he sermon was the annual call to stewardship, the usual chiding to tithe a bit more, the challenge to step up and give the Lord his 10 percent, and to do so happily. Jake had heard it a hundred times and, as always, found it difficult to maintain prolonged eye contact with the reverend while his mind dwelled on matters far more important. He admired the reverend and labored diligently each Sunday to appear entranced by his homilies, but often it was impossible.

Judge Atlee sat three rows up, at the end by the aisle, the same revered seat he had claimed for at least the last ten years. Jake stared at the back of his head and thought about the trial, and now the appeal. With the verdict so fresh, the case would hit a brick wall. The process would take forever. Ninety days for the court reporter to transcribe hundreds of pages of courtroom proceedings; ninety plus because they seldom delivered on time. Meanwhile, post-trial motions and maneuverings would take months. Once the final record was indeed final, the losers would have ninety days to file their appeal, and more time if necessary. When the Supreme Court, and Jake, received the appeal, he would have his own ninety days to respond. After the deadlines were met and the paperwork was on file with the court, the real waiting began. Typically, there were backlogs, delays, and continuances. The lawyers had learned not to ask what was taking so long. The court was doing the best it could.

The average appeal in a civil case in Mississippi consumed two years. In preparation for the Hubbard trial, Jake had run across a similar case in Georgia that had dragged on for thirteen years. It had been fought before three different juries, went up and down to the Supreme Court like a yo-yo, and was eventually settled when most of the contestants died off and the lawyers had taken all the money. The issue of the attorney’s fees did not bother Jake, but he did worry about Lettie.

Portia had told him her mother had stopped going to church. There were too many sermons about tithing.

If the collective wisdom of Harry Rex and Lucien could be trusted, Jake’s verdict was in trouble. The admission of Ancil’s video was a reversible error. The Fritz Pickering surprise was not as clear-cut, but would probably upset the Supreme Court. The “witness dump” pulled by Wade Lanier would attract a harsh rebuke, but standing alone it would not get the case reversed. Nick Norton agreed. He had watched the trial on Friday and was surprised to see the video. He was deeply moved by its content but bothered by its admissibility. The four lawyers, along with Willie Traynor and other experts, had debated and celebrated over hot dogs and beer until late Friday night while the ladies sipped wine by Harry Rex’s pool and chatted with Portia.

Though the Hubbard case had saved Jake financially, he was ready to move on. He didn’t like the prospect of clipping the estate for a monthly fee for years to come. At some point, he would begin to feel like a leech. He had just won a big trial and was looking for another one.

Not a single person at the First Presbyterian Church mentioned the trial that morning, and Jake was grateful. Afterward, as they mingled under two giant oaks and exchanged pleasantries while inching toward the parking lot, Judge Atlee said hello to Carla and Hanna and commented on such a beautiful spring day. He walked down the sidewalk with Jake, and when no one could hear them, he said, “Could you stop by this afternoon, say around five? There is a matter I’d like to discuss.”

“Sure, Judge,” Jake said.

“And could you bring Portia with you? I’d like her insights.”

“I think so.”

They sat at the dining room table, under a creaking fan that did nothing to cut the heat and stickiness. It was much cooler outside—the porch would have been nice—but for some reason the judge preferred the dining room. He had a pot of coffee and a platter of cheap pastries, store-bought. Jake took one sip of the weak and dreadful coffee, then ignored it.

Portia declined it all. She was nervous and could not control her curiosity. This was not her part of town. Her mother might have seen some nice homes because she cleaned them, but never as a guest.

Judge Atlee sat at the head of the table with Jake to his right and Portia to his left. After a few awkward preliminaries, he announced, as if on the bench and looking down at a pack of anxious lawyers, “I want this case settled. For the next two years, the money will be tied up while the appeal runs its course. Hundreds of hours will be spent. The contestants will make a strong argument that the verdict should be reversed, and I see their point. I admitted the video of Ancil Hubbard because it was the fair thing to do at that moment. The jury, and I suppose all of us, needed to understand the history. It gave meaning to Seth’s motives. It will be argued forcefully that I was wrong procedurally. From a selfish point of view, I prefer not to be reversed, but my feelings are not important.”

Like hell they’re not, Jake thought as he glanced at Portia. She was staring at the table, frozen.

“Let’s suppose for a moment that the case comes back for a retrial. The next time around you will not get blindsided by the Pickering matter. You will be ready for Julina Kidd. And, most important, you will have Ancil here as an interested party and a live witness. Or, if he’s in jail, you will certainly have time to conduct a proper deposition. At any rate, your case is much stronger the next time, Jake. Do you agree?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You’ll win the case because you should win the case. That’s exactly the reason I allowed Ancil’s video. It was the right and fair thing to do. Do you follow me, Portia?”

“Oh, yes sir.”

“So, how do we settle this matter, stop the appeal, and get on with life?” Jake knew he had the answer and really didn’t want much input.

“I’ve thought of nothing else since Friday afternoon,” the judge continued. “Seth’s will was a desperate, last-minute attempt to correct a horrible injustice. By leaving so much to your mother, he was in reality trying to make amends to your great-grandfather and to all the Rinds families. Do you agree?”

Agree, damn it, Portia, agree. Jake had been here a hundred times. When he asks, “Do you agree?” he’s already assuming that you agree enthusiastically.

“Yes sir,” she said.

He took a sip of coffee, and Jake wondered if he drank the same wretched brew every morning. Judge Atlee said, “I’m wondering, Portia, at this point, what does your mother really want? It would be helpful to know that. I’m sure she’s told you. Can you share this with us?”

“Sure, Judge. My mother doesn’t want a lot, and she has reservations about getting all that money. For lack of a better term, it’s white folks’ money. It doesn’t really belong to us. My mom would like to have the land, the eighty acres, and she’d like to build a house on it, a nice house but not a mansion. She’s seen some nice houses but she’s always known she’d never have one. Now, for the first time in her life, she can dream of having a beautiful home, one she can clean for herself. She wants plenty of room for her kids and grandkids. She’ll never marry again, although there are a few buzzards circling. She wants to get away and to live way out there in the country where it’s peaceful and nobody will bother her. She didn’t go to church this morning, Judge, she hasn’t been in a month. Everybody’s got their hand out. My mother just wants to be left alone.”

“Surely she wants more than a house and eighty acres,” Jake said.

“Well, who doesn’t want some money in the bank? She’s tired of cleaning houses.”

“How much money?” Judge Atlee asked.

“We didn’t get that far. In the past six months, she’s never sat around and thought, ‘Okay, I’ll take five million and I’ll give each kid one million and so on.’ That’s not my mother, okay? She doesn’t think in those terms. It’s just so far beyond her.” She paused for a second, then asked, “How would you divide the money, Judge?”

“I’m glad you asked. Here’s my plan. The bulk of the money should go into a fund for the benefit of your blood relatives, not a cash giveaway that would turn into a feeding frenzy, but a foundation of sorts that would be used solely for education. Who knows how many Rindses are out there, though I’m sure we would quickly find out. The foundation would be tightly controlled by a trustee who would report to me. The money would be invested wisely and spread over, say, twenty years, and during that time it would be used to help as many students as possible. It must be limited to a sole purpose, and education is the most likely. If it’s not limited, then there would be a thousand requests for everything from health care to groceries to housing to new cars. The money is not guaranteed, but must be earned. A blood relative who studies hard and gets admitted to college will qualify for funding.”

“How would you split the money?” Jake asked. Portia was smiling.

“In broad strokes, I suggest this: Let’s work with the figure of twelve million. We know that’s a moving target but it’ll be close. Fund the bequests to Ancil and the church at half a million each. Down to eleven. Take five million of that and place it in the trust fund I just described. That’s a lot of tuition, but then we can anticipate a lot of kinfolks, both old and new.”

“They’re still arriving by the carload,” Portia said.

Judge Atlee continued, “That leaves six million. Split it equally among Lettie, Herschel, and Ramona. Of course, Lettie gets the eighty acres that was once owned by her grandfather.”

Jake took a deep breath as the numbers rattled around. He looked across the table and said, “Lettie’s the key, Portia.”

Portia, still smiling, said, “She’ll take it. She gets a nice house and a nice cushion, yet she won’t be hassled by a fortune everybody wants a piece of. She told me last night the money belonged to all of Sylvester’s people, not just her. She wants to be happy and she wants to be left alone. This will make her very happy.”

“How do you sell it to the rest of them?” Jake asked.

“I assume Herschel and Ramona will be thrilled. Who knows about Ancil and the church. Keep in mind, Jake, that I still control the estate, and I will for as long as I so choose. Not a dime can ever be distributed without my approval, and there is no deadline to close an estate. I’m sure no one has ever called me a jackass behind my back, but if I want to be one I can sit on Seth’s money for the next ten years. As long as the assets are protected, I can keep them bottled up as tightly as I wish.”

He had slipped into his Chancellor’s tone, one that left little doubt Judge Reuben V. Atlee was about to get his way. He continued, “Indeed, it may be necessary to keep the estate open indefinitely to administer the education trust we’re talking about.”

“Who will run the trust?” Jake asked.

“I was thinking about you.”

Jake flinched, then almost fled at the thought of dealing with dozens, maybe hundreds of eager students clamoring for money.

“That’s a great idea, Judge,” Portia said. “My family would feel better if Jake stayed involved and kept an eye on the money.”

“Whatever, we can work it out later,” Jake said, on his heels.

“Do we have a deal?” the judge asked.

“I’m not a party,” Jake said. “Don’t look at me.”

“I’m sure Lettie will approve, but I need to talk to her,” Portia said.

“Very well. You do that and get back with me tomorrow. I’ll prepare a memo and float it to all the lawyers. Jake, I suggest you go see Ancil this week and get some answers. I’ll schedule a meeting with all parties in about ten days. We’ll lock the door and hammer out a settlement. I want this to happen, understand?”

They clearly understood.

A month after the verdict, Ancil Hubbard sat low in the passenger’s seat of Lucien’s old Porsche and gazed through the window at the rolling hills of Ford County. Of the land, he remembered nothing. The first thirteen years of his life had been spent in those parts, but he had worked hard for the past fifty to forget them. Nothing looked familiar.

He had been released on a bond arranged by Jake and others, and he had been cajoled south by his pal Lucien. Just one last visit. You might be surprised. Thin gray hair was sprouting again and partially covered the ugly scar across the back of his head. He wore jeans and sandals, same as Lucien.

They turned onto a county road and approached Seth’s home. There was a “For Sale” sign in the front yard. Lucien said, “That’s where Seth lived. You want to stop?”

“No.”

They turned again onto a gravel road and drove deeper into the woods.

“Recognize any of this?” Lucien asked.

“Not really.”

The woods thinned and they came to a clearing. Ahead were cars parked haphazardly and people milling about, including some children. Smoke rose from a charcoal grill.

Farther on, they approached overgrown rubble and ruins, all choked with kudzu. Ancil raised a hand and said, “Stop. Here.” They got out. Some of the others were nearby and walking over to say hello, but Ancil did not see them. He was looking away, far in the distance. He began walking toward the sycamore tree where they had found his brother. The others followed quietly; some were left behind. With Lucien trailing closely, Ancil walked a hundred yards or so to the tree, then stopped and looked around. He pointed to a small hill covered with oaks and elms and said, “We were up there, Seth and me, hiding in the woods. It seemed farther away back then. They brought him here, under this tree. There were more trees back then. A whole row of five or six, in a perfect line, along the creek here. Now there’s only one.”

“There was a tornado here in sixty-eight,” Lucien said from behind him.

“This is where we found Seth,” Ozzie said. He was standing next to Lucien.

“Is it the same tree?” Jake asked. He was standing next to Ozzie.

Ancil heard their voices and looked at their faces, but he did not see them. He was in a daze, in another time and place. He said, “I can’t say for sure, but I think so. All the trees were the same, a perfect row. We fished right over there,” he said, pointing again. “Seth and me. Right over there.” He exhaled heavily and seemed to grimace, then he closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened them, he said, “It was so awful.”

Lucien said, “Ancil, Sylvester’s granddaughter is here. Would you like to meet her?”

He took a deep breath and snapped out of his dream. He turned abruptly and said, “I’d be delighted.”

Lettie walked over and offered a hand, a hand Ancil ignored. Instead, he gently took her shoulders and squeezed tightly. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

After a few seconds, she unwrapped herself and said, “Enough of that, Ancil. The past is the past. Let’s say it’s over. I want you to meet my kids and grandkids.”

“I’d be delighted.” He was then introduced to Portia, Carla, Ozzie, Harry Rex, and to the rest of Lettie’s family. Then he met Herschel Hubbard, his nephew, for the first time. They all talked at once as they left the tree and headed for the picnic.