John Grisham - The Rainmaker

“I heard her,” he says, looking at Drummond. Underhall knows I don’t have a copy of the agreement because he buried the original somewhere. But he can’t be certain. Strange things happen. How in the world did I find the Section U’s?

He can’t admit there’s an agreement. And he can’t deny it either. If he denies, and if I suddenly produce a copy, then the damage cannot be estimated until the jury returns with its verdict. He fidgets, twists, wipes sweat from his forehead.

“And you don’t have a copy of the agreement to show to the jury?” I ask, waving the paper in my hand.

“I do not. There is none.”

“Are you certain?” I ask, rubbing my finger around the edges of the paper, fondling it.

“I’m certain.”

I stare at him for a few seconds, thoroughly enjoying the sight of him suffering. The jurors haven’t thought about sleeping. They’re waiting for the ax to fall, for me to whip out the agreement and watch him croak.

But I can’t. I wad the meaningless piece of paper and dramatically toss it on the table. “No further questions,” I say. Underhall exhales mightily. A heart attack has been avoided. He leaps from the witness stand and leaves the courtroom.

Drummond asks for a five-minute recess. Kipler decides the jury needs more, and dismisses us for fifteen.

The defense strategy of dragging out testimony and hopefully confusing the jury is plainly not working. The jurors laughed at Reisky and slept through Pellrod. Underhall was a near fatal disaster because Drummond was terrified I had a copy of a document his client assured him did not exist.

Drummond’s had enough. He’ll take his chances with a strong closing argument, something he can control. He announces after recess that the defense rests.

The trial is almost over. Kipler schedules closing arguments for nine o’clock Friday morning. He promises the jurors they’ll have the case by eleven.

Long after the jury’s gone, and long after Drummond and his crew hurriedly left for their offices and what will undoubtedly be another dicey session of what-went-wrong, we sit around the plaintiff’s table in the courtroom and talk about tomorrow. Cooper Jackson and the two lawyers from Raleigh, Hurley and Grunfeld, are careful not to dispense too much unsolicited advice, but I don’t mind listening to their opinions. Everyone knows it’s my first trial. They seem amazed at the job I’ve done. I’m tired, still quite nervous and very realistic about what’s happened. I was handed a beautiful set of facts, a rotten but rich defendant, an incredibly sympathetic trial judge and one lucky break after another at trial. I also have a handsome jury, but it’s yet to perform.

Litigation will only get worse for me, they say. They’re convinced the verdict will be in seven figures. Jackson had been trying cases for twelve years before he got his first one-million-dollar verdict.

They tell war stories designed to boost my confidence.

It’s a pleasant way to spend the afternoon. Deck and I will work all night, but right now I enjoy the comfort of kindred spirits who truly want me to nail Great Benefit.

Jackson is somewhat dismayed by news out of Florida. A lawyer down there jumped the gun and filed four lawsuits against Great Benefit this morning. They thought the guy was about to join their class action, but evidently he got greedy. As of today, these three lawyers have nineteen claims against Great Benefit, and their plans are to file early next week.

They’re pulling for me. They want to buy us a nice dinner, but we have work to do. The last thing I need tonight is a heavy dinner with wine and drinks.

And so we dine at the office on deli sandwiches and soft drinks. I make Deck sit in a chair in my office, and I rehearse my closing argument to the jury. I’ve memorized so many versions of it that they’re all running together. I use a small chalkboard and write the crucial figures neatly on it. I appeal for fairness, yet ask for outrageous sums of money. Deck interrupts a lot, and we argue like schoolchildren.

Neither of us has ever made a closing argument to a jury, but he’s seen more than I so of course he’s the expert. There are moments when I feel invincible, downright arrogant because I’ve made it this far in such wonderful shape. Deck can spot these airs and is quick to chop at the knees. He reminds me repeatedly that the case can still be won or lost tomorrow morning.

Most of the time, however, I’m simply scared. The fear is controllable, but it never leaves. It motivates me and inspires me to keep forging ahead, but I’ll be very happy once it’s gone.

We turn off the office lights around ten and go home. I drink one beer as a sleeping aid, and it works. Sometime after eleven, I drift away, visions of success dancing in my head.

Less than an hour later, the phone rings. It’s an unfamiliar voice, a female, young and very anxious. “You don’t know me, but I’m a friend of Kelly’s,” she says, almost in a whisper.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, waking quickly.

“Kelly’s in trouble. She needs your help.”

“What’s happened?”

“He beat her again. Came home drunk, the usual.”

“When?” I’m standing in the dark beside my bed, trying to find the lamp switch.

“Last night. She needs your help, Mr. Baylor.”

“Where is she?”

“She’s here with me. After the police left with Cliff, she went to an emergency clinic to see a doctor. Luckily, nothing’s broken. I picked her up, and she’s hiding here at my place.”

“How bad is she hurt?”

“It’s pretty ugly, but no broken bones. Cuts and bruises.”

I get her name and address, hang up the phone and dress hurriedly. It’s a large apartment complex in the suburbs, not too far from Kelly’s, and I drive around several one-way loops before I find the right building.

Robin, the friend, cracks the door with the chain in place, and I have to identify myself sufficiently before I’m admitted. She thanks me for coming. Robin is just a kid too, probably divorced and working for slightly more than minimum wage. I step into the den, a small room with rented furniture. Kelly is sitting on the sofa, an ice pack to her head.

I guess it’s the woman I know. Her left eye is completely swollen shut, the puffy skin already turning shades of blue. There’s a bandage above the eye with a spot of blood on it. Both cheeks are swollen. Her bottom lip has been busted and protrudes grotesquely. She wears a long tee shirt, nothing else, and there are large bruises on both thighs and above the knees.

I bend over and kiss her on the forehead, then sit on a footstool across from her. There’s already a tear in the right eye. “Thanks for coming,” she mumbles, her words hindered by the wounded cheeks and the damaged lips. I pat her very gently on the knee. She rubs the back of my hand.

I could kill him.

Robin sits beside her, says, “She doesn’t need to talk, okay. Doctor said as little movement as possible. He used his fists this time, couldn’t find the baseball bat.”

“What happened?” I ask Robin, but keep looking at Kelly.

“It was a credit card fight. The Christmas bills were due. He’s been drinking a lot. You know the rest.” She’s quick with the narrative, and I suspect Robin’s been around. She has no wedding ring. “They fight. He wins as usual, neighbors call the cops. He goes to jail, she goes to see the doctor. Would you like a Coke or something?”

“No, thanks.”

“I brought her here last night, and this morning I took her to an abuse crisis center downtown. She met with a counselor who told her what to do, gave her a bunch of brochures. They’re over there if you need them. Bottom line is she needs to file for divorce and run like hell.”