John Grisham: The Rainmaker

“What happens when they get sued?” I ask. He waves his hand at a bug or fly and two sheets of something lift from his desk and drift to the floor.

He cracks his knuckles violently. “Generally, not much.

There have been some large punitive awards around the country. I’ve been involved with two or three myself. But juries are reluctant to make millionaires out of simple sorts who buy cheap insurance. Think about it. Here’s a plaintiff with, say, five thousand dollars in legitimate medical bills, clearly covered by the policy. But the insurance company says no. And the company is worth, say, two hundred million. At trial, the plaintiff’s lawyer asks the jury for the five thousand, and also a few million to punish the corporate wrongdoer. It rarely works. They’ll give the five, throw in ten thousand punitive, and the company wins again.”

“But Donny Ray Black is dying. And he’s dying because he can’t get the bone marrow transplant he’s entitled to under the policy. Am I right?”

Leuberg gives me a wicked smile. “You are indeed. Assuming his parents have told you everything. Always a shaky assumption.”

“But if everything’s right there?” I ask, pointing to the file.

He shrugs and nods and smiles again. “Then it’s a good case. Not a great one, but a good one.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Simple, Rudy. This is Tennessee. Land of the five-figure verdicts. Nobody gets punitive damages here. The juries are extremely conservative. Per capita income is pretty low, so the jurors have great difficulty making rich people out of their neighbors. Memphis is an especially tough place to get a decent verdict.”

I’ll bet Jonathan Lake could get a verdict. And maybe he’d give me a small slice if I brought him the case. In spite of the hangover, the wheels are turning upstairs.

“So what do I do?” I ask.

“Sue the bastards.”

“I’m not exactly licensed.”

“Not you. Send these folks to some hotshot trial lawyer downtown. Make a few phone calls on their behalf, talk to the lawyer. Write a two-page report for Smoot and you’ll be done with it.” He jumps to his feet as the phone rings, and shoves the file across the desk to me. “There’s a list in here of three dozen bad-faith cases you should read, just in case you’re interested.”

“Thanks,” I say.

He waves me off. As I leave his office, Max Leuberg is yelling into his phone.

Law school has taught me to hate research. I’ve lived in this place for three years now, and at least half of these painful hours have been spent digging through old worn books searching for ancient cases to support primitive legal theories no sane lawyer has thought about in decades. They love to send you on treasure hunts around here. The professors, almost all of whom are teaching because they can’t function in the real world, think it’s good training for us to track down obscure cases to put in meaningless briefs so that we can get good grades which will enable us to enter the legal profession as well-educated young lawyers.

This was especially true for the first two years of law school. Now it’s not so bad. And maybe the training has a method to its madness. I’ve heard thousands of stories about the big firms and their practice of enslaving green recruits to the library for two years to write briefs and trial memos.

All clocks stop when one does legal research with a hangover. The headache worsens. The hands continue to shake. Booker finds me late Friday in my little pit with a dozen open books scattered on my desk. Leuberg’s list of must-read cases. “How do you feel?” he asks.

Booker has on a coat and tie, and he’s no doubt been at the office, taking calls and using the Dictaphone like a real lawyer. “I’m okay.”

He kneels beside me and stares at the pile of books. “What’s this?” he asks.

“It’s not the bar exam. Just a little research for Smoot’s class.”

“You’ve never researched for Smoot’s class.”

“I know. I’m feeling guilty.”

Booker stands and leans on the side of my carrel. “Two things,” he says, almost in a whisper. “Mr. Shankle thinks the little incident at Brodnax and Speer has been taken care of. He’s made some phone calls, and has been assured that the so-called victims do not wish to press charges.”

“Good,” I say. “Thanks, Booker.”

“Don’t mention it. I think it’s safe for you to venture out now. That is, if you can tear yourself away from your research.”

“I’ll try.”

“Second. I had a long talk with Mr. Shankle. Just left his office. And, well, there’s nothing available right now. He’s hired three new associates, me and two others from Washington, and he’s not sure where they’re gonna fit. He’s looking for more office space right now.”

“You didn’t have to do that, Booker.”

“No. I wanted to. It’s nothing. Mr. Shankle promised to put out some feelers, shake the bushes, you know. He knows a lot of people.”

I’m touched almost beyond words. Twenty-four hours ago I had the promise of a good job with a nice check. Now I’ve got people I haven’t met pulling in favors and trying to locate the tiniest scrap of employment.

“Thanks,” I say, biting my lip and staring at my fingers.

He glances at his watch. “Gotta run. You wanna study for the bar in the morning?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll call you.” He pats me on the shoulder and disappears.

At exactly ten minutes before five, I walk up the stairs to the main floor and leave the library. I’m not looking for cops now, not afraid to face Sara Plankmore, not even worried about more process servers. And I’m virtually unafraid of unpleasant confrontations with various of my fellow students. They’re all gone. It’s Friday, and the law school is deserted.

The Placement Office is on the main floor, near the front of the building, where the administrating occurs. I glance at the bulletin board in the hallway, but I keep walking. It’s normally filled with dozens of notices of potential job openings — big firms, medium firms, sole practitioners, private companies, government agencies. A quick look tells me what I already know. There is not a single notice on the board. There is no job market at this time of the year.

Madeline Skinner has run Placement here for decades. She’s rumored to be retiring, but another rumor says that she threatens it every year to squeeze something out of the dean. She’s sixty and looks seventy, a skinny woman with short gray hair, layers of wrinkles around the eyes and a continuous cigarette in the tray on her desk. Four packs a day is the rumor, which is kind of funny because this is now an official nonsmoking facility but no one has mustered the courage to tell Madeline. She has enormous clout because she brings in the folks who offer the jobs. If there were no jobs, there would be no law school.

And she’s very good at what she does. She knows the right people at the right firms. She’s found jobs for many of the very people who are now recruiting for their firms, and she’s brutal. If a Memphis State grad is in charge of recruiting for a big firm, and the big firm gets long on Ivy Leaguers and short on our people, then Madeline has been known to call the president of the university and lodge an unofficial complaint. The president has been known to visit the big firms downtown, have lunch with the partners and remedy the imbalance. Madeline knows every job opening in Memphis, and she knows precisely who fills each position.

But her job’s getting tougher. Too many people with law degrees. And this is not the Ivy League.

She’s standing by the watercooler, watching the door, as if she’s waiting for me. “Hello, Rudy,” she says in a gravelly voice. She is alone, everyone else is gone. She has a cup of water in one hand and a skinny cigarette in the other.