John Grisham - The Rainmaker

Booker knows me better than anyone, and he joins these walks. He’s nervous too. We poke along the marble hallways going nowhere, just killing time. And waiting. In times of great turmoil, it’s important to be with friends. I thank him for coming. He said he wouldn’t miss it for the world.

By three-thirty, I’m convinced I’ve lost. It should’ve been a slam-dunk decision, a simple matter of picking a percentage and calculating the result. Maybe I’ve been too confident. I recall one awful story after another about pathetically low verdicts in this county. I’m about to become a statistic, another example of why a lawyer in Memphis should take any decent offer to settle. Time passes with excruciating delay.

From somewhere far away, I hear my name being called. It’s Deck, outside the courtroom doors, waving desperately for me. “Oh my God,” I say.

“Just be cool,” Booker says, then both of us practically race to the courtroom. I take a deep breath, say a quick prayer and step inside. Drummond and the other four are in their seats. Dot sits alone at our table. Everyone else is in place. The jury is filing into the box as I walk through the gate in the railing and sit next to my client. The faces of the jurors reveal nothing. When they’re seated, His Honor asks, “Has the jury reached a verdict?”

Ben Charnes, the young black college graduate, and foreman of the jury, says, “We have, Your Honor.”

“Is it written on paper according to my instructions?”

“Yes sir.”

“Please stand and read it.”

Charnes rises slowly. He’s holding a sheet of paper that’s visibly shaking. It is not shaking as violently as my hands. My breathing is quite labored. I’m so dizzy I feel faint. Dot, however, is remarkably calm. She’s already won her battle with Great Benefit. They admitted in open court that they were wrong. Nothing else matters to her.

I’m determined to keep a straight face and display no emotion, regardless of the verdict. I do this the way I’ve been trained. I scribble on a legal pad. A quick glance to my left reveals the same strategy being employed by all five defense lawyers.

Charnes clears his throat, and reads, “We, the jury, find for the plaintiff and award actual damages in the amount of two hundred thousand dollars.” There is a pause. All eyes are on the sheet of paper. So far, no surprises. He clears his throat again, says, “And, we, the jury, find for the plaintiff, and award punitive damages in the amount of fifty million dollars.”

There’s a gasp from behind me, and general stiffening around the defense table, but all else is quiet for a few seconds. The bomb lands, explodes and after a delay everyone does a quick search for mortal wounds. Finding none, it’s possible to breathe again.

I actually write these sums on my legal pad, though the chicken scratch is illegible. I refuse to smile, though I’m forced to bite a hole in my bottom lip to achieve this effect. There are lots of things I want to do. I’d love to bound onto the table and gyrate like an idiot football player in the end zone. I’d love to dash to the jury box and start kissing feet. I’d love to strut around the defense table with some obnoxious in-your-face taunting. I’d love to leap onto the bench and hug Tyrone Kipler.

But I maintain my composure, and simply whisper, “Congratulations,” to my client. She says nothing. I look at the bench and His Honor is inspecting the written verdict which the clerk has handed him. I look at the jury, and most of them are looking at me. It’s impossible at this point not to smile. I nod and silently say thanks.

I make a cross on my legal pad and under it write the name — Donny Ray Black. I close my eyes and recall my favorite image of him; I see him sitting in the folding chair at the softball game, eating popcorn and smiling just because he was there. My throat thickens and my eyes water. He didn’t have to die.

“The verdict appears to be in order,” Kipler says. Very much in order, I’d say. He addresses the jury, thanks them for their civic service, tells them their meager checks will be mailed out next week, asks them not to talk about the case with anyone and says they are free to leave. Under the direction of the bailiff, they file from the courtroom for the last time. I’ll never see them again. Right now, I’d like to give them each a cool million.

Kipler too is struggling to keep a straight face. “We’ll argue post-trial motions in a week or so. My secretary will send you a notice. Anything further?”

I just shake my head. What more could I ask for?

Without standing, Leo says softly, “Nothing, Your Honor.” His team is suddenly busy stuffing papers in briefcases and files in boxes. They can’t wait to get out of here. It is, by far, the largest verdict in the history of Tennessee, and they’ll be forever tagged as the guys who got clobbered with it. If I wasn’t so tired and so stunned, I might walk over and offer to shake their hands. This would be the classy thing to do, but I just don’t feel like it. It’s much easier to sit here close to Dot and stare at Donny Ray’s name on my legal pad.

I’m not exactly rich. The appeal will take a year, maybe two. And the verdict is so enormous that it will face a vicious attack. So, I have my work cut out for me.

Right now, though, I’m sick of work. I want to get on a plane and find a beach.

Kipler raps his gavel, and this trial is officially over. I look at Dot and see the tears. I ask her how she feels. Deck is quickly upon us with congratulations. He’s pale but grinning, his four perfect front teeth shining. My attention is on Dot. She’s a hard woman who cries with great reluctance, but she’s slowly losing it. I pat her arm, and hand her a tissue.

Booker squeezes the back of my neck, and says he’ll call me next week. Cooper Jackson, Hurley and Grunfeld stop by the table, beaming and full of praise. They need to catch a plane. We’ll talk Monday. The reporter approaches, but I wave him off. I half-ignore these people because I’m worried about my client. She’s collapsing now, the sobbing is getting louder.

I also ignore Drummond and his boys as they load themselves like pack mules and make a speedy exit. Not a word is spoken between us. I’d love to be a fly on the wall at Trent & Brent right now.

The court reporter and bailiff and clerk tidy up their mess and leave. The courtroom is empty except for me, Dot and Deck. I need to go speak to Kipler, to thank him for holding my hand and making it possible. I’ll do it later. Right now I’m holding Dot’s hand as she’s unloading a torrent. Deck sits beside us, saying nothing. I say nothing. My eyes are moist, my heart is aching. She cares nothing for the money. She just wants her boy back.

Someone, probably the bailiff, hits a switch in the narrow hallway near the jury room, and the lights go off. The courtroom is semidark. None of us moves. The crying subsides. She wipes her cheeks with the tissue and sometimes with her fingers.

“I’m sorry,” she says hoarsely. She wants to go now, so we decide to leave. I pat her arm as Deck gathers our junk and packs it in three briefcases.

We exit the unlit courtroom, and step into the marble hallway. It’s almost five, Friday afternoon, and there’s not much activity. There are no cameras, no reporters, no mob waiting for me to capture a few words and images from the lawyer of the moment.

In fact, no one notices us.

The last place i want to go is the office. I’m too tired and too stunned to celebrate in a bar, and my only pal for the moment is Deck, a nondrinker. Two stiff drinks would put me in a coma anyway, so I’m not tempted. There should be a wild celebration party somewhere, but these things are hard to plan when dealing with juries.