“Did he ever discuss his illness and the fact that he was dying?” Jake asked.

She took a deep breath and pondered the question. “Sure. There were times when he was in so much pain he said he wanted to die. I suppose that’s natural. In his last days, Mr. Hubbard knew the end was near. He asked me to pray with him.”

“You prayed with him?”

“I did. Mr. Hubbard had a deep faith in God. He wanted to make things right before he died.”

Jake paused for a little drama so the jurors could fully absorb the visual of Lettie and her boss praying, instead of doing what most folks thought they had been doing. Then he moved on to the morning of October 1 of last year, and Lettie told her story. They left his house around 9:00, with Lettie behind the wheel of his late-model Cadillac. She had never driven him before; he had never asked her to. It was the first and only time the two had been together in an automobile. When they were leaving the house, she had made some silly comment about never having driven a Cadillac, so he insisted. She was nervous and drove slowly. He sipped on coffee from a paper cup. He seemed to be relaxed and pain-free, and he seemed to enjoy the fact that Lettie was so uptight driving down a highway with virtually no other traffic.

Jake asked her what they talked about during the ten-minute drive. She thought for a moment, glanced at the jurors, who still had not missed a word, and said, “We talked about cars. He said a lot of white people don’t like Cadillacs anymore because nowadays so many black people drive them. He asked me why a Cadillac was so important to a black person, and I said don’t ask me. I never wanted one. I’ll never have one. My Pontiac’s twelve years old. But then I said it’s because it’s the nicest car and it’s a way of showin’ other folk that you’ve made it. You got a job, got a little money in your pocket, got some success in life. Something’s workin’ okay. That’s all. He said he’s always liked a Cadillac too, said he lost his first one in his first divorce, lost his second one in his second divorce, but since he gave up on marriage nobody’s bothered him or his Cadillacs. He was kinda funny about it.”

“So he was in a good mood, sort of joking?” Jake asked.

“A very good mood that mornin’, yes sir. He even laughed at me and my drivin’.”

“And his mind was clear?”

“Clear as a bell. He said I was drivin’ his seventh Cadillac and he remembered all of them. Said he trades every other year.”

“Do you know if he was taking medication for pain that morning?”

“No sir, I don’t know. He was funny about his pills. He didn’t like to take them and he kept them in his briefcase, away from me. The only time I saw them was when he was flat on his back, deathly sick, and he asked me to get them. But no, he didn’t appear to be on any pain medication that mornin’.”

Under Jake’s guidance, she continued her narrative. They arrived at Berring Lumber Company, the first and only time she’d ever been there, and while he spent the time in his office with the door locked, she cleaned. She vacuumed, dusted, scrubbed most of the windows, arranged magazines, even washed the dishes in the small kitchen. No, she did not empty the wastebaskets. From the moment they entered the offices until they left, she did not speak to nor see Mr. Hubbard. She had no idea what he was doing in his office; she never thought about asking. He walked in with a briefcase, and walked out holding the same one. She drove back to his house, then she returned home, around noon. Late Sunday night, Calvin Boggs called with the news that Mr. Hubbard had hung himself.

At 11:00 a.m., after almost two hours on the stand, Jake tendered the witness for cross-examination. During a quick recess, he told Lettie she did a fabulous job. Portia was thrilled and very proud; her mother had kept her composure and been convincing. Harry Rex, who’d been watching from the back row, said her testimony could not have been better.

By noon, their case was in shambles.

He was certain harboring a fugitive was against the law in every state, including Alaska, so jail time was a possibility, though Lucien wasn’t worried about that at the moment. He woke up at sunrise, stiff from sleeping off and on in a chair. Ancil had the bed, all of it. He had volunteered to sleep on the floor or in a chair, but Lucien was concerned about his head injuries and insisted he take the bed. A painkiller knocked him out, and for a long time Lucien sat in the dark, nursing his last Jack and Coke, listening to the old boy snore.

He dressed quietly and left the room. The lobby of the hotel was deserted. There were no cops poking around, searching for Ancil. Down the street he bought coffee and muffins and hauled them back to the room, where Ancil was awake now and watching the local news. “Not a word,” he reported.

“No surprise,” Lucien said. “I doubt if they’ve brought in the bloodhounds.”

They ate, took turns showering and dressing, and at 8:00 a.m. left the room. Ancil was wearing Lucien’s black suit, white shirt, paisley tie, and the same cap pulled low to hide his face. They hurriedly walked three blocks to the law office of Jared Wolkowicz, a lawyer referred by Bo Buck at the Glacier Inn bar. Lucien had visited Mr. Wolkowicz late the day before, retained him, and organized the deposition. A court reporter and a videographer were waiting in the conference room. At one end of the table, Mr. Wolkowicz stood, raised his right hand, repeated after the court reporter, and swore to tell the truth, then sat facing the camera. He said, “Good morning. My name is Jared Wolkowicz and I’m an attorney, duly licensed by the State of Alaska. Today is Wednesday, April 5, 1989, and I’m sitting here in my law office on Franklin Street in downtown Juneau, Alaska. Here with me is Lucien Wilbanks, of Clanton, Mississippi, and also a man by the name of Ancil F. Hubbard, who currently resides in Juneau. The purpose of the deposition is to record the testimony of Mr. Hubbard. I know nothing about the case that brings us here. My role is to simply vouch for the fact that this will be an accurate recording of what takes place here. If any of the lawyers or judges involved in this matter would like to speak to me, feel free to call.”

Wolkowicz left the chair and Lucien stepped forward. He was sworn by the court reporter, then likewise sat facing the camera. He said, “My name is Lucien Wilbanks and I’m well known to Judge Atlee and the lawyers involved in the contest over the last will and testament of Seth Hubbard. Working with Jake Brigance and others, I have been able to locate Ancil Hubbard. I have spent several hours with Ancil and there is no doubt in my mind that he is in fact the surviving brother of Seth Hubbard. He was born in Ford County in 1922. His father was Cleon Hubbard. His mother was Sarah Belle Hubbard. In 1928, his father, Cleon, hired my grandfather Robert E. Lee Wilbanks to represent him in a land dispute. That dispute is relevant today. Here is Ancil Hubbard.”

Lucien vacated the chair and Ancil took it. He raised his right hand and swore to tell the truth.

Wade Lanier began his toxic cross-examination by asking about Simeon. Why was he in jail? Had he been indicted? How often had she visited him? Was he contesting the divorce? It was a harsh but effective way to remind the jurors that the father of Lettie’s five children was a drunk who’d killed the Roston boys. After five minutes, Lettie was wiping tears, and Lanier looked like a prick. He didn’t care. With her emotions in play, and her judgment temporarily impaired, he quickly switched gears and laid his trap.