“Not so fast, Harry Rex. I’m hardly rich with forty grand in my pocket.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Jake. You’re clipping the estate for thirty thousand a month.”
“Not quite, and the rest of my practice is disappearing in the process. It’ll take me a year to get over this case. Same as Hailey.”
“But at least you’re getting paid on this one.”
“I am, and I appreciate you using your amazing skills to settle my fire claim. Thank you, Harry Rex. I’ll get the paperwork signed by this afternoon. And, I’d feel better if you would take a fee. A modest one.”
“Not for a friend, Jake, and not a modest one. If it were a fat fee I’d say screw the friendship. Besides, I can’t take any more income this quarter. Money’s piling up so fast I can’t stuff any more in the mattress. I don’t want the IRS becoming alarmed and sending in their goons again. It’s on me. What do I tell Willie?”
“Tell him to keep cutting the price.”
“He’s in town this weekend, throwing another gin-and-tonic party Saturday afternoon. He told me to invite you and Carla. Ya’ll in?”
“I’ll have to ask the boss.”
Harry Rex climbed to his feet and began stomping away. “See you Saturday.”
“Sure, and thanks again, Harry Rex.”
“Don’t mention it.” He slammed the door, and Jake chuckled to himself. What a relief to have the lawsuit settled. He could close a rather thick and depressing fish file, pay off the two mortgages, get the banks off his back, and pocket some cash. He and Carla could never replace their home, but wasn’t that the case in every major fire claim? They weren’t the only ones who’d lost everything in a disaster. Finally, they could move on and put the past behind them.
Five minutes later, Portia knocked on the door. She had something to show Jake, but they would need to take a short drive.
At noon, they left the office and crossed the tracks and drove through Lowtown, the colored section. Beyond it, at the far eastern edge of Clanton, was Burley, the old black elementary and middle school that had been abandoned in 1969 with desegregation. Not long afterward, it had been reclaimed by the county, spruced up, and put to good use as a facility for storage and maintenance. The school was a complex of four large, barnlike buildings of white wood and tin roofs. The parking lot was filled with the vehicles of county employees. Behind the school was a large maintenance shed with gravel trucks and machinery scattered around it. East, the black high school, was across the street.
Jake had known many blacks who’d gone to school at Burley, and while they were always grateful for an integrated system, there was usually a twinge of nostalgia for the old place and the old ways. They got the leftovers, the worn-out desks, books, chalkboards, typewriters, file cabinets, athletic gear, band instruments, everything. Nothing was new, it was all discarded from the white schools in Ford County. The white teachers earned less than those in any other state, and the black teachers earned only a fraction of that. Combined, there wasn’t enough money for a single good school system, but for decades the county, like all the rest, tried to maintain two. Separate but equal was a cruel farce. But in spite of its sizable disadvantages, Burley was a place of pride for those lucky enough to study there. The teachers were tough and dedicated. The odds were against them, so their successes were even sweeter. Occasionally, an alum made it through college, and he or she became a model for the younger generations.
“You say you’ve been here,” Portia said as they walked up the steps to what was once the administration building.
“Yes, once, during my rookie year with Lucien. He sent me on a goose chase to find some ancient court records. I struck out.”
They climbed the stairs to the second floor. Portia knew exactly where to go and Jake followed along. The classrooms were now packed with recycled Army file cabinets filled with old tax records and property assessments. Nothing but junk, Jake thought to himself as he read the index placards on the doors. One room held car registration records, another archived ancient editions of the local newspapers. And so on. What a waste of space and manpower.
Portia flipped on the light to a dark, windowless room, also lined with file cabinets. From a shelf she carefully lifted a heavy tome and placed it gently on a table. It was bound in dark green leather, cracked now after decades of aging and neglect. In the center was one word: “Docket.” She said, “This is a docket book from the 1920s, specifically August of 1927 through October of 1928.” She opened it slowly and with great care began turning the yellow and fragile, almost flaky pages. “Chancery Court,” she said, much like a curator in command of her subject matter.
“How much time have you spent here?” Jake asked.
“I don’t know. Hours. I’m fascinated by this stuff, Jake. The history of the county is right here in the history of its legal system.” She turned more pages, then stopped. “Here it is. June of 1928, sixty years ago.” Jake leaned down for a closer look. All entries were by hand and the ink had faded significantly. With an index finger she went down one column and said, “On June 4, 1928.” She moved to the right, to the next column. “The plaintiff, a man named Cleon Hubbard, filed a lawsuit against the defendant.” She moved to the next column. “A man named Sylvester Rinds.” She moved to the next column. “The lawsuit was described simply as a property dispute. Next column shows the attorney. Cleon Hubbard was represented by Robert E. Lee Wilbanks.”
“That’s Lucien’s grandfather,” Jake said. Both were hunched over the docket book, shoulder to shoulder. She said, “And the defendant was represented by Lamar Thisdale.”
“An old guy, dead for thirty years. You still see his name on wills and deeds. Where’s the file?” Jake asked, taking a step back. She stood straight and said, “I can’t find it.” She waved an arm around the room. “If it exists, it should be in here, but I’ve looked everywhere. There are gaps in everything and I guess it’s because of the courthouse burning down.”
Jake leaned on a file cabinet and pondered things. “So, they were fighting over some land in 1928.”
“Yes, and it’s safe to say it’s the eighty acres Seth owned when he died. We know from Lucien’s research that Sylvester owned no other land at that time. Cleon Hubbard took title to the property in 1930 and it’s been in the Hubbard family ever since.”
“And the fact that Sylvester still owned the land in 1930 is pretty clear evidence he won this lawsuit in 1928. Otherwise, Cleon Hubbard would have owned it.”
“That’s what I was going to ask you. You’re the lawyer. I’m just the lowly secretary.”
“You’re becoming a lawyer, Portia. I’m not sure you even need law school. Are you assuming Sylvester was your great-grandfather?”
“Well, my mother is pretty sure these days that he was her grandfather, that his only child was Lois, and that Lois was her mother. That would make the old guy my great-grandfather, not that we’re that close or anything.”
“Have you told Lucien what his ancestors were up to?”
“No. Should I? I mean, why bother? It’s not his fault. He wasn’t alive.”
“I would do it just to torment him. He’ll feel like crap if he knows his people represented old man Hubbard, and lost.”
“Come on, Jake. You know how Lucien hates his family and their history.”
“Yes, but he loves their assets. I would tell him.”
“Do you think the Wilbanks firm has any of its old records?”
Jake grunted and smiled and said, “I doubt if they go back sixty years. There’s a pile of junk in the attic, but nothing this old. As a rule, lawyers throw away nothing, but over time the stuff just disappears.”
“Can I go through the attic?”
“I don’t care. What are you looking for?”
“The file, something with clues. It’s pretty clear there was a dispute over the eighty acres, but what was behind it? And what happened in the case? How could a black man win a lawsuit over land in the 1920s in Mississippi? Think about it, Jake. A white landowner hired the biggest law firm in town, one with all the power and connections, to sue some poor black man over a property dispute. And the black man won, or so it appears.”
“Maybe he didn’t win. Maybe the case was still dragging on when Sylvester died.”
“Exactly. That’s it, Jake. That’s what I have to find out.”
“Good luck. I’d tell Lucien everything and enlist his help. He’ll cuss his ancestors, but he does that before breakfast most days anyway. He’ll get over it. Believe me, they did far worse.”
“Great. I’ll tell him, and I’ll start digging through the attic this afternoon.”
“Be careful. I go up there once a year and only when I have to. I seriously doubt you’ll find anything.”
“We’ll see.”
Lucien took it well. He offered a few of his usual vile condemnations of his heritage but seemed placated by the fact that his grandfather had lost the case against Sylvester Rinds. Without invitation, he launched into history and explained to Portia, and at times throughout the afternoon to Jake as well, that Robert E. Lee Wilbanks had been born during Reconstruction and had spent most of his life laboring under the belief that slavery would one day return. The family managed to keep the carpetbaggers away from its land, and Robert, to his credit, built a dynasty that included banks, railroads, politics, and the law. He’d been a harsh, unpleasant man, and as a child Lucien had feared him. But give the devil his due. The fine home Lucien now owned had been built by dear old grandpa and properly handed down.
After hours, they climbed to the attic and slid further into history. Jake hung around for a while, but soon realized it was a waste of time. The files went back to 1965, the year Lucien inherited the law firm after his father and uncle were killed in a plane crash. Someone, probably Ethel Twitty, the legendary secretary, had cleaned house and purged the old records.
35
Two weeks before the scheduled start of the war, the lawyers and their staffs met in the main courtroom for a pretrial conference. Such gatherings were unheard-of back in the old days, but the more modern rules of engagement called for them and even provided an acronym, the PTC. Lawyers like Wade Lanier who fought on the civil side were well versed in the strategies and nuances of the PTC. Jake less so. Reuben Atlee had never presided over one, though he would not admit this. For him and his Chancery Court, a major trial was a nasty divorce with money on the line. These were rare, and he handled them the same way he had for thirty years, modern rules be damned.
Critics of the new rules of discovery and procedure whined that the PTC was nothing more than a rehearsal for the trial, and thus it required the lawyers to prepare twice. It was time-consuming, expensive, burdensome, and also restrictive. A document, an issue, or a witness not properly covered in the PTC could not be considered at trial. Old lawyers like Lucien who reveled in dirty tricks and ambushes hated the new rules because they were designed to promote fairness and transparency. “Trials are not about fairness, Jake, trials are about winning,” he’d said a thousand times.
