Free Sycamore Row by John Grisham Page A

earnings were as erratic as his presence, and he needed no prompting to earn even less.
    Lettie said, “I heard them refer to me as a servant.”
    “A servant? Ain’t heard that in a long time.”
    “They’re not nice people, Momma. I doubt if Mr. Hubbard was a good father, but his kids are sorry.”
    “And now they get all his money.”
    “I suppose. They’re sure countin’ on it.”
    “How much he got?”
    Lettie shook her head and took a sip of cold coffee. “I have no idea. Not sure anybody does.”

6
    The parking lot of the Irish Road Christian Church was half-full when Ozzie’s relatively unmarked car turned in to it at five minutes before four on Tuesday afternoon. There were no words or numbers painted boldly on the car—Ozzie preferred a lower profile—but one glance and you knew it was the high sheriff. A collection of antennas; a small round blue light on the dash, partially hidden; a big brown Ford with four doors and black wheels, same as virtually every other high sheriff in the state.
    He parked it next to the red Saab, which was parked away from the other cars. Ozzie got out as Jake was getting out and together they crossed the parking lot. “Anything new?” Jake asked.
    “Nothing,” Ozzie said. He was wearing a dark suit with black cowboy boots. Jake, the same, minus the boots. “You?”
    “Nothing. I guess the shit’ll hit the fan tomorrow.”
    Ozzie laughed and said, “I can’t wait.”
    The church, originally, was a redbrick chapel with a squatty steeple above a set of double front doors. Over time, though, the congregation had added the obligatory metal buildings—one beside the chapel that dwarfed it, and one behind it where the youth played basketball. On a small knoll nearby there was a cemetery under shady trees, a quiet and pretty place to be buried.
    A few smokers were getting their last-minute drags, country men in old suits reluctantly worn. They were quick to speak to the sheriff. They nodded politely to Jake. Inside, there was a respectable crowd scattered throughout the dark-stained oak pews. The lights were low. An organist softly played a mournful dirge, priming the crowd for thesorrow to come. Seth’s closed casket was draped in flowers and situated below the pulpit. His pallbearers sat grim-faced and shoulder to shoulder off to the left near the piano.
    Jake and Ozzie sat alone on a back row and began looking around. Grouped together not far away were some black folks, five in total.
    Ozzie nodded at them and whispered, “Green dress, that’s Lettie Lang.”
    Jake nodded and whispered back, “Who are the others?”
    Ozzie shook his head. “Can’t tell from here.”
    Jake stared at the back of Lettie’s head and tried to imagine the adventures they were about to share. He had yet to meet this woman, had never heard her name until the day before, but they were about to become well acquainted.
    Lettie sat unknowing, her hands folded in her lap. That morning she had worked for three hours before being asked by Herschel to leave. On her way out, he informed her that her employment would be terminated as of 3:00 p.m. Wednesday, the following day. At that point, the house would be locked up and deserted until further orders from the court. Lettie had $400 in her checking account, one she kept away from Simeon, and she had $300 in a pickle jar hidden in the pantry. Beyond that, she was broke and had slim prospects for meaningful work. She had not spoken to her husband in almost three weeks. Occasionally, he would return home with a paycheck or some cash; usually, though, he was just drunk and needed to sleep it off.
    Soon to be unemployed, with bills and people to feed, Lettie could have sat there listening to the organ and fretted over her future, but she did not. Mr. Hubbard had promised her more than once that when he died, and he knew his death was imminent, he would leave a little something for her. How little, or how much? Lettie could only dream. Four rows