John Grisham - The Rainmaker

He grimaces and snatches at a piece of paper. Damned secretary has screwed up again.

“I saw your ad for a paralegal in The Daily Record.”

“So you’re a paralegal?” he snaps. “I could be.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I’ve had three years of law school.”

He studies me for about five seconds, then shakes his head, glances at his watch. “I’m really busy. My secretary will take your application.”

I suddenly jump to my feet and lean forward on his desk. “Look, here’s the deal,” I say dramatically as he looks up, startled. I then rush through my standard routine about being bright and motivated and in the top third of my class, and how I had a job with Brodnax and Speer. Got the shaft. I blast away with both barrels. Tinley Britt, my hatred of big firms. My labor is cheap. Anything to get going. Really need a job, mister. I rattle on without interruption for a minute or two, then return to my seat.

He stews for a bit, chews a fingernail. I can’t tell if he’s angry or thrilled.

“You know what pisses me off?” he finally says, obviously somewhat less than thrilled.

“Yeah, people like me lying to the people up front so I can get back here and make my pitch for a job. That’s exactly what pisses you off. I don’t blame you. I’d be pissed too, but then I’d get over it, you know. I’d say, look, this guy is about to be a lawyer, but instead of paying him forty grand, I can hire him to do grunt work at, say twenty-four thousand.”

“Twenty-one.”

“I’ll take it,” I say. “I’ll start tomorrow at twenty-one. And I’ll work a whole year at twenty-one. I promise I won’t leave for twelve months, regardless of whether I pass the bar. I put in sixty, seventy hours a week for twelve months. No vacation. You have my word. I’ll sign a contract.”

“We require five years’ experience before we’ll look at a paralegal. This is high-powered stuff.”

“I’ll learn it quick. I clerked last summer for a defense firm downtown, nothing but litigation.”

There’s something unfair here, and he’s just figured it out. I walked in with my guns loaded, and he’s been ambushed. It’s obvious that I’ve done this several times, because I have such rapid responses to anything he says.

I don’t exactly feel sorry for him. He can always order me out.

“I’ll run it by Mr. Lake,” he says, conceding a little. “He has pretty strict rules about personnel. I don’t have the authority to hire a paralegal who doesn’t meet our specs.”

“Sure,” I say sadly. Kicked in the face again. I’ve actually become quite good at this. I’ve learned that lawyers, regardless of how busy they are, have an inherent sympathy for a fresh new graduate who can’t find work. Limited sympathy.

“Maybe he’ll say yes, and if he does, then the job’s yours.” He offers this to ease me down gently.

“There’s something else,” I say, rallying. “I do have a case. A very good one.”

This causes him to be extremely suspicious. “What kind of case?” he asks.

“Insurance bad faith.”

“You the client?”

“Nope. I’m the lawyer. I sort of stumbled across it.”

“What’s it worth?”

I hand him a two-page summary of the Black case, heavily modified and sensationalized. I’ve worked on this synopsis for a while now, fine-tuning it every time some lawyer read it and turned me down.

Barry X. reads it carefully, with more concentration than I’ve seen from anyone yet. He reads it a second time as I admire his aged-brick walls and dream of an office like this.

“Not bad,” he says when he’s finished. There’s a gleam in his eye, and I think he’s more excited than he lets on. “Lemme guess. You want a job, and a piece of the action.”

“Nope. Just the job. The case is yours. I’d like to work on it, and I’ll need to handle the client. But the fee is yours.”

“Part of the fee. Mr. Lake gets most of it,” he says with a grin.

Whatever. I honestly don’t care how they split the money. I only want a job. The thought of working for Jonathan Lake in this opulent setting makes me dizzy.

I’ve decided to keep Miss Birdie for myself. As a client, she’s not that attractive because she spends nothing on lawyers. She’ll probably live to be a hundred and twenty, so there’s no benefit in using her as a trump card. I’m sure there are highly skilled lawyers who could show her all sorts of ways to pay them, but this would not appeal to the Lake firm. These guys litigate. They’re not interested in drafting wills and probating estates.

I stand again. I’ve taken enough of Barry’s time. “Look,” I say as sincerely as possible, “I know you’re busy. I’m completely legitimate. You can check me out at the law school. Call Madeline Skinner if you want.”

“Mad Madeline. She’s still there?”

“Yes, and right now she’s my best friend. She’ll vouch for me.”

“Sure. I’ll get back with you as soon as possible.” Sure you will.

I get lost twice trying to find the front door. No one’s watching me, so I take my time, admiring the large offices scattered around the building. At one point, I stop at the edge of the library and gaze up at three levels of walkways and narrow promenades. No two offices are even remotely similar. Conference rooms are stuck here and there. Secretaries and clerks and flunkies move quietly about on the heartpine floors.

I’d work here for a lot less than twenty-one thousand a year.

I park quietly behind the long Cadillac, and ease from my car without a sound. I’m in no mood to repot mums. I step softly around the house and am greeted by a tall stack of huge white plastic bags. Dozens of them. Pine bark mulch, by the ton. Each bag weighs one hundred pounds. I now recall something Miss Birdie said a few days ago about remulching all the flower beds, but I had no idea.

I dart for the steps leading to my apartment, and as I bound for the top I hear her calling, “Rudy. Rudy dear, let’s have some coffee.” She’s standing by the monument of pine bark, grinning broadly at me with her gray and yellow teeth. She is truly happy I’m home. It’s almost dark and she likes to sip coffee on the patio as the sun disappears.

“Of course,” I say, folding my jacket over the rail and ripping off my tie.

“How are you, dear?” she sings upward. She started this “Dear” business about a week ago. It’s dear this and dear that.

“Just fine. Tired. My back is bothering me.” I’ve been hinting about a bad back for several days, and so far she hasn’t taken the bait.

I take my familiar chair while she mixes her dreadful brew in the kitchen. It’s late afternoon, the shadows are falling across the back lawn. I count the bags of mulch. Eight across, four deep, eight high. That’s 256 bags. At 100 pounds each, that’s a total of 25,600 pounds. Of mulch. To be spread. By me.

We sip our coffee, very small sips for me, and she wants to know everything I’ve done today. I lie and tell her I’ve been talking to some lawyers about some lawsuits, then I studied for the bar exam. Same thing tomorrow. Busy, busy, you know, with lawyer stuff. Certainly no time to lift and carry a ton of mulch.

Both of us are sort of facing the white bags, but neither wants to look at them. I avoid eye contact.

“When do you start working as a lawyer?” she asks.

“Not sure,” I say, then explain for the tenth time how I will study hard for the next few weeks, just bury myself in the books at law school, and hope I pass the bar exam. Can’t practice till I pass the exam.

“How nice,” she says, drifting away for a moment. “We really need to get started with that mulch,” she adds, nodding and rolling her eyes wildly at it.