Remember the rules, Lettie, Jake kept saying. Smile, but nothing phony. Speak clearly and slowly. It’s okay to cry if you feel real emotion. If you’re not sure, don’t speak. The jurors are watching intently, and they miss nothing. Look at them occasionally, but with confidence. Don’t let Wade Lanier rattle you. I’ll always be there to protect you.

Harry Rex wanted to scream another piece of advice: “We’re talking about twenty-four million bucks here, so put on the performance of a lifetime!” But he controlled himself. When he returned with a beer, Portia said, “We’ve had enough, Jake. We’ll go home and sit on the porch and talk some more, and we’ll be here early in the morning.”

“Okay. I think we’re all tired.”

After they left, Jake and Harry Rex went upstairs and sat on Jake’s balcony. The night was warm but clear, a perfect spring night that was difficult to appreciate. Jake sipped a beer and relaxed for the first time in many hours.

“Any word from Lucien?” Harry Rex asked.

“No, but I forgot to check the phone messages.”

“We’re lucky, you know. Lucky he’s in Alaska and not sitting right here carping about everything that went wrong today.”

“That’s your job, right?”

“Right, but I got no complaints, so far. You had a good day, Jake. You made a good opening statement, one the jury heard and appreciated, then you called twelve witnesses, and not a one got burned. The evidence leans strongly in your favor, at least at this point. You couldn’t have asked for a better day.”

“And the jury?”

“They like you, but it’s too early to speculate on how much they like or dislike Lettie. Tomorrow will be revealing.”

“Tomorrow is crucial, buddy. Lettie can win the case, or she can lose it.”

43

The lawyers met with Judge Atlee in his chambers at 8:45 Wednesday morning and agreed there were no pending motions or issues to iron out before the trial proceeded. For the third day in a row, His Honor was spry, almost hyper, as if the excitement of a big trial had rejuvenated him. The lawyers had been up all night, either working or worrying, and looked as frayed as they felt. The old judge, though, was ready to go.

In the courtroom he welcomed everyone, thanked the spectators for their keen interest in our judicial system, and told the bailiff to bring in the jurors. When they were seated, he greeted them warmly and asked if there were any problems. Any unauthorized contact? Anything suspicious? Everyone feeling okay? Very well, Mr. Brigance, proceed.

Jake stood and said, “Your Honor, the proponents call Ms. Lettie Lang.”

Portia had told her not to wear anything fitting or tight or even remotely sexy. Early that morning, long before breakfast, they had argued about the dress. Portia won. It was a navy-blue cotton dress with a loose belt, a nice enough dress but one that a housekeeper might wear to work, nothing Lettie would wear to church. The shoes were low-heeled sandals. No jewelry. No watch. Nothing to indicate she had a spare dime or might be contemplating a haul of cash. In the past month she had stopped tinting her gray hair. It was natural now, and she looked all of her forty-seven years.

She was practically stuttering by the time she swore to tell the truth. She looked at Portia sitting behind Jake’s chair. Her daughter gave her a smile—a signal that she should smile too.

The packed courtroom was silent as Jake approached the podium. He asked her name, address, place of employment—softballs that she handled well. Names of children and grandchildren. Yes, Marvis, her oldest, was in prison. Her husband was Simeon Lang, now in jail, awaiting prosecution. She had filed for divorce a month earlier and expected it to become final in a few weeks. Some background—education, church, prior jobs. It was all scripted and at times her answers sounded stiff and rote, even memorized, which they were. She glanced at the jurors, but was rattled when she realized they were staring right back. As her handlers had discussed, when she felt nervous she was to look directly at Portia. At times, she couldn’t take her eyes off her daughter.

Jake eventually made it to the subject of Mr. Seth Hubbard. Or simply Mr. Hubbard, as she was to always call him in court. Never Seth. Never Mr. Seth. Mr. Hubbard hired her as a part-time housekeeper three years earlier. How did she hear about the job opening? She did not. He called her and said a friend knew she was out of work. He happened to be looking for a part-time maid. She went through her history with Mr. Hubbard, his rules, habits, routines, and, later, his preferences in food and cooking. Three days a week became four. He gave her a raise, then another. He traveled a lot and she was often in the house with little to do. Not once in three years did he entertain or have another person over for a meal. She met Herschel and Ramona, but rarely saw them. Ramona visited once a year, and for only a few hours, and Herschel’s drop-ins were not much more frequent. She had never met any of Mr. Hubbard’s four grandchildren.

“But I didn’t work on the weekends so I don’t know who came and went then,” she said. “Mr. Hubbard could’ve had all sorts of company.” She was trying to appear fair, but only to a point.

“But you worked every Monday, correct?” Jake asked from the script.

“I did.”

“And did you ever see evidence of weekend guests in the home?”

“No sir, never.”

Being nice to Herschel and Ramona was not part of the plan at this point. They had no plans to be nice to Lettie; indeed, based on their depositions, it was safe to expect them to lie considerably.

After an hour on the stand, Lettie felt more comfortable. Her answers were clearer, more spontaneous, and she occasionally smiled at the jurors. Jake eventually got around to Mr. Hubbard’s lung cancer. She described how her boss went through a string of unimpressive home-health-care nurses, and finally asked Lettie if she would work five days a week. She described the low points, when the chemo knocked him flat and almost killed him, when he couldn’t walk to the bathroom or feed himself.

Do not show emotion, Portia had lectured. Do not show any feelings whatsoever for Mr. Hubbard. The jurors cannot get the impression there was an emotional bond between the two of you. Of course there had been, the same as any dying person and his caregiver, but do not acknowledge it on the witness stand.

Jake hit the high points but did not spend much time on Mr. Hubbard’s cancer. Wade Lanier would certainly do so. Jake asked Lettie if she had ever signed a will. No, she had not.

“Have you ever seen a will?”

“No sir.”

“Did Mr. Hubbard ever discuss his will with you?”

She managed a chuckle, and sold it perfectly. She said, “Mr. Hubbard was extremely private. He never discussed business or anything like that with me. He never discussed his family or kids or anything. He just wasn’t like that.”

The truth was that Seth had twice promised Lettie he would leave something behind for her, but he had never mentioned his will. She and Portia had discussed it, and it was Portia’s opinion that Wade Lanier and the lawyers on the other side would blow this out of proportion if she admitted it. They would twist it, exaggerate it, and turn it into something lethal. “So you did discuss his last will with him!” Lanier would yell in front of the jury.

Some things are better left unsaid. No one would ever know. Seth was dead and Lettie wasn’t talking.