John Grisham - The firm

"Come on, Mitch. It's a big deal when your wife leaves home without saying when she'll return. At least that's what she told the headmaster at school."

"That's true. She doesn't know when she'll come back. Probably a month or so. She's had a hard time coping with the hours at the office."

The lawyers were all present and accounted for, so Roosevelt shut the door. The room became noisier. Bobby Blue took requests. .

"Have you thought about slowing down?" Lamar asked.

"No, not really. Why should I?"

"Look, Mitch, I'm your friend, right? I'm worried about you. You can't make a million bucks the first year."

Oh yeah, he thought. I made a million bucks last week. In ten seconds the little account in Freeport jumped from ten thousand to a million ten thousand. And fifteen minutes later, the account was closed and the money was resting safely in a bank in Switzerland. Ah, the wonder of wire transfer. And because of the million bucks, this would be the first and only April 15 party of his short, but distinguished legal career. And his good friend who is so concerned about his marriage will most likely be in jail before long. Along with everyone else in the room, except for Roosevelt, Hell, Tarrance might get so excited he'll indict Roosevelt and Jessie Frances just for the fun of it.

Then the trials. "I, Mitchell Y. McDeere, do solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. So help me God." And he'd sit in the witness chair and point the finger at his good friend Lamar Quin. And

Kay and the kids would be sitting in the front row for jury appeal. Crying softly.

He finished the second beer and started the third. "I know, Lamar, but I have no plans to slow down. Abby will adjust. Things'll be fine."

"If you say so. Kay wants you over tomorrow for a big steak. We'll cook on the grill and eat on the patio. How about it?"

"Yes, on one condition. No discussion about Abby. She went home to see her mother, and she'll be back. Okay?"

"Fine. Sure."

Avery sat across the table with a plate of shrimp. He began peeling them.

"We were just discussing Capps," Lamar said.

"That's not a pleasant subject," Avery replied. Mitch watched the shrimp intently until there was a little pile of about six freshly peeled. He grabbed them across the table and shoved the handful into his mouth.

Avery glared at him with tired, sad eyes. Red eyes. He struggled for something appropriate, then began eating the unpeeled shrimp. "I wish the heads were still on them," he said between bites. "Much better with the heads."

Mitch raked across two handfuls and began crunching. "I like the tails myself. Always been a tail man."

Lamar stopped eating and gawked at them. "You must be kidding."

"Nope," said Avery. "When I was a kid in El Paso, we used to go out with our nets and scoop up a bunch of fresh shrimp. We'd eat 'em on the spot, while they were still wiggling." Chomp, chomp. "The heads are the best part because of all the brain juices."

"Shrimp, in El Paso?"

"Yeah, Rio Grande's full of them."

Lamar left for another round of beer. The wear, tear, stress and fatigue mixed quickly with the alcohol and the room became rowdier. Bobby Blue was playing Step-penwolf. Even Nathan Locke was smiling and talking loudly. Just one of the boys. Roosevelt added five cases to the barrel of ice.

At ten, the singing started. Wally Hudson, minus the bow tie, stood on a chair by the piano and led the howling chorus through a riotous medley of Australian drinking songs. The restaurant was closed now, so who cared. Kendall Mahan was next. He had played rugby at Cornell and had an amazing repertoire of raunchy beer songs. Fifty untalented and drunk voices sang happily along with him.

Mitch excused himself and went to the rest room. A bus-boy unlocked the rear door, and he was in the parking lot. The singing was pleasant at this distance. He started for his car, but instead walked to a window. He stood in the dark, next to the corner of the building, and watched and listened. Kendall was now on the piano, leading his choir through an obscene refrain.

Joyous voices, of rich and happy people. He studied them one at a time, around the tables. Their faces were red. Their eyes were glowing. They were his friends-family men with wives and children-all caught up in this terrible conspiracy.

Last year Joe Hodge and Marty Kozinski were singing with the rest of them.

Last year he was a hotshot Harvard man with job offers in every pocket.

Now he was a millionaire, and would soon have a price on his head.

Funny what a year can do.

Sing on, brothers.

Mitch turned and walked away.

Around midnight, the taxis lined up on Madison, and the richest lawyers in town were carried and dragged into the back seats. Of course, Oliver Lambert was the soberest of the lot, and he directed the evacuation. Fifteen taxis in all, with drunk lawyers lying everywhere.

At the same time, across town on Front Street, two identical navy-blue-and-yellow Ford vans with DUSTBUSTERS painted brightly on the sides pulled up to the gate. Dutch Hendrix opened it and waved them through. They backed up to the rear door, and eight women with matching shirts began unloading vacuum cleaners and buckets filled with spray bottles. They unloaded brooms and mops and rolls of paper towels. They chattered quietly among themselves as they went through the building. As directed from above, the technicians cleaned one floor at a time, beginning with the fourth. The guards walked the floors and watched them carefully.

The women ignored them and buzzed about their business of emptying garbage cans, polishing furniture, vacuuming and scrubbing bathrooms. The new girl was slower than the others. She noticed things. She pulled on desk drawers and file cabinets when the guards weren't looking. She paid attention.

It was her third night on the job, and she was learning her way around. She'd found the Tolar office on the fourth floor the first night, and smiled to herself.

She wore dirty jeans and ragged tennis shoes. The blue DUSTBUSTERS shirt was extra large, to hide the figure and make her appear plump, like the other technicians. The patch above the pocket read DORIS. Doris, the cleaning technician.

When the crew was half finished with the second floor, a guard told Doris and two others, Susie and Charlotte, to follow him. He inserted a key in the elevator panel, and it stopped in the basement. He unlocked a heavy metal door, and they walked into a large room divided into a dozen cubicles. Each small desk was cluttered, and dominated by a large computer. There were terminals everywhere. Black file cabinets lined the walls. No windows.

"The supplies are in there," the guard said, pointing to a closet. They pulled out a vacuum cleaner and spray bottles and went to work.

"Don't touch the desks," he said.

MITCH tied the laces of his Nike Air Cushion jogging shoes and sat on the sofa waiting by the phone. Hearsay, depressed after two weeks without the woman around, sat next to him and tried to doze. At exactly ten-thirty, it rang. It was Abby.

There was no mushy "sweethearts" and "babes" and "honeys." The dialogue was cool and forced.

"How's your mother?" he asked.

"Doing much better. She's up and around, but very sore. Her spirits are good."

"That's good to hear. And your dad?"

"The same. Always busy. How's my dog?"

"Lonesome and depressed. I think he's cracking up."

"I miss him. How's work?"

"We survived April 15 without disaster. Everyone's in a better mood. Half the partners left for vacation on the sixteenth, so the place is a lot quieter."

"I guess you've cut back to sixteen hours a day?"

He hesitated, and let it sink in. No sense starting a fight. "When are you coming home?"