John Grisham - The Rainmaker

It’s a good thing I’m not waiting tables tonight. My head is still aching, and I need to move as little as possible. Plus, I can sneak an occasional beer from the cooler, the good stuff in the green bottles, Heineken and Moosehead. Prince expects his bartenders to nip a little.

I’m gonna miss this job. Or will I?

A front booth fills with law students, familiar faces I’d rather avoid. They’re my peers, third-year students, probably all with jobs.

It’s okay to be a bartender and a waiter when you’re still a lowly student, in fact there’s a bit of prestige in working at Yogi’s. But the prestige will suddenly vanish in about a month, when I graduate. Then I’ll become something much worse than a struggling student. I’ll become a casualty, a statistic, another law student who’s fallen through the cracks of the legal profession.

I honestly can’t remember the criteria I formulated and then used to select the Law Offices of Aubrey H. Long and Associates as my first possible quarry, but I think it had something to do with their nice, somewhat dignified ad in the yellow pages. The ad contained a grainy black-and-white photo of Mr. Long. Lawyers are getting as bad as chiropractors about plastering their faces everywhere. He appeared to be an earnest fellow, about forty, nice smile, as opposed to most of the mug shots in the Attorney Section. His firm has four lawyers, specializes in car wrecks, seeks justice on all avenues, likes injuries and insurance cases, fights for its clients and takes nothing until something is recovered.

What the hell. I have to start somewhere. I find the address downtown in a small, square, really ugly brick building with free parking next to it. The free parking was mentioned in the yellow pages. A bell jingles as I push open the door. A chunky little woman behind a littered desk greets me with something between a sneer and a scowl. I’ve made her stop typing.

“May I help you?” she asks, her fat fingers hovering just inches from the keys.

Damn, this is hard. I cajole myself into a smile. “Yes, I was wondering if by chance I could see Mr. Long.”

“He’s in federal court,” she says as two fingers hit the keys. A small word is produced. Not just any court, but federal court! Federal means the big leagues, so when any ham-and-egg lawyer like Aubrey Long has a case in federal court, he damned sure wants everyone to know. His secretary is told to broadcast it. “May I help you?” she repeats.

I have decided that I will be brutally honest. Fraud and chicanery can wait, but not for long. “Yes, my name is Rudy Baylor. I’m a third-year law student at Memphis State, about to graduate, and I wanted to, well, I was sort of looking for work.”

It becomes a full-blown sneer. She takes her hands away from the keyboard, swivels her chair to face me, then begins shaking her head slightly. “We’re not hiring,” she says with a certain satisfaction, as if she’s the foreman down at the refinery.

“I see. Could I just leave a résumé, along with a letter for Mr. Long?”

She takes the papers from me gingerly, as if they’re drenched with urine, and drops them onto her desk. “I’ll put them with all the others.”

I’m actually able to force a chuckle and a grin. “Lots of us out here, huh?”

“About one a day, I’d say.”

“Oh well. Sorry to bother you.”

“No problem,” she grunts, already returning to her typewriter. She starts pecking furiously as I turn to leave the building.

I have lots of letters and lots of résumés. I spent the weekend organizing my paperwork and plotting my at tack. Right now, I’m long on strategy and short on optimism. I figure I’ll do this for a month, hit two or three small firms a day, five days a week, until I graduate, then, who knows. Booker has persuaded Marvin Shankle to scour the halls of justice in search of a job, and Madeline Skinner is probably on the phone right now demanding that someone hire me.

Maybe something will work.

My second prospect is a three-man firm two blocks from the first. I’ve actually planned this so I can move quickly from one rejection to the next. No wasted time here.

According to the legal directory, Nunley Ross & Perry is a firm of general practice, three guys in their early forties with no associates and no paralegals. They appear to do a lot of real estate, something I can’t stand, but this is not the time to be particular. They’re on the third floor of a modern concrete building. The elevator is hot and slow.

The reception area is surprisingly nice, with an oriental rug over faux hardwood flooring. Copies of People and Us litter a glass coffee table. The secretary hangs up the phone and smiles. “Good morning. Can I help you?”

“Yes. I’d like to see Mr. Nunley.”

Still smiling, she glances down at a thick appointment book in the middle of her clean desk. “Do you have an appointment?” she asks, knowing damned well that I don’t.

“No.”

“I see. Mr. Nunley is quite busy at the moment.”

Since I worked in a law office last summer, I knew perfectly well that Mr. Nunley would be quite busy. It’s standard procedure. No lawyer in the world will admit or have his secretary admit that he is anything less than swamped.

Could be worse. He could be in federal court this morning.

Roderick Nunley is the senior partner in this outfit, a graduate of Memphis State, according to the legal directory. I’ve tried to plan my attack to include as many fellow alumni as possible.

“I’ll be happy to wait,” I say with a smile. She smiles. We all smile. A door opens down the brief hallway, and a coatless man with his sleeves rolled up walks toward us. He glances up, sees me, and suddenly we’re close to each other. He hands a file to the smiling secretary.

“Good morning,” he says. “What can I do for you?” His voice is loud. A real friendly sort.

She starts to say something, but I beat her to it. “I need to talk to Mr. Nunley,” I say.

“That’s me,” he says, thrusting his right hand at me. “Rod Nunley.”

“I’m Rudy Baylor,” I say, taking his hand, shaking it firmly. “I’m a third-year student at Memphis State, about to graduate, and I wanted to talk to you about a job.”

We’re still shaking hands, and there’s no noticeable limp to his grasp when I mention employment. “Yeah,” he says. “A job, huh?” He glances down at her, as if to say “How did you allow this to happen?”

“Yes sir. If I could just have ten minutes. I know you’re quite busy.”

“Yeah, well, you know, got a deposition in just a few minutes, then off to court.” He’s on his heels, glancing at me, then at her, then at his watch. But at the core he’s a good guy, a soft touch. Maybe one day not long ago he was standing on this side of the canyon. I plead with my eyes, and hold the thin file with my resume and letter out to him.

“Yeah, well, sure, come on in. But just for a minute.”

“I’ll buzz you in ten minutes,” she says quickly, trying to make amends. Like all busy lawyers, he glances at his watch, studies it for a second, then tells her gravely, “Yeah, ten minutes max. And call Blanche, tell her I might be running a few minutes late.”

They’ve rallied quite nicely, the two of them. They’ll accommodate me, but they’ve quickly orchestrated my swift departure.

“Follow me, Rudy,” he says with a smile. I’m glued to his back as we walk down the hall.

His office is a square room with a wall of bookcases behind the desk and a pretty serious Ego Wall facing the door. I quickly scan the numerous framed certificates — perfect attendance at the Rotary Club, Boy Scout volunteer, lawyer of the month, at least two college degrees, a photo of Rod with a red-faced politician, Chamber of Commerce member. This guy will frame anything.