Randall Clapp slid the envelope into a drop box outside the main post office in downtown Oxford. It was plain, white, legal-sized, no return info, and it was addressed to Fritz Pickering in Shreveport, Louisiana. Inside were two sheets of paper—a full copy of the will handwritten by Irene Pickering and signed by her on March 11, 1980. The other copy was locked away in Wade Lanier’s law office. The original was in the file stolen from the Freeman Law Firm, two blocks down the street.

The plan was for Fritz Pickering to receive the anonymous letter, notice it postmarked in Oxford, open it, recognize the old will, and wonder who in the world had sent it to him. He would probably have a hunch but he would never know for sure.

It was late Saturday night, the college bars were rocking, and the police were more concerned with that activity than with the petty break-in of a small law office. With Clapp in the alley watching things, agent Erby entered the rear door, and within five minutes had returned the Pickering file to its proper and long-neglected resting place.

28

On Monday, February 20, Judge Atlee assembled the players for a progress report. Since it was not an official hearing of any variety, he locked the courtroom to keep reporters and spectators away. Most of the litigants were present: the Hubbards on one side, Lettie and Phedra on the other. Still no sign of Ancil, though Judge Atlee was not quite ready to declare him dead.

He assumed the bench, in his robe, managed a gruff “Good morning,” and called the roll of lawyers. All present. It was soon obvious the judge was not in a good mood and probably felt bad. In a tired voice he said, “Gentlemen, this matter is scheduled for a jury trial six weeks from today. I am monitoring discovery and I see no reason why we can’t be ready to go on as planned on April 3. Am I missing something here? Any reason to delay the trial?”

Serious head shaking followed. No sir. No reason at all. As Jake had said, it was indeed a strange case in that every lawyer was eager for a trial. If anyone wanted to stall, it might be Jake. He had every reason to drag things along, at $150 an hour, but he had Judge Atlee breathing down his neck too. The case officially known as In re Estate of Henry Seth Hubbard was barreling down the docket at record speed.

The judge continued: “Now, Mr. Brigance has copies of the First Inventory for your perusal. As I have instructed in writing, this is to be kept as confidential as possible.” Portia began handing over copies to the other side. “I have sealed this section of the court file because nothing good can come from the dissemination of this sensitive material. You, as the attorneys, and your clients have the right to know what’s in the estate, so take a look.” The lawyers snatched the copies of the inventory and flipped through the pages. Some had heard the alleged value, but they still wanted to see it in black and white. Twenty-four million and change. It validated what they were doing, why they were fighting.

The courtroom was deathly silent for a few moments as it sank in. More money than any of them could ever hope to earn in a long career. Then there were some whispers, and a chuckle over a wisecrack.

Judge Atlee said, “I address the contestants now. In reviewing the discovery, it seems as though you may have plans to challenge the validity of the handwriting. You have listed two experts in this field, and I assume the proponents will need to employ their own. I’ve looked at the handwriting samples, specifically the will, the burial instructions, the letter Mr. Hubbard left behind on his kitchen table, and the letter he addressed to Mr. Brigance, dated October 1. I have also seen the other samples of his handwriting that have been filed. Now, Mr. Lanier and Mr. Rush, do you plan to seriously contend that this will was written by someone other than Seth Hubbard?” His tone left little doubt about how he felt.

Rush and Lanier stood slowly, neither eager to respond. Lanier said, “Your Honor, we’re still debating that point.”

“Well hurry up,” Judge Atlee said rudely. “It’s a waste and you’re wasting my time. A blind man can see it’s his handwriting. Any expert who saunters into this courtroom and says otherwise will be laughed at by the jury and scorned by the court.”

And with that, the handwriting issue was settled. They sat down. Lanier whispered to his sidekick, Lester Chilcott, “What else has he already decided?”

Judge Atlee looked at Jake and growled, “Mr. Brigance, any progress in the search for Ancil Hubbard? Five percent of this inventory is a lot of money.”

Well, no shit, Judge, Jake wanted to say as he was jolted out of another thought and stood properly, though rattled. “Not really, Your Honor. The search has turned up very little. It appears as though Ancil began using different names a long time ago. We’ve found no proof that he’s dead, and certainly nothing to prove he’s alive.”

“Very well. Next on my list is a discussion about the jury pool. It’s been over eight years since I presided over a trial involving a jury, and I admit to being a bit rusty. I’ve spoken to Judge Noose, Judge Handleford, and others, so I’m getting good advice. They seem to think a pool of one hundred will be sufficient. Gentlemen?”

Nothing.

“Good. I’ll instruct the clerk to pull that many names at random from the voter registration rolls, and I’ll make the list available two weeks before trial, the same procedure as in Circuit Court. There will be the standard precautions and warnings against unauthorized contact with the potential jurors. This is a high-profile case, gentlemen, and at times I’m almost convinced every person in this county already has an opinion.”

Jake stood and said, “In that case, Your Honor, perhaps we should consider a change of venue.”

“Requesting one is up to you, Mr. Brigance. I’ve seen nothing in writing.”

“I haven’t done so. I’m just speculating here. If most of our prospective jurors know about the case, then it seems like moving the case might be the proper thing to do.”

“Mr. Lanier,” Judge Atlee said, looking at the other lawyers. “Mr. Rush. Mr. Zeitler. Anybody?”

Wade Lanier straightened himself up with great frustration. “There’s never been a change of venue in a will contest in Mississippi. Not a single case. We’ve done the research.” Lester Chilcott was suddenly clawing his way through a thick briefcase. “And it seems a bit broad to declare that everyone in this county has formed an opinion before we’ve presented the evidence.” Chilcott handed him a thick brief. “Here it is, if the court would like to take a look. Not a single case.”

Jake was impressed with the research; Judge Atlee less so. He said, “I’ll take your word for it, for now. I’ll review the research later.”

Jake wasn’t serious about moving the case because he wanted it to stay in his courtroom, but there were advantages to having the trial in another county. These included (1) the possibility of more black jurors; (2) avoiding the lingering damage caused by Booker Sistrunk, his mouth, his race-baiting, and his black Rolls-Royce; (3) finding jurors who hadn’t gossiped about Lettie and her family, their problems, and their new rental home outside Lowtown; and (4) selecting a jury untainted with endless speculation about Lettie and Seth Hubbard and what they were really up to. These factors and issues had been debated by Jake, Lucien, and, increasingly, Portia, as the weeks passed. They could debate all they wanted, but it was a waste of time. Judge Atlee was not moving the case, and he had said as much to Jake. So Jake was bluffing, and enjoying the sight of his opponents scrambling in opposition. He said, “Judge, if you think every person in Ford County has an opinion, then I’ll file a motion to change venue.”