“Lettie!” Ian managed to gasp as he veered across the center line. He caught himself and yanked the wheel.

“What is it?” Ramona snarled from the backseat.

“Yes, Lettie Lang,” Stillman repeated. “I guess he was quite fond of her.”

“This is ridiculous!” Ian said sharply, his voice already several octaves higher, his eyes glaring wildly into the rearview mirror. “Ninety percent? Did you say 90 percent?”

“I did, yes. I have a copy of the will and it clearly says 90 percent.”

“Handwritten? Is it a forgery?”

“We don’t know at this point. Everything is preliminary.”

“Well, obviously, Stillman, this can’t stand up, can it?”

“Of course not. We met with the attorney who probated the will, and he’s not going to withdraw it. So we’ve agreed to meet with the judge soon and work things out.”

“Work things out? What does that mean?”

“Well, we’ll ask the judge to toss out this handwritten will and probate the legitimate one we looked at this morning. If for some reason he says no, then we’ll go to court and fight over which will should stand.”

“When do we go to court?” Ian asked belligerently, but there was also a noticeable layer of desperation in his voice, as if he could feel the fortune beginning to slide.

“We’re not sure right now, but I’ll call in a few days. We’ll work this out, Ian.”

“Damned right you will or I’ll bring in the Lanier firm from Jackson, the big boys, been representing me for a long time. Those guys know how to litigate. In fact, I’ll probably call Wade Lanier as soon as we hang up.”

“No need for that, Ian, not yet anyway. The last thing we need at this point is more lawyers. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”

“You do that.” Ian slammed the phone down and glared at his wife, who said, “What’s going on, Ian?”

Ian took a deep breath, exhaled, and said, “You’re not going to believe it.”

Herschel was sitting behind the wheel of his small Datsun listening to the end of a Springsteen song when the call came. The Datsun was parked near the main entrance of the BMW dealer in East Memphis. Dozens of shiny new BMWs glistened in perfect rows along the street. He’d fought himself over this ridiculous stop, and made peace only with a compromise that was to include a chat with a salesman but certainly no test-drive. Not yet anyway. As he reached to turn off the radio, his car phone rang.

It was Stillman Rush. He began with a nervous “Herschel, there’s a new wrinkle.”

Lettie arrived alone. Jake followed her up the stairs to the big office, where he closed the door and directed her to a small sitting area with a sofa and chairs. He took off his tie and poured coffee and tried to ease her apprehension. She explained that Simeon had already left again. She had told him nothing about Seth’s will, and this angered him. They had fought briefly, with every word echoing around the crowded house, and so he left.

Jake handed her a copy of Seth’s will. She read it and began crying. He placed a box of tissues next to her chair. She read it again, and when she finished she laid it on the coffee table before her and sat for a long time with her face in her hands. When the tears stopped, she wiped her cheeks and sat straighter, as if the shock was gone and she was ready for business.

“Why would he do this, Lettie?” Jake asked firmly.

“I don’t know, I swear I don’t know,” she said, her voice low and hoarse.

“Did he discuss this will with you?”

“No.”

“Have you seen this before?”

She was shaking her head. “No, no.”

“Has he ever mentioned his will to you?”

A pause as she tried to unscramble her thoughts. “Twice, maybe, in the past few months, he said he would leave a little something behind for me, but he never said what. Of course I was hoping he would, but I never brought it up. I never had no will. My momma never had one. Not something we think about, you know, Mr. Brigance?”

“Please call me Jake.”

“I’ll try.”

“Did you call him Mr. Hubbard, Mr. Seth, or just Seth?”

Deliberately, she said, “When it was just the two of us, I called him Seth because that’s what he wanted. If anybody else was around, I always called him Mr. Seth or Mr. Hubbard.”

“What did he call you?”

“Lettie. Always.”

He quizzed her about Seth’s last days, his illness, treatments, doctors, nurses, appetite, daily rituals, and her employment. She knew almost nothing about his business and said that he kept his papers locked up tight around the house; most had been moved to his office over the past few months. He never discussed business with her, or in her presence. Before he got sick, and afterward when he felt well, he traveled a lot and preferred to be out of town. His home was quiet, lonely, and not a happy place. Often she would arrive at 8:00 a.m. with nothing to do for the next eight hours, especially if Seth were out of town. When he was there, she cooked and cleaned. When he was sick, and dying, she stayed by his side. She fed him, and, yes, she bathed him and cleaned up after him when necessary. There had been dark periods, especially during the chemo and radiation, when he was bedridden and too weak to feed himself.

Jake delicately explained the concept of undue influence. The legal assault on the handwritten will would be an assault on Lettie, with allegations that she was too close to Seth, had too much influence; that she manipulated him into including her. For Lettie to prevail, it would be important for her to prove otherwise. As they talked, and as she began to relax, Jake could envision her deposition in the near future, in a room full of hyped-up lawyers all clamoring for the floor and the chance to grill her about what she and Mr. Hubbard did and did not do. He already felt sorry for her.

When she was composed and under control, he said, “I need to explain the relationships here, Lettie. I am not your lawyer. I am the lawyer for Mr. Hubbard’s estate, and in that capacity it’s my job to advocate in favor of this will and to follow its terms. I have to work with the executor, and we’re assuming it will be Mr. Amburgh, to do certain things the law requires, such as notifying potential creditors, protecting assets, preparing an inventory of everything he owned, and so forth. If the will is contested, and I’m sure it will be, then it’s my job to go into court and fight to uphold this will. I’m not your lawyer because you are a beneficiary of the will—the same as his brother, Ancil Hubbard, and the same as his church. However, you and I are on the same side here because we both want this will to prevail. Does this make any sense?”

“I suppose. Do I need a lawyer?”

“Not really, not at this point. Don’t hire a lawyer until you need one.” The vultures would soon be circling and the courtroom would get crowded. Drop $20 million on the table and get out of the way.

“Will you tell me if I need one?” she asked innocently.

“Yes, I will,” Jake said, though he had no idea how he would give such advice. He poured more coffee and noticed she had not touched hers. He glanced at his watch. They had been together for thirty minutes and she had yet to ask about the size of the estate. A white person wouldn’t have made it five minutes without such an inquiry. At times she seemed to absorb each word, and at times she seemed to deflect them, as if overwhelmed.