“Don’t suppose Mack would make an appearance, would he?”
Walter laughed and said, “I assure you, Mr. Lenzini, that the last place you’ll find Mack Stafford is the First Baptist Church this Saturday.”
“I suppose you’re right. It’ll be okay if we stop by, take a seat in the balcony?”
“Sinners are always welcome. It’s open to the public.”
（32）
Sunday morning, the day after Lisa’s funeral, Lucien Wilbanks entered Jake’s suite of offices through the rear door. He used the same key he had been using for decades. It was Jake’s office, but then it wasn’t. The law firm of Wilbanks & Wilbanks had been founded there in the 1940s by Lucien’s grandfather. Lucien had run the place until he was disbarred in 1979, a year after he had hired young Jake Brigance right out of law school.
Lucien still owned the spacious suite and leased it to Jake for a modest rent. Part of the deal was the understanding that he could come and go as he pleased. He kept a small windowless office on the first floor, far away from Jake’s domain upstairs, and he kept to himself as he read the Sunday papers and smoked his pipe and drank his coffee and bourbon. Sunday mornings were his favorites because the square was deserted, the stores were closed, there was no traffic, and everyone was in church. Lucien had given up on organized religion when he was fourteen years old.
He was in the same conference room Mack and Margot had used, at exactly 9:14, when he heard the first sounds. He glanced at his watch, knowing full well that Jake was in church and no one else would come near the office that morning. Since he had practically grown up in the place, he knew every window, hallway, hiding place. He stepped into the copy room and peeked through the blinds into the alley that ran behind the row of buildings facing the courthouse. Surprisingly, there were two men fiddling with the rear door that opened into the kitchen. They were dressed in matching navy shirts with the words custom electric in bold letters across their backs. They wore black rubber gloves and black foot covers.
Several things were wrong with it. First, Lucien had lived in Clanton his entire life and never heard of such a company. Second, no one worked on Sunday morning. Third, if they had been hired by Jake, why were they trying to sneak in the rear door? Fourth, they kept glancing around as if guilty as hell. Fifth, rubber gloves and foot covers were never used by repairmen in Clanton.
They managed to open the door and enter the kitchen. Lucien retreated to the shadows and listened carefully. The two men whispered to each other as they quickly moved through the downstairs. They missed Lucien as he slid between some bookshelves. They hurried upstairs, quietly opening and closing every door, then they were back by the receptionist’s desk, where they opened their tool kits and made their preparations. Next to the copy room was a large closet packed with wires running to everything—thermostats, AC units, phones, fuse boxes, electric meters.
Lucien stayed in the dark and listened. The men were whispering about phone lines, receivers, transmitters, with some slang that was indecipherable. They were quick and efficient, obviously skilled, and at 9:31 they simply disappeared. Lucien caught a glimpse of them as they left through the same rear door, locking it behind. He waited a few minutes, then moved slowly into the kitchen and checked the door. A pot of fresh black coffee was sitting on the counter, partially obscured by a roll of paper towels. If the men had seen the coffee, they would have known someone had just brewed it. They should have smelled the aroma.
He poured another cup and returned to his desk. Who was behind Custom Electric? The local cops wouldn’t have the capability. The state police did, but there was nothing in Jake’s office at the moment that would interest them. Lucien knew virtually every case, because he and Jake talked weekly and enjoyed discussing his clients. Was Jake cheating on Carla? Or was she cheating on him? Either scenario seemed highly unlikely. They adored each other and Lucien would never believe that they were fooling around. Could it be another lawyer crooked enough to tap Jake’s phones? Highly unlikely. Such outrageous behavior would lead to a disbarment, something Lucien knew a lot about. In all of his years as a lawyer and now as an observer, he had never known of a case where one law firm illegally eavesdropped on another.
It had to be the FBI. They were on to Mack Stafford and figured Jake knew where he was.
Lucien was startled, then amused. What fun Jake could have knowing the FBI was listening.
He finished his newspapers and dug through some old lawbooks. He smoked his pipe, sat on the balcony outside Jake’s big office and watched the courthouse, and at noon had a reasonable serving of Jack Daniel’s. He napped for an hour, and at 2:00 p.m. headed for Jake’s house, assuming lunch would be over. Carla invited him in but he preferred to sit on the back terrace, in the shade. Jake joined him and she brought them ice tea, and when she closed the door Lucien described what had happened that morning.