse late yesterday afternoon and filed a handwritten will that Mr. Hubbard purportedly wrote last Saturday, the day before he died. Handwritten wills are still valid, if they meet certain criteria. This will is just awful. It leaves nothing to the family—Ramona and Herschel are specifically cut out—and instead gives 90 percent of the estate to Lettie Lang, the housekeeper.”