John Grisham - The Rainmaker

I haven’t actually met anyone else in the firm, and I’m sure this is because I’m a lowly paralegal, not a lawyer. I’m nothing new or special. Paralegals come and go.

These are very busy people, and there’s not much camaraderie. Barry says little about the other lawyers in the building, and I get the distinct impression that each little trial unit is pretty much on its own. I also get the feeling that handling lawsuits under the supervision of Jonathan Lake is edgy business.

Barry arrives at the office before eight each morning, and I’m determined to meet him at the front door until I get a key to this place. Evidently, Mr. Lake is very particular about who has access to the building. It’s a long story about his phones getting bugged years ago while engaged in a vicious lawsuit with an insurance company. Barry told me the story when I first broached the subject of a key. Might take weeks, he said. And a polygraph.

He parked me on the ledge, gave me my instructions and left for his office. During the first two days, he checked on me every two hours or so. I copied everything in the Black file. Without his knowledge, I also ran a complete copy of the file for my records. I took this copy home at the end of the second day, tucking it away nicely in my sleek new attaché case, a gift from Prince.

Using Barry’s guidelines, I drafted a rather severe letter to Great Benefit, in which I laid out all the relevant facts and pertinent misdeeds on its behalf. When his secretary finished typing it, it ran for four pages. He performed radical surgery on it, and sent me back to my corner. He’s very intense and takes great pride in his ability to concentrate.

During a break on my third day, I finally mustered the courage to ask his secretary about the paperwork relevant to my employment. She was busy, but said she’d look into it.

At the end of the third day, Barry and I left his office just after nine. We had completed the letter to Great Benefit, a three-page masterpiece to be sent by certified mail, return receipt. He never talks about life outside the office. I suggested we go have a beer and a sandwich, but he quickly stiff-armed me.

I drove to Yogi’s for a late snack. The place was packed with drunk frat boys, and Prince himself was tending bar. And not happy about it. I took over and told him to go play bouncer. He was delighted.

He went instead to his favorite table, where his lawyer, Bruiser Stone, was chain-smoking Camels and taking bets on a boxing match. Bruiser was in the paper again this morning, denying any knowledge of anything. The cops found a dead body in a waste Dumpster behind a topless joint two years ago. The deceased was a local thug who owned a piece of the porno business in town, and evidently wanted to branch out into the bouncing boob trade. He stepped onto the wrong turf with the wrong deal, and was decapitated. Bruiser wouldn’t do a thing like that, but the cops seem reasonably confident that he knows precisely who did.

He’s been in here a lot lately, drinking heavily, whispering to Prince.

Thank God I have a real job. I’d almost resigned myself to asking Bruiser for work.

Today is Friday, my fourth day as an employee of the Lake firm. I have told a handful of people that I work for the Lake firm, and it’s very pleasant, the way it rolls off my tongue. It has a satisfying ring to it. The Lake firm. No one has to ask about the firm. Just mention its name, and people see the magnificent old warehouse and they know it’s the home of the great Jonathan Lake and his gang of kick-ass lawyers.

Booker almost cried. He bought steaks and a bottle of nonalcoholic wine. Charlene cooked and we celebrated until midnight.

I hadn’t planned on waking before seven this morning, but there is a loud whacking noise against my apartment door. It’s Miss Birdie, rattling the doorknob now, calling, “Rudy! Rudy!”

I unbolt the door, and she barges in. “Rudy. Are you awake?” She’s looking at me in the small kitchen. I’m wearing gym shorts and a tee shirt, nothing indecent. My eyes are barely open, hair sticking out in all directions. I’m awake, but barely.

The sun is hardly up, but she’s already dirty with soil on her apron and mud on her shoes. “Good morning,” I say, trying hard not to sound irritated.

She grins, yellow and gray. “Did I wake you?” she chirps.

“No, I was just getting up.”

“Good. We have work to do.”

“Work? But—”

“Yes, Rudy. You’ve ignored the mulch long enough, now it’s time to get busy. It’ll rot if we don’t hurry.”

I blink my eyes and try to focus. “Today is Friday,” I mumble with some uncertainty.

“No. It’s Saturday,” she snaps.

We stare at each other for a few seconds, then I glance at my watch, a habit I’ve picked up after only three days on the job. “It’s Friday, Miss Birdie. Friday. I have to work today.”

“It’s Saturday,” she repeats stubbornly.

We stare some more. She glances at my gym shorts. I study her muddy shoes.

“Look, Miss Birdie,” I say warmly, “I know today is Friday, and I’m expected at the office in an hour and a half. We’ll do the mulch this weekend.” Of course I’m trying to placate her. I had planned to man my desk tomorrow morning.

“It’ll rot.”

“Not before tomorrow.” Does mulch really rot in the bag? I don’t think so.

“I wanted to do the roses tomorrow.”

“Well, why don’t you work on the roses today while I’m at the office, then tomorrow we’ll do the mulch.”

She chews on this for a moment, and is suddenly pitiful. Her shoulders sink and her face saddens. It’s hard to tell whether she’s embarrassed. “Do you promise?” she asks meekly.

“I promise.”

“You said you’d do the yard work if I’d lower the rent.”

“Yes, I know.” How could I forget? She’s reminded me of this a dozen times already.

“Well, okay,” she says as if she’s gotten exactly what she came for. Then she waddles out the door and down the steps, mumbling all the way. I quietly close the door, wondering at what hour she’ll come and fetch me in the morning.

I dress and drive to the office, where a half-dozen cars are already parked and the warehouse is partially lit. It’s not yet seven. I wait in my car until another one pulls into the lot, and I time my approach perfectly so that I catch a middle-aged man at the front door. He’s holding a briefcase and balancing a tall paper cup of coffee while fumbling for his keys.

He seems startled by me. This is not a high-crime area, but it’s still midtown Memphis and people are jumpy.

“Good morning,” I say warmly.

“Mornin’,” he grunts. “Can I help you?”

“Yes sir. I’m Barry Lancaster’s new paralegal, just reporting for work.”

“Name?”

“Rudy Baylor.”

His hands become still for a moment and he frowns hard. His bottom lip curls and protrudes and he shakes his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. I’m the business manager. Nobody’s said a word to me.”

“He hired me four days ago, I swear.”

He sticks the key in the door with a fearful glance over his shoulder. The guy thinks I’m a thief or a killer. I’m wearing a coat and tie, and look quite nice.

“Sorry. But Mr. Lake has very strict rules about security. No one gets in before hours unless they’re on the payroll.” He almost jumps inside the door. “Tell Barry to buzz me this morning,” he says, then slams the door in my face.

I’m not going to hang around the front steps like a panhandler waiting for the next payrolled person to come along. I drive a few blocks to a deli, where I buy a morning paper, roll and coffee. I kill an hour breathing cigarette smoke and hearing the gossip, then return to the parking lot, which now has even more cars in it. Nice cars. Elegant German cars and other glossy imports. I carefully select a space next to a Chevrolet.