Portia was one of three paralegals in the courtroom. Wade Lanier and Stillman Rush brought the other two, both white males, same as everybody else except for the court reporter, who was a white woman. “The courtroom is owned by the taxpayers,” Jake had told Portia. “So act like you own the place.” She was trying, but she was still a nervous wreck. She was expecting tension, maybe harsh words, an atmosphere pervaded by competition and distrust. What she saw, however, was a bunch of white men shaking hands, swapping friendly insults, poking fun, laughing, and having a good time as they drank their coffee and waited on 9:00 a.m. If there was any edginess as they were about to begin their war over a fortune, it was not evident.
“It’s just depositions,” Jake had said. “You’ll be bored out of your mind. Death by deposition.”
In the center of the courtroom, between the bar and the bench, the tables had been joined together, with chairs crammed around them. The lawyers slowly found their places, though no seating was assigned. Since Lettie would be the first witness, Jake sat near the empty seat at the end. At the other end, the court reporter fiddled with a video camera as a clerk entered with a full pot of coffee and sat it on the table.
When everyone was in place and somewhat settled, Jake nodded at Portia who opened a side door and retrieved her mother. Lettie was dressed for church and looked great, though Jake had told her she could wear anything. “It’s just a deposition.”
She sat at the end of the table, with Jake close by on one side, the court reporter on the other side with her stenographic machine, and her daughter not far away. She looked down the long table, smiled at the horde of lawyers, and said, “Good morning.” Every single lawyer returned the greeting with a smile. Off to a good start.
But only for a second. As Jake was about to start the preliminaries, the large main door opened and Rufus Buckley walked in, briefcase in hand as if he had business there. The courtroom was empty—not a single spectator—and it would remain so upon the order of Judge Reuben Atlee. Obviously, Buckley wasn’t there to observe.
He walked through the swinging gate of the bar and took a seat at the table. The other nine lawyers watched suspiciously.
Jake was suddenly itching for a fight. He called out loudly, “Well, hello, Rufus. So nice to see you out of jail these days.”
“Ha-ha, Jake. Such a comedian.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m here for the deposition. Can’t you see?” Buckley shot back.
“Who do you represent?”
“The same client I’ve had for a month. Simeon Lang.”
“He’s not an interested party.”
“Oh, we think he is. We think it might need to be litigated, but our position is that Mr. Lang has a direct pecuniary interest in the will contest. That’s why I’m here.”
Jake stood and said, “Okay, let’s stop right where we are. Judge Atlee is on standby in case there’s trouble. I’ll run fetch him.” Jake left the courtroom in a hurry and Buckley settled into his seat, somewhat nervously.
Minutes later, Judge Atlee entered from behind the bench, minus his robe, and took his usual position. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said gruffly and without waiting for any response said, “Mr. Buckley, using as few words as possible, please tell me why you’re here.”
Buckley stood with his customary purpose, and said, “Well, Judge, we still represent Mr. Simeon Lang and—”
“Who’s we?”
“Mr. Booker Sistrunk and myself, along—”
“Mr. Sistrunk will not be appearing in this courtroom, Mr. Buckley, not in this matter anyway.”
“Okay, well, then our position hasn’t changed. Mr. Simeon Lang is a party to these proceedings and—”
“He is not, nor will I allow him to become a party. Therefore, Mr. Buckley, you are not representing an interested party.”
“But that has not been finally determined.”
“It certainly has. By me. You have no business here, Mr. Buckley. And this deposition is closed.”
“Come on, Judge, it’s just a deposition, not some secret meeting. The testimony will be added to the court file and available to the public.”
“That’s for me to decide at some future date.”
“Judge, what she says today will be sworn testimony, and it will become a part of the record in this case.”
“Don’t lecture me, Mr. Buckley.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“These depositions will be sealed until I review them. Frankly, Mr. Buckley, I don’t like being put in the position of having to argue with you. Need I remind you of what happened the last time you said too much in this courtroom?”
“No need for that, Judge,” Buckley said.
“Good day, Mr. Buckley,” the judge said at full volume.
Buckley stood helplessly, in disbelief, both arms outstretched as if stunned. “Seriously, Judge?”
“Dead serious, Mr. Buckley. Good day, sir.”
Buckley nodded, reached for his briefcase, and made a hasty retreat from the courtroom. When the main door closed behind him, Judge Atlee said, “Carry on,” and disappeared.
Everyone took a deep breath. Jake said, “Now, where were we?”
“I kinda miss Sistrunk,” Wade Lanier drawled, and got a few laughs.
“I’m sure you do,” Jake said. “He and Buckley would have scored well with a Ford County jury.”
Jake introduced Lettie to the court reporter, the other lawyers, all names and faces blurred by the sheer number, and he went into a lengthy explanation of the purposes of a deposition. The instructions were fairly simple. Please speak clearly, slowly, and if a question isn’t clear, ask that it be restated. If uncertain, say nothing. He, Jake, would object to anything objectionable, and please answer truthfully because you’re under oath. The lawyers would take turns with their questioning. If you need a break, just say so. The court reporter would take down every word, and the video camera would record the entire deposition. If for some reason Lettie was not able to testify at trial, the video would be used as evidence.
The instructions were necessary, and then they were not. Jake, Portia, and Lucien had rehearsed with Lettie for hours in the conference room at the office. She was well prepared, though in a deposition it was impossible to predict what might be discussed. At trial, all testimony must be relevant. Not so in a deposition, which often turned into a prolonged fishing expedition.
Be polite. Be concise. Don’t volunteer. If you don’t know, then you don’t know. Remember the camera catches everything. And I’ll be right beside you for protection, Jake had said over and over. Portia had gone to the attic and found dozens of old depositions that she had spent hours poring over. She understood the technicalities, the strategies, and the pitfalls. She and her mother had talked for hours on the back porch of the old Sappington house.
Lettie was as prepared as possible. After she was sworn by the court reporter, Wade Lanier introduced himself with a sappy smile and began the questioning. “Let’s start with your family,” he said. Names, current residences, birth dates, birthplaces, education, employment, children, grandchildren, parents, brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles. Lettie and Portia had rehearsed thoroughly and the answers came easily. Lanier paused at one point when he realized Portia was her daughter. Jake explained, “She’s an intern in my office. Paid.” This caused some concern around the table. Stillman Rush finally asked, “Does this pose a conflict, Jake?”
Jake had thought it over long ago. “Not at all. I represent the estate. Portia is not a beneficiary under the will. I see no conflict. Do you?”
“Is she going to be a witness?” Lester Chilcott asked.
“No. She was away in the Army for the past six years.”
Zack Zeitler asked, “Will she have access to certain information her mother perhaps should not see?”
“Such as?”
“I can’t give you an example right now. I’m just speculating. I’m not saying there’s a conflict here, Jake, I’m just sort of caught off guard.”
“Have you informed Judge Atlee?” Wade Lanier asked.
“I did last week, and he approved.”
End of conversation. Wade Lanier took off again with questions about Lettie’s parents, and grandparents. His questions were soft and easy, quite conversational, as if he were truly interested in where her maternal grandparents once lived and what they did for a living. After an hour, Jake fought the temptation to daydream. It was important for him to take notes in the event another lawyer, hours from now, inadvertently stepped into the same territory.
Back to Lettie. She finished high school in 1959 in Hamilton, Alabama, at the old colored school. She ran away to Memphis and met Simeon. They married right away and Marvis was born the following year.
Wade Lanier spent some time on Marvis: his criminal record, convictions, incarceration. Lettie got choked up and wiped her cheeks, but did not break down. Next came Phedra and her problems: two children born out of wedlock, Lettie’s first two grandkids; an employment history that was sketchy at best. Phedra was currently living at home; in fact she’d never really left. Her two children had different fathers who were out of the picture.
Portia flinched with questions about her older brother and her sister. These were not secrets, but they were not openly discussed either. The family whispered about such matters, yet here they were being kicked about by a bunch of white men, strangers all.
At 10:30, they broke for fifteen minutes and everyone scattered. The lawyers ran to find phones. Portia and Lettie headed for the ladies’ room. A clerk brought in a fresh pot of coffee and a tray of store-bought cookies. The tables already resembled a landfill.
When they resumed, Stillman Rush took the handoff and dwelled on Simeon, whose family was more complicated. Lettie admitted she did not know as many details about his ancestors. His work history was filled with gaps, but she did recall stints as a truck driver, dozer operator, pulpwood cutter, painter, and brick mason’s helper. He’d been arrested a couple of times, the most recent being last October. Misdemeanors, no felonies. Yes, they had separated several times, but never for more than two months.
Enough of Simeon, for now anyway; Stillman wanted to follow up with Lettie’s résumé. She worked for Seth Hubbard off and on, part-time and full-time, for most of the past three years. Before that, she worked for three years as a housekeeper in the Clanton home of an old couple Jake had never heard of. Both died within three months of one another, and Lettie was out of work. Before that, she worked as a cook in the middle school cafeteria in Karaway. Stillman wanted dates, wages, raises, bosses, every minute detail, and Lettie did the best she could.
Seriously? Portia asked herself. How could the name of my mother’s boss ten years ago possibly be important to this will contest? It would be a fishing expedition, Jake had said. Welcome to the mind-numbing dullness of deposition warfare.
Jake had also explained that depositions drag on for days because the lawyers are being paid by the hour, or at least the ones who are asking the banal and monotonous questions. With virtually no restrictions on what can be explored, and with their meters running, lawyers, especially those working for insurance companies and big corporations, have no interest in being concise. As long as they can keep the conversation close to a person, issue, or thing remotely connected to the lawsuit, then they can peck away for hours.
