As a prosecutor, Rufus never worried about seating because it was never an issue. Will contests, though, were rare, and he and Mr. Sistrunk had made a decision. If possible, they would commandeer the table used by the prosecution and plaintiff, the one closest to the jury, and assert themselves as the true voice of the proponents of the will. Jake Brigance would probably throw punches, but bring it on. It was time to establish proper roles, and since their client was the beneficiary of the quite valid last will and testament of Seth Hubbard, they would stake their claim.
Personally, privately, Rufus wasn’t so sure about this strategy. He was well versed in the legend of the Honorable Reuben V. Atlee, who, like most old, seasoned, and often cranky Chancellors in Mississippi, ruled with an iron fist and was often skeptical of outsiders. Sistrunk, though, was itching for a fight and calling the shots. Regardless of what happened, it would be exciting and he, Rufus, would be in the middle of it.
He quickly rearranged the chairs around the table on the right, leaving three and moving the rest off to one side. He unpacked a thick briefcase and scattered papers and pads all over the table, as if he’d been there for hours with a full day of labor ahead of him. He spoke to Mr. Pate, a courtroom deputy, as he filled pitchers with ice water. Once upon a time he and Mr. Pate would have chatted about the weather, but Rufus was no longer interested in rainfall.
Dumas Lee entered quietly and, recognizing Buckley, went straight for him. He had a camera around his neck and a notepad ready for a quote, but when he asked, “Say, Mr. Buckley, what brings you here?” he was ignored.
“I understand you’re local counsel for Lettie Lang, right?”
“No comment,” Rufus said as he carefully arranged some files, humming.
Things have really changed, Dumas thought. The old Rufus would break his neck to talk to a reporter, and no one stood between Rufus and a camera.
Dumas drifted away and said something to Mr. Pate, who said, “Get that camera outta here.” So Dumas left and went outside where he and a colleague waited hopefully for the possible sighting of a black Rolls-Royce.
Wade Lanier arrived with his associate, Lester Chilcott. They nodded at Buckley, who was too busy to speak, and were amused by his takeover of the plaintiff’s table. They, too, went about the urgent task of unpacking heavy briefcases and preparing for battle. Minutes later, Stillman Rush and Sam Larkin appeared at the bar and said hello to their semi-colleagues. They were on the same side of the courtroom, and would press many of the same arguments, but at this early stage of the conflict they were not yet ready to trust each other. Spectators drifted in and the courtroom buzzed with the low rumble of anxious greetings and gossip. Several uniformed deputies milled about, cracking jokes and saying hello to the visitors. Ian and Ramona and their kids arrived in a pack and sat on the far left, behind their lawyers and as far away as possible from those on the other side. Nosy lawyers loitered about the bench as if they had business before the court. They laughed with the clerks. Drama finally arrived when Booker Sistrunk and his entourage crowded through the door and clogged the aisle and swept into the courtroom as if it had been reserved for them. Arm in arm with Lettie, he led his crowd down the aisle, scowling at everyone else, daring anyone to speak, and, as always, looking for conflict. He parked her on the front row, with Simeon and the kids next to her, and he positioned a thick-necked young black man in a black suit with a black shirt and tie at guard in front of her, as if either assassins or admirers might rush from nowhere. Around Lettie there were various cousins, aunts, uncles, nephews, neighbors, along with assorted well-wishers.
Buckley watched this parade and could barely suppress his suspicion. For twelve years he had faced juries in this part of the world. He could pick them, read them, predict them, talk to them and lead them, for the most part, and he knew in an instant that Booker Sistrunk and his Big & Black & Bad routine would not fly in this courtroom. Seriously, a bodyguard? Lettie was a lousy actress. She had been coached to appear somber, even sad, in mourning, as if her dear departed friend was gone and had left her a rightful inheritance that the greedy white folks now wanted. She tried to look mistreated, abused.
Sistrunk and his partner, Kendrick Bost, walked through the bar and exchanged solemn greetings with their co-counsel, Mr. Buckley. They added to his pile of debris on the coveted table while they totally ignored the lawyers on the other side. The audience grew as the clock approached 8:45.
Jake entered from a side door and immediately noticed his place had already been taken. He shook hands with Wade Lanier, Stillman Rush, and the other lawyers for the contestants. “Looks like we have a bit of a problem,” he said to Stillman, nodding at Buckley and the lawyers from Memphis. “Good luck,” Stillman said.
Jake made the snap decision to avoid a confrontation. He eased out of the courtroom and worked his way back to the judge’s chambers. Herschel Hubbard arrived with his two children and some friends. They sat near Ian and Ramona. As the clock approached 9:00, the courtroom settled down. It was almost perfectly segregated—blacks on one side, whites on the other. Lucien, of course, sat on the black side, back in the rear.
Jake returned and stood alone near a door next to the jury box. He spoke to no one, but instead managed to flip nonchalantly through a document. At 9:05, Mr. Pate barked, “All rise for the court,” and Judge Atlee made his entrance, his old faded black robe trailing behind him. He took his place, said, “Please be seated,” then looked around the courtroom. He looked and looked, frowned and frowned, but said nothing. He glanced at Jake, glared at Buckley and Sistrunk and Bost, and then picked up a sheet of paper. He called the roll of lawyers; all were present and accounted for, a total of ten.
He pulled his microphone even closer and said, “First a bit of housekeeping. Mr. Buckley, you have filed a notice of entry into this matter as local counsel for the Memphis firm of Sistrunk & Bost, is that correct?”
Buckley, ever eager to stand and be heard, bounced to his feet and said, “That’s correct, Your Honor. I—”
“And after that it appears as though you and your associated counsel filed a boatload of motions, all to be considered here today. Is that correct?”
“Yes, Your Honor, and I would like to—”
“Excuse me. And Mr. Brigance has filed a motion objecting to your entry into this case based on your lack of experience, skill, and knowledge in these matters, correct?”
“A completely frivolous objection, Your Honor, as you can plainly see. A lawyer in this state is not required to—”
“Excuse me, Mr. Buckley. You filed your notice of entry, Mr. Brigance objected, and so that means I need to rule on his objection. I have not yet done so, and until then you are not properly recognized as an attorney of record in this matter. Follow me?”
“Your Honor, Mr. Brigance’s objection is so frivolous it deserves to be sanctioned. In fact, I am in the process of preparing a demand for sanctions.”
“Don’t waste your time, Mr. Buckley. Sit down and listen to me.” He waited until Buckley sat down. Judge Atlee’s dark eyes narrowed and the deep wrinkles in his forehead grew tighter. He never lost his cool but he could show a flash of anger that frightened every lawyer within fifty yards. “You are not properly before this court, Mr. Buckley, so neither are you, Mr. Sistrunk, nor you, Mr. Bost. However, you have assumed control of my courtroom by taking your positions. You are not the lawyers for this estate. Mr. Brigance is, duly and officially ordered by me. You may one day become the attorneys for the proponents of this will, but you’re not there yet.” His words were slow, pointed, harsh, and quite easy to follow. They echoed around the courtroom and had the complete attention of everyone who heard them.
Jake couldn’t suppress a smile. He had no idea his frivolous, obnoxious, even sophomoric objection to Buckley’s entry would prove to be so useful.
Judge Atlee went on at full throttle. “You’re not officially here, Mr. Buckley. Why have you assumed such a position of authority?”
“Well, Your Honor—”
“Please stand when you address the court!”
Buckley lurched upward, cracking a knee on the table ledge as he struggled for some dignity. “Well, Your Honor, I’ve never seen a case in which a duly licensed lawyer had his appearance objected to on such baseless grounds, and so I figured you would dispense with it on sight and we could proceed to much more pressing matters.”
“You figured wrong, Mr. Buckley, and you assumed you and your Memphis co-counsel could march in here and take control of the proponents’ case. I resent that.”
“Well, Chancellor, I assure the court—”
“Sit down, Mr. Buckley. Gather your things and have a seat over here in the jury box.” Judge Atlee was pointing a long bony finger in Jake’s general direction. Buckley didn’t move. His co-counsel, however, did.
Booker Sistrunk stood, spread his hands wide, and said in his deep, rich, booming voice, “Your Honor, if it please the court, I must say this is rather absurd. This is a routine matter that we can certainly dispose of in short shrift. It does not need this type of overreaction. We’re all reasonable people here, all trying to pursue justice. May I suggest we confront the initial question of Mr. Buckley’s right to enter this case as local counsel? Surely Your Honor can see that the objection filed by young Mr. Brigance here has no merit and should be summarily overruled. You can see this, Judge, right?”
Judge Atlee said nothing and gave nothing away with his eyes. After a few, heavy seconds, he looked down at a clerk and said, “See if Sheriff Walls is in the courthouse.”
That directive might have frightened Rufus Buckley, and it might have amused Jake and the lawyers on the other side, but it angered Booker Sistrunk. He stiffened his spine and said, “Your Honor, I have the right to speak.”
“Not yet, you don’t. Please sit down, Mr. Sistrunk.”
“I object to your tone, Your Honor. I represent the beneficiary of this will, Ms. Lettie Lang, and I have the duty to protect her interests at every turn.”
“Sit down, Mr. Sistrunk.”
“I will not be silenced, Your Honor. Not too many years ago, lawyers like me were not allowed to speak in this very courtroom. For years they could not enter, and once inside they were not allowed to speak.”
“Sit down before I hold you in contempt.”
“Don’t threaten me, Judge,” Sistrunk said as he stepped from behind the table. “I have the right to speak, to advocate for my client, and I will not be silenced by some arcane technicality in your rules of procedure.”
“Sit down before I hold you in contempt.”
Sistrunk took another step forward as the lawyers and everyone else stared in disbelief. “I will not sit down,” he snapped angrily, and Jake thought he was losing his mind. “This is the very reason I filed a motion asking you to recuse yourself. It’s obvious to me and many others that you have a racial bias in this case and there’s no way my client can get a fair trial. This is also the reason we filed a motion demanding a change of venue. Finding an impartial jury in this, this town here, well, it will be impossible. Justice demands that this trial be held in another courtroom in front of another judge.”