He would have to fire her, something he hated to think about. Each morning during his quiet time, he said his daily prayer and asked God to give him the patience to coexist with this latest woman in his life.
There had been so many. He had hired young ones because they were more plentiful and worked cheaper. The better of those got married and pregnant and wanted six months off. The bad ones flirted, wore tight miniskirts, and made suggestive comments. One threatened a bogus action for sexual harassment when Jake fired her, but she was arrested for bad checks and went away.
He had hired more mature women to negate any physical temptation, but, as a rule, they had been bossy, maternal, menopausal, and they had more doctors’ appointments, as well as aches and pains to talk about and funerals to attend.
For decades the place had been ruled by Ethel Twitty, a legendary presence who ran the Wilbanks firm in its heyday. For over forty years Ethel had kept the lawyers in line, terrified the other secretaries, and fought with the younger associates, none of whom lasted more than a year or two. But Ethel was now retired, forced out by Jake during the Hailey circus. Her husband had been beaten by thugs, probably Klansmen, though the case was unsolved and its investigation going nowhere. Jake had been thrilled when she left; now, though, he almost missed her.
At precisely 8:30 he was downstairs in the kitchen, pouring more coffee, then puttering around a storage room as if searching for an old file. When Roxy eased through the rear door at 8:39, Jake was standing by her desk, flipping through the pages of a document, waiting, establishing the fact that she was, once again, late for work. That she had four young children, an unemployed and unhappy husband, a job she didn’t like with a salary she deemed meager, and a host of other problems—all this mattered little to Jake. If he liked her he could find some sympathy. But, as the weeks passed, he liked her less and less. He was building a file, handing out silent demerits, piling on the points so that when he sat her down for the dreaded talk he would have his facts. Jake despised being in the position of plotting to unload an undesirable secretary.
“Good morning, Roxy,” he said, glancing at his wristwatch.
“Hello, sorry I’m late, had to take the kids to school.” He was sick of the lying too, however small it was. Her unemployed husband hauled the kids to school and back. Carla had verified this.
“Uh-huh,” Jake mumbled as he picked up a stack of envelopes she had just placed on her desk. He grabbed the mail before she could open it and shuffled through it in search of something interesting. It was the usual pile of junk mail and lawyerly crap—letters from other firms, one from a judge’s office, thick envelopes with copies of briefs, motions, pleadings, and so on. He did not open these—that job belonged to the secretary.
“Looking for something?” she asked as she dropped her purse and bag and began settling in.
“No.”
Typically, she looked pretty rough—no makeup and a mess of hair. She hurried off to the restroom to put on her face and improve her looks, a project that often took fifteen minutes. More silent demerits.
At the bottom of the stack, on the very last regular-sized envelope of the day, Jake glanced at his name written in blue ink, cursive. The return address stunned him, and he almost dropped everything. He tossed the other mail into the middle of her desk, then hurried up the stairs to his office. He locked his door. He sat down at a rolltop in one corner, under a portrait of William Faulkner that had been purchased by Mr. John Wilbanks, Lucien’s father, and inspected the envelope. Generic, plain, white, letter-sized, cheap paper, probably purchased in a box of a hundred for five bucks, adorned with a twenty-five-cent stamp honoring an astronaut, and thick enough to contain several sheets of paper. It was addressed to him: “The Hon. Jake Brigance, Attorney at Law, 146 Washington Street, Clanton, Mississippi.” No zip code.
The return address was “Seth Hubbard, P.O. Box 277, Palmyra, Mississippi, 38664.”
The envelope had been stamped with a postmark on October 1, 1988, the previous Saturday, at the Clanton post office. Jake took a deep breath and deliberately considered the scenario. If the Coffee Shop gossip could be believed, and Jake had no reason to doubt it, not at that moment anyway, Seth Hubbard had hung himself less than twenty-four hours earlier, on Sunday afternoon. It was now 8:45 Monday morning. For the letter to be postmarked in Clanton last Saturday, Seth Hubbard, or someone acting on his behalf, dropped the letter into the Local Delivery slot inside the Clanton post office either late Friday or Saturday before noon when the facility closed. Only local mail was postmarked in Clanton; all other was trucked to a regional center in Tupelo, sorted, marked, then dispersed.
Jake found a pair of scissors and meticulously cut a thin ribbon of paper from one end of the envelope, the end opposite the return address, close to the stamp but far enough away to preserve everything. There was the possibility he was holding evidence. He would copy everything later. He squeezed the envelope slightly and shook it until the folded papers fell out. He was aware of an increased heart rate as he carefully unfolded the sheets. Three of them, all plain white, nothing fancy, no letterhead. He pressed the creases and laid the papers flat on the desk, then he picked up the top one. In blue ink, and in a neat, cursive hand impressive for a man, the author wrote:
Dear Mr. Brigance:
To my knowledge we have never met, nor will we. By the time you read this I will be dead and that awful town you live in will be buzzing with its usual gossip. I have taken my own life but only because my death by lung cancer is imminent. The doctors have given me only weeks to live and I’m tired of the pain. I’m tired of a lot of things. If you smoke cigarettes, take the advice of a dead man and stop immediately.