that.”
“What’d the will say?”
“Can’t tell you, and I can’t probate until after the funeral.”
“Who gets everything?”
“I can’t say. I’ll tell you on Wednesday.”
“A two-page handwritten will prepared the day before the suicide. Sounds like a five-year lawsuit bonanza to me.”
“I sure hope so.”
“That’ll keep you busy for a while.”
“I need the work. What’s the ol’ boy got?”
Harry Rex shook his head while reaching for the hoagie. “Don’t know,” he said, then took a bite. The clear majority of Jake’s friends and acquaintances preferred not to speak with a mouthful of food, but such social graces had never slowed down Harry Rex. “As I recall, and again it’s been ten years, he owned a house up there on Simpson Road, with some acreage around it. The biggest asset was a sawmill and a lumber yard on Highway 21, near Palmyra. My client was, uh, Sybil, Sybil Hubbard, wife number two, and I think it was her second or third marriage.”
After twenty years and countless cases, Harry Rex could still floor people with his recall. The juicier the details, the longer he remembered them.
A quick chug of beer, then he continued: “She was nice enough, not a bad-looking gal, and smart as hell. She worked in the lumber yard, ran the damned thing, really, and it was making good money when Seth decided to expand. He wanted to buy a lumber yard in Alabama and he started spending time over there. Turns out there was a secretary in the front office who had his attention. Everything blew up. Seth got caught with his pants down and Sybil hired me to scorch his ass. Scorch I did. I convinced the court to order the sale of the sawmill and lumber yard near Palmyra. The other one never made money. Got $200,000 for the sale, all of which went to my client. They also had a nice little condo on the Gulf near Destin. Sybil got that too. That’s the skinny version of what happened, but the file is a foot thick. You can go through it if you want.”
“Maybe later. No idea of what his current balance sheet looks like?”
“Nope. I lost track of the guy. He laid low after the divorce. The last time I talked to Sybil she was living on the beach and having fun with another husband, a much younger man, she claimed. She saidthere were rumors that Seth was back in the timber and lumber business, but she didn’t know much.” He swallowed hard and washed it all down. He burped loudly, without the slightest trace of hesitation or embarrassment, and continued, “You talked to his kids?”
“Not yet. You know them?”
“I did, at the time. They’ll make your life interesting. Herschel is a real loser. His sister, what’s her name?”
“Ramona Hubbard Dafoe.”
“That’s the one. She’s a few years younger than Herschel and part of that north Jackson crowd. Neither one got along well with Seth, and I always got the impression he wasn’t much of a father. They really liked Sybil, their second mom, and once it became apparent Sybil would win the divorce and make off with the money, they fell into her camp. Lemme guess—the old man left them nothing?”
Jake nodded but didn’t say a word.
“Then they’ll freak out and lawyer up. You got a good one brewin’, Jake. Sorry I can’t wedge in and get some of the fee.”
“If you only knew.”
A final bite of the hoagie, then the last of the chips. Harry Rex crushed the wrapper, the bag, the napkins, and tossed them somewhere under his desk, along with the empty beer bottle. He opened a drawer, withdrew a long black cigar and jammed it into the side of his mouth, unlit. He’d stopped smoking them but still went through ten a day, chewing and spitting. “I heard he hung himself. That true?”
“It is. He did a good job of planning things.”
“Any idea why?”
“You’ve heard the rumors. He was dying of cancer. That’s all we know. Who was his lawyer during the divorce?”
“He used Stanley Wade, a mistake.”
“Wade? Since
“What’d the will say?”
“Can’t tell you, and I can’t probate until after the funeral.”
“Who gets everything?”
“I can’t say. I’ll tell you on Wednesday.”
“A two-page handwritten will prepared the day before the suicide. Sounds like a five-year lawsuit bonanza to me.”
“I sure hope so.”
“That’ll keep you busy for a while.”
“I need the work. What’s the ol’ boy got?”
Harry Rex shook his head while reaching for the hoagie. “Don’t know,” he said, then took a bite. The clear majority of Jake’s friends and acquaintances preferred not to speak with a mouthful of food, but such social graces had never slowed down Harry Rex. “As I recall, and again it’s been ten years, he owned a house up there on Simpson Road, with some acreage around it. The biggest asset was a sawmill and a lumber yard on Highway 21, near Palmyra. My client was, uh, Sybil, Sybil Hubbard, wife number two, and I think it was her second or third marriage.”
After twenty years and countless cases, Harry Rex could still floor people with his recall. The juicier the details, the longer he remembered them.
A quick chug of beer, then he continued: “She was nice enough, not a bad-looking gal, and smart as hell. She worked in the lumber yard, ran the damned thing, really, and it was making good money when Seth decided to expand. He wanted to buy a lumber yard in Alabama and he started spending time over there. Turns out there was a secretary in the front office who had his attention. Everything blew up. Seth got caught with his pants down and Sybil hired me to scorch his ass. Scorch I did. I convinced the court to order the sale of the sawmill and lumber yard near Palmyra. The other one never made money. Got $200,000 for the sale, all of which went to my client. They also had a nice little condo on the Gulf near Destin. Sybil got that too. That’s the skinny version of what happened, but the file is a foot thick. You can go through it if you want.”
“Maybe later. No idea of what his current balance sheet looks like?”
“Nope. I lost track of the guy. He laid low after the divorce. The last time I talked to Sybil she was living on the beach and having fun with another husband, a much younger man, she claimed. She saidthere were rumors that Seth was back in the timber and lumber business, but she didn’t know much.” He swallowed hard and washed it all down. He burped loudly, without the slightest trace of hesitation or embarrassment, and continued, “You talked to his kids?”
“Not yet. You know them?”
“I did, at the time. They’ll make your life interesting. Herschel is a real loser. His sister, what’s her name?”
“Ramona Hubbard Dafoe.”
“That’s the one. She’s a few years younger than Herschel and part of that north Jackson crowd. Neither one got along well with Seth, and I always got the impression he wasn’t much of a father. They really liked Sybil, their second mom, and once it became apparent Sybil would win the divorce and make off with the money, they fell into her camp. Lemme guess—the old man left them nothing?”
Jake nodded but didn’t say a word.
“Then they’ll freak out and lawyer up. You got a good one brewin’, Jake. Sorry I can’t wedge in and get some of the fee.”
“If you only knew.”
A final bite of the hoagie, then the last of the chips. Harry Rex crushed the wrapper, the bag, the napkins, and tossed them somewhere under his desk, along with the empty beer bottle. He opened a drawer, withdrew a long black cigar and jammed it into the side of his mouth, unlit. He’d stopped smoking them but still went through ten a day, chewing and spitting. “I heard he hung himself. That true?”
“It is. He did a good job of planning things.”
“Any idea why?”
“You’ve heard the rumors. He was dying of cancer. That’s all we know. Who was his lawyer during the divorce?”
“He used Stanley Wade, a mistake.”
“Wade? Since
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