John Grisham: The Rainmaker

My first conference. Last summer I clerked for a small firm downtown, twelve lawyers, and their work was strictly hourly. No contingency fees. I learned the art of billing, the first rule of which is that a lawyer spends much of his waking hours in conferences. Client conferences, phone conferences, conferences with opposing lawyers and judges and partners and insurance adjusters and clerks and paralegals, conferences over lunch, conferences at the courthouse, conference calls, settlement conferences, pretrial conferences, post-trial conferences. Name the activity, and lawyers can fabricate a conference around it.

Miss Birdie cuts her eyes about, and this is my signal to keep both my head and voice low, because whatever it is she wants to confer over is serious as hell. And this suits me just fine, because I don’t want a soul to hear the lame and naive advice I am destined to provide in response to her forthcoming problem.

“Read this,” she says, and I take the envelope and open it. Hallelujah! It’s a will! The Last Will and Testament of Colleen Janiece Barrow Birdsong. Smoot told us that more than half of these clients would want us to review and maybe update their wills, and this is fine with us because we were required last year to take a full course called Wills and Estates and we feel somewhat proficient in spotting problems. Wills are fairly simple documents, and can be prepared without defect by the greenest of lawyers.

This one’s typed and official in appearance, and as I scan it I learn from the first two paragraphs that Miss Birdie is a widow and has two children and a full complement of grandchildren. The third paragraph stops me cold, and I glance at her as I read it. Then I read it again. She’s smiling smugly. The language directs her executor to give unto each of her children the sum of two million dollars, with a million in trust for each of her grandchildren. I count, slowly, eight grandchildren. That’s at least twelve million dollars.

“Keep reading,” she whispers as if she can actually hear the calculator rattling in my brain. Booker’s client, the old black man, is crying now, and it has something to do with a romance gone bad years ago and children who’ve neglected him. I try not to listen, but it’s impossible. Booker is scribbling with a fury and trying to ignore the tears. Bosco laughs loudly at the other end of the table.

Paragraph five of the will leaves three million dollars to a church and two million to a college. Then there’s a list of charities, beginning with the Diabetes Association and ending with the Memphis Zoo, and beside each is a sum of money the least of which is fifty thousand dollars. I keep frowning, do a little quick math and determine that Miss Birdie has a net worth of at least twenty million.

Suddenly, there are many problems with this will. First, and foremost, it’s not nearly as thick as it should be. Miss Birdie is rich, and rich people do not use thin, simple wills. They use thick, dense wills with trusts and trustees and generation-skipping transfers and all sorts of gadgets and devices designed and implemented by expensive tax lawyers in big firms.

“Who prepared this?” I ask. The envelope is blank and there’s no indication of who drafted the will.

“My former lawyer, dead now.”

It’s a good thing he’s dead. He committed malpractice when he prepared this one.

So, this pretty little lady with the gray and yellow teeth and rather melodious voice is worth twenty million dollars. And, evidently, she has no lawyer. I glance at her, then return to the will. She doesn’t dress rich, doesn’t wear diamonds or gold, spends neither time nor money on her hair. The dress is cotton drip-dry and the burgundy blazer is worn and could’ve come from Sears. I’ve seen a few rich old ladies in my time, and they’re normally fairly easy to spot.

The will is almost two years old. “When did your lawyer die?” I ask ever so sweetly now. Our heads are still huddled low and our noses are just inches apart.

“Last year. Cancer.”

“And you don’t have a lawyer now?”

“I wouldn’t be here talking to you if I had a lawyer, now, would I, Rudy? There’s nothing complicated about a will, so I figured you could handle it.”

Greed is a funny thing. I have a job starting July 1 with Brodnax and Speer, a stuffy little sweatshop of a firm with fifteen lawyers who do little else but represent insurance companies in litigation. It was not the job I wanted, but as things developed Brodnax and Speer extended an offer of employment when all others failed to do so. I figure I’ll put in a few years, learn the ropes and move on to something better.

Wouldn’t those fellows at Brodnax and Speer be impressed if I walked in the first day and brought with me a client worth at least twenty million? I’d be an instant rainmaker, a bright young star with a golden touch. I might even ask for a larger office.

“Of course I can handle it,” I say lamely. “It’s just that, you know, there’s a lot of money here, and I—”

“Shhhhhh,” she hisses fiercely as she leans even closer. “Don’t mention the money.” Her eyes dart in all directions as if thieves are lurking behind her. “I just refuse to talk about it,” she insists.

“Okay. Fine with me. But I think that maybe you should consider talking to a tax lawyer about this.”

“That’s what my old lawyer said, but I don’t want to. A lawyer is a lawyer as far as I’m concerned, and a will is a will.”

“True, but you could save a ton of money in taxes if you plan your estate.”

She shakes her head as if I’m a complete idiot. “I won’t save a dime.”

“Well, excuse me, but I think that maybe you can.”

She places a brown-spotted hand on my wrist, and whispers, “Rudy, let me explain. Taxes mean nothing to me, because, you see, I’ll be dead. Right?”

“Uh, right, I guess. But what about your heirs?”

“That’s why I’m here. I’m mad at my heirs, and I want to cut ’em out of my will. Both of my children, and some of the grandchildren. Cut, cut, cut. They get nothing, you understand. Zero. Not a penny, not a stick of furniture. Nothing.”

Her eyes are suddenly hard and the rows of wrinkles are pinched tightly around her mouth. She squeezes my wrist but doesn’t realize it. For a second, Miss Birdie is not only angry but hurt.

At the other end of the table, an argument erupts between Bosco and N. Elizabeth Erickson. He’s loud and railing against Medicaid and Medicare and Republicans in general, and she’s pointing to a sheet of paper and attempting to explain why certain doctor bills are not covered. Smoot slowly gets to his feet and walks to the end of the table to inquire if he might be of assistance.

Booker’s client is trying desperately to regain his composure, but the tears are dropping from his cheeks and Booker is becoming unnerved. He’s assuring the old gentleman that, yes indeed, he, Booker Kane, will check into the matter and make things right. The air conditioner kicks in and drowns out some of the chatter. The plates and cups have been cleared from the tables, and all sorts of games are in progress — Chinese checkers, Rook, bridge and a Milton Bradley board game with dice. Fortunately, the majority of these people have come for lunch and socializing, not for legal advice.

“Why do you want to cut them out?” I ask.

She releases my wrist and rubs her eyes. “Well, it’s very personal, and I really don’t want to go into it.”

“Fair enough. Who gets the money?” I ask, and I’m suddenly intoxicated by the power just bestowed upon me to draft the magic words that will make millionaires out of ordinary people. My smile to her is so warm and so fake I hope she is not offended.

“I’m not sure,” she says wistfully, and glances about as if this is a game. “I’m just not sure who to give it to.”