John Grisham - The Rainmaker

Max’s office is filled with cardboard liquor boxes. He’s packing to move, and I’ve never seen such a mess. We reminisce for a few awkward moments, a desperate effort to make law school sound provocative. I’ve never seen him subdued before. It’s almost as if he’s genuinely sad to be leaving. He points to a stack of papers in a Wild Turkey box. “That’s for you. It’s a bunch of recent materials I’ve used in bad-faith cases. Take it. Might come in handy.”

I haven’t quite finished the last batch of research materials he laid on me. “Thanks, Max,” I say, looking at the red turkey.

“Have you filed suit yet?” he asks.

“Uh, no. Not yet.”

“You need to. Find a lawyer downtown with a good trial record. Someone with bad-faith experience. I’ve been thinking about this case a lot, and it grows on you. Lots of jury appeal. I can see a jury getting mad here, wanting to punish the insurance company. Someone needs to take this case and run with it.” I’m running like hell.

He bounces from his seat and stretches his arms. “What kinda firm are you going with?” he asks, on his toes, performing some yoga expansion on his calves. “Because this is a great case for you to work on. I’m just thinking, you know. Maybe you should take it to your firm, let them sign it up, then do the grunt work yourself. Surely there’s somebody in your firm with trial experience. You can call me if you want. I’ll be in Detroit all summer working on a huge case against Allstate, but I’m interested, okay? I think this might be a big case, a landmark. I’d love to see you pop these boys.”

“What’s Allstate done?” I ask, steering matters away from my firm.

He breaks into a wide grin, clasps his hands together on top of his head, just can’t believe it. “Incredible,” he says, then launches into a windy narrative about a gorgeous case. I wish I hadn’t asked.

In my limited experience of hanging around lawyers, I’ve learned that they all suffer the same afflictions. One of the most obnoxious habits is the telling of war stories. If they’ve had a great trial, they want you to know it. If they have a great case that’s destined to make them rich, they must share it with other like minds. Max is losing sleep with visions of bankrupting Allstate.

“But anyway,” he says, drifting back to reality, “I might be able to help with this one. I’m not coming back next fall, but my phone number and address are in the box. Call me if you need me.”

I pick up the Wild Turkey box. It’s heavy and the bottom flaps sag. “Thanks,” I say, facing him. “I really appreciate this.”

“I wanna help, Rudy. There’s nothing more thrilling than nailing an insurance company. Believe me.”

“I’ll give it my best shot. Thanks.”

The phone rings and he attacks it. I ease from his office with my bulky load.

Miss Birdie and I strike an odd deal. She’s not much of a negotiator, and she obviously doesn’t need the money. I get her down to a hundred and fifty dollars a month rent, utilities included. She also throws in enough furniture to fill the four rooms.

In addition to the money, she receives from me a commitment to assist with various chores around the place, primarily lawn and garden work. I’ll mow the grass, so she can save thirty dollars a week. I’ll trim hedges, rake leaves, the usual. There was some vague and unfinished talk of weed-pulling, but I didn’t take it seriously.

It’s a good deal for me, and I’m proud of my businesslike approach to it. The apartment is worth at least three hundred and fifty per month, so I saved two hundred in cash. I figure I can get by working five hours a week, twenty hours a month. Not a bad deal under the circumstances. After three years of life in the library, I need the fresh air and exercise. No one will know I’m a yard boy. Plus, it’ll keep me close to Miss Birdie, my client.

It’s an oral lease, from month to month, so if it doesn’t work out then I’ll move on.

Not very long ago, I looked at some nice apartments, fit for an up-and-coming lawyer. They wanted seven hundred a month for two bedrooms, less than a thousand square feet. And I was perfectly willing to pay it. A lot has changed.

Now I’m moving into a rather spartan afterthought, designed by Miss Birdie, then neglected by her for ten years. There’s a modest den with orange shag carpeting and pale green walls. There’s a bedroom, a small efficiency kitchen and a separate dining area. The ceilings are vaulted from all directions, in every room, giving a rather claustrophobic effect to my little attic.

It’s perfect for me. As long as Miss Birdie keeps her distance, then it’ll work fine. She made me promise there’d be no wild parties, loud music, loose women, booze, drugs, dogs or cats. She cleaned the place herself; scrubbed the floors and walls, moved as much junk as she could. She literally clung to my side as I trudged up the steps with my sparse belongings. I’m sure she felt sorry for me.

As soon as I finished hauling the last box up the stairs and before I had a chance to unpack anything, she insisted we drink coffee on the patio.

We sat on the patio for about ten minutes, just long enough for me to stop sweating, when she declared it was time to hit the flower beds. I pulled weeds until my back cramped. She was an active partner for a few minutes, then took to standing behind me, pointing.

I’m able to escape the yard work only by retreating to the safety of Yogi’s. I’m scheduled to tend bar until closing, sometime after 1 a.m.

The place is full tonight, and much to my dismay there are a bunch of my peers grouped around two long tables in a front corner. It’s the final meeting of one of the various legal fraternities, one I was not asked to join. It’s called The Barristers, a group of Law Review types, important students who take themselves much too seriously. They try to be secretive and exclusive, with obscure initiation rites chanted in Latin and other such foolishness. Almost all are headed for either big firms or federal judicial clerkships. A couple have been accepted to tax school at NYU. It’s a pompous clique.

They quickly get drunk as I draw pitcher after pitcher of beer. The loudest is a little squirrel named Jacob Staples, a promising young lawyer who began law school three years ago, already having mastered the art of dirty tricks. Staples has found more ways to cheat than any person in the history of this law school. He’s stolen exams, hidden research books, filched outlines from the rest of us, lied to professors to delay papers and briefs. He’ll make a million bucks soon. I suspect Staples is the one who copied my newsbrief from The Daily Report and plastered it around the law school. Sounds just like him.

Though I try to ignore them, I catch an occasional stare. I hear the word “bankruptcy” several times.

But I stay busy, occasionally sipping beer from a coffee mug. Prince is in the opposite corner, watching television and keeping a wary eye on The Barristers. Tonight he’s watching greyhound racing from a track in Florida, and betting on every race. His gambling and drinking buddy tonight is his lawyer, Bruiser Stone, an enormously fat and broad man with long, thick gray hair and sagging goatee. He weighs at least 350, and together they look like two bears sitting on rocks, chomping peanuts.

Bruiser Stone is a lawyer with highly questionable ethics. He and Prince go way back, old high school buddies from South Memphis, and they’ve done many shady deals together. They count their cash when no one is around. They bribe politicians and police. Prince is the front man, Bruiser does the thinking. And when Prince gets caught, Bruiser is on the front page screaming about injustices. Bruiser is very effective in the courtroom, primarily because he’s known to offer significant sums of cash to jurors. Prince has no fear of guilty verdicts.