John Grisham - The Rainmaker

“I really don’t want to be arrested, you know. Especially since I’m innocent. I don’t need the press.” I say this with a glance at the wall plastered with his newspaper stories.

“Don’t blame you there,” he actually says with a straight face. “When do you take the bar exam?”

“July.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know. I’ll look around.”

My buddy Prince suddenly charges into the conversation. “Can’t you use him around here, Bruiser? Hell, you got a bunch of lawyers. What’s one more? He’s a top student, works hard, bright. I can vouch for him. The boy needs a job.”

I slowly turn and look at Prince, who smiles at me as if he’s Santa Claus. “This’ll be a great place to work,” he says right jolly like. “You’ll learn what real lawyers do.” He laughs and slaps me on the knee.

We both look at Bruiser, whose eyes are darting as his mind races wildly with excuses. “Uh, sure. I’m always looking for good legal talent.”

“See there,” Prince says.

“In fact, two of my associates just left to form their own firm. So, I’ve got two empty offices.”

“See there,” Prince says again. “I told you things would work out.”

“But it ain’t exactly a salaried position,” Bruiser says, warming to the idea. “No sir. I don’t operate that way. I expect my associates to pay for themselves, to generate their own fees.”

I’m too stunned to speak. Prince and I did not discuss the topic of my employment. I hadn’t wanted his assistance. I don’t really want Bruiser Stone as my boss. But I can’t insult the man either, not with the cops poking around, making not so vague references about the death penalty. I’m unable to muster the strength to tell Bruiser that he’s sleazy enough to represent me, but too sleazy to employ me.

“How does that work?” I ask.

“It’s very simple, and it works, at least on my end. And keep in mind that in twenty years I’ve tried everything. I’ve had a bunch of partners and I’ve had dozens of associates. The only system that works is one where the associate is required to generate enough fees to cover his salary. Can you do that?”

“I can try,” I say, all shrugs and uncertainty.

“Sure you can,” Prince adds helpfully.

“You draw a thousand dollars a month, and you keep one third of the fees you generate. Your one third is applied against the draw. One third goes into my office fund, which covers overhead, secretarial, stuff like that. The other one third comes to me. If you don’t cover your draw each month, then you owe me the balance. I keep a running total until you hit a big month. Understand?”

I ponder this ridiculous scheme for a few seconds. The only thing worse than being unemployed is having a job in which you lose money and your debts become cumulative each month. I can think of several very pointed and unanswerable questions, and I start to ask one when Prince says, “Sounds fair to me. Helluva deal.” He slaps me on the knee again. “You can make some real money.”

“It’s the only way I operate,” Bruiser says for the second or third time.

“How much do your associates make?” I ask, not expecting the truth.

The long wrinkles squeeze together across his forehead. He’s deep in thought. “It varies. Depends on how much you hustle. One guy made close to eighty last year, one guy made twenty.”

“And you made three hundred thousand,” Prince says with a hearty laugh.

“I wish.”

Bruiser is watching me closely. He’s offering me the only possible job left in the city of Memphis, and he seems to know I’m not anxious to take it.

“When can I start?” I ask in an awkward attempt at eagerness.

“Right now.”

“But the bar exam—”

“Don’t worry about it. You can start generating fees today. I’ll show you how to do it.”

“You’re gonna learn a lot,” Prince joins in, almost beside himself with satisfaction.

“I’ll pay you a thousand bucks today,” Bruiser says, like the last of the big spenders. “Get you started. I’ll show you the office, sort of get you plugged in.”

“Great,” I say with a forced smile. It is utterly impossible at this moment to pursue any other course of action. I shouldn’t even be here, but I’m scared and need help. Left unsaid at this moment is the matter of how much I will owe Bruiser for his services. He is not the kind of good-hearted soul who might do an occasional favor for the poor.

I feel a bit ill. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, the shock of being awakened by the police. Maybe it’s sitting here in this office, watching live sharks swim about, getting myself hustled by two of the biggest hustlers in the city.

Not long ago I was a bright, fresh-faced, third-year law student with a promising job with a real firm, anxious to join the profession, work hard, get myself active in the local bar association, start the career, do all the things my friends would do. And now I sit here, so vulnerable and weak that I agree to whore myself out for a shaky thousand dollars a month.

Bruiser takes an urgent phone call, probably a topless dancer in jail for solicitation, and we ease from our seats. He whispers over the phone that he wants me to return this afternoon.

Prince is so proud he’s about to bust. Just like that, he’s saved me from the death penalty and found me a job. Try as I might, I cannot be cheerful as Firestone weaves through traffic and speeds us back to Yogi’s.

I decide to hide in the law school. I spend a couple of hours lurking between the tiers in the basement, retrieving and perusing case after case on insurance bad faith. I kill time.

I drive slowly in the general direction of the airport and arrive at Bruiser’s at three-thirty. The neighborhood is worse than it seemed just hours earlier. The street has five lanes for traffic and is lined with light industries and freight terminals and dark little bars and clubs where the workingmen unwind. It’s somewhere near the final approach to the airport, and jets scream by overhead.

Bruiser’s strip is labeled Greenway Plaza, and as I sit in my car in the littered lot I notice, in addition to the cleaners and video rental, a liquor store and a small coffee shop. Though it’s difficult to tell because of the blackened windows and sealed doors, it appears as if the law offices occupy six or seven contiguous bays in the center of the strip. I grit my teeth, and pull open the door.

The denim-clad secretary is visible on the other side of a chest-high partition. She has bleached hair and a remarkable figure, the curves and grooves of which are magnificently displayed.

I explain my presence to her. I expect to be rebuffed and asked to leave, but she is civil. In a sultry and intelligent voice, quite unbimbolike, she asks me to fill out the necessary employment forms. I’m stunned to learn that this firm, the Law Offices of J. Lyman Stone, offers comprehensive health insurance to its employees. I carefully read the fine print because I half-expect Bruiser to hide little clauses that further sink his claws into my flesh.

But there are no surprises. I ask her if I may see Bruiser, and she asks me to wait. I take a seat in a row of plastic chairs along the wall. The reception area is designed on the same lines as a welfare office — well-worn tile floor, thin layer of dirt on said floor, cheap seats, flimsy paneled walls, amazing assortment of torn magazines. She, Dru, the secretary, is typing away and answering the phone at the same time. It rings a lot, and she is very efficient, often able to continue typing rapidly while chatting with clients.

She eventually sends me back to see my new boss. Bruiser is at his desk, poring over my employment forms like an accountant. I’m surprised at his interest in the details. He welcomes me back, goes over the financial terms of our arrangement, then slides a contract in front of me. It’s customized with my name in the blanks. I read it, then sign it. There’s a thirty-day walkout clause in case either of us wishes to terminate my employment. I’m quite thankful for it, but I sense he placed it there for a very good reason.