John Grisham - The Rainmaker

I can hear the clock ticking as we sit across his huge, Catalog America-style desk. “Sorry to barge in like this,” I begin, “but I really need a job.”

“When do you graduate?” he asks, leaning forward on his elbows.

“Next month. I know this is late in the game, but there’s a good reason.” And then I tell him the story of my job with Brodnax and Speer. When I come to the part about Tinley Britt, I play heavy on what I hope is his dislike for big firms. It’s a natural rivalry, the little guys like my pal Rod here, the ham-and-egg street lawyers, versus the silk stocking boys in the tall buildings downtown. I fudge a little when I explain that Tinley Britt wanted to talk to me about a job, then drive home the self-serving point that there’s simply no way I could ever work for a big firm. Just not in my blood. I’m too independent. I want to represent people, not big corporations.

This takes less than five minutes.

He’s a good listener, somewhat nervous with the phone lines buzzing in the background. He knows he’s not gonna hire me, so he’s just passing time, waiting for my ten minutes to pass. “What a cheap shot,” he says sympathetically when I finish my narrative.

“Probably for the best,” I say, like the sacrificial lamb. “But I’m ready to go to work. I’ll finish in the top third of my class. I really enjoy real estate, and I’ve taken two property courses. Good grades in both.”

“We do a lot of real estate,” he says smugly, as if it’s just the most profitable labor in the world. “And litigation,” he adds, even more smugly. He’s little more than an office practitioner, a paper shuffler, probably very good at what he does and able to make a nice living at it. But he wants me to think he’s also an accomplished-courtroom brawler, a litigating fool. He says this because it’s simply what lawyers do, part of the routine. I haven’t met many, but I’ve yet to meet one who didn’t want me to think he could kick some ass in the courtroom.

My time is running out. “I’ve worked my way through school. All seven years. Not a penny from family.”

“What type of work?”

“Anything. Right now I work at Yogi’s, waiting tables, tending bar.”

“You’re a bartender?”

“Yes sir. Among other things.”

He’s holding my résumé. “You’re single,” he says slowly. It says so right there in black and white.

“Yes sir.”

“Any serious romance?”

It’s really none of his business, but I’m in no position. “No sir.”

“Not a queer, are you?”

“No, of course not,” and we share a quick, heterosexual moment of humor. Just a couple of very straight white guys.

He leans back and his face is suddenly serious, as if important business is now at hand. “We haven’t hired a new associate in several years. Just curious, what are the big boys downtown paying now for fresh recruits?”

There’s a reason for this question. Regardless of my answer, he will profess shock and disbelief at such exorbitant salaries in the tall buildings. That, of course, will lay the groundwork for any discussion we have about money.

Lying will do no good. He probably has a good idea of the salary range. Lawyers love gossip.

“Tinley Britt insists on paying the most, as you know. I’ve heard it’s up to fifty thousand.”

His head is shaking before I finish. “No kiddin’,” he says, floored. “No kiddin’.”

“I’m not that expensive,” I announce quickly. I’ve decided to sell myself cheaply to anyone willing to offer. My overhead is low, and if I can get my foot in the door, work hard for a couple of years, then maybe something else will come along.

“What did you have in mind?” he asks, as if his mighty little firm could run with the big boys and anything less might be degrading.

“I’ll work for half. Twenty-five thousand. I’ll put in eighty-hour weeks, handle all the fish files, do all the grunt work. You and Mr. Ross and Mr. Perry can give me all the files you wish you’d never taken, and I’ll have them closed in six months. Promise. I’ll earn my salary the first twelve months, and if I don’t, then I’ll leave.”

Rod’s lips actually part and I can see his teeth. His eyes are dancing at the thought of shoveling the manure from his office and dumping it on someone else. A loud buzzer discharges from his phone, followed by her voice. “Mr. Nunley, they’re waiting on you in the deposition.”

I glance at my watch. Eight minutes.

He glances at his. A frown, then to me he says, “Interesting proposal. Lemme think about it. I’ll have to get with my partners. We meet every Thursday morning for review.” He’s on his feet. “I’ll bring it up then. We haven’t thought about this, actually.” He’s around the desk, ready to escort me out.

“It’ll work, Mr. Nunley. Twenty-five thousand is a bargain.” I’m backpedaling toward the door.

He appears to be stunned for a second. “Oh, it’s not the money,” he says, as if he and his partners wouldn’t dare consider paying less than Tinley Britt. “It’s just that we’re running along pretty smoothly right now. Making lots of money, you know. Everybody’s happy. Haven’t thought of expanding.” He opens the door, waits for me to leave. “We’ll be in touch.”

He follows me closely to the front, then instructs the secretary to make sure she has my phone number. He gives me a tight handshake, wishes me the best, promises to call soon and seconds later I’m on the street.

It takes a moment or two to collect my thoughts. I just offered to prostitute my education and training for something far less than the best, and it landed me on the sidewalk in a matter of minutes.

As things developed, my brief interview with Roderick Nunley would be one of my more productive outings.

It’s almost ten. In thirty minutes I have Selected Readings from the Napoleonic Code, a class I need to attend because I’ve skipped it for a week. I could skip it for the next three weeks and no one would care. There’s no final exam.

I’m moving freely around the law school these days, no longer ashamed to show my face. With a matter of days to go, most of the third-year students are abandoning the place. Law school starts with a barrage of intense work and pressurized exams, but it ends with a few scattered volleys of soft quizzes and throwaway papers. All of us are spending more time studying for the bar exam than worrying about our final classes.

Most of us are preparing to enter the state of employment.

Madeline Skinner has taken up my cause as if it’s her own. And she’s suffering almost as much as me because we’re both having no luck. There’s a state senator from Memphis whose office in Nashville might need a staff attorney to draft legislation — thirty thousand with benefits, but it requires a law license and two years’ experience. A small company wants a lawyer with an undergraduate degree in accounting. I studied history.

“The Shelby County Welfare Department may have an opening in August for a staff lawyer.” She’s shuffling papers on her desk, trying desperately to find something.

“A welfare lawyer?” I repeat.

“Sounds glamorous, doesn’t it?”

“What’s the pay?”

“Eighteen thousand.”

“What kind of work?”

“Tracking down deadbeat fathers, trying to collect support. Paternity cases, the usual.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“It’s a job.”

“So what do I do until August?”

“Study for the bar exam.”

“Right, and if I study real hard and pass the exam, then I get to go to work for the Welfare Department at minimum wage.”

“Look, Rudy—”

“I’m sorry. It’s been a bad day.”