John Grisham: The Rainmaker

Well, how about a million for me? Texaco will sue me any day now for four hundred dollars. We’ve broken off negotiations and I’ve heard from their attorney. My landlord is threatening eviction because I haven’t paid rent in two months. And I’m sitting here chatting with the richest person I’ve ever met, a person who probably can’t live much longer and is pondering rather delightfully who should get how much.

She hands me a piece of paper with four names printed neatly in a narrow column, and says, “These are the grandchildren I want to protect, the ones who still love me.” She cups her hand over her mouth and moves toward my ear. “Give each one a million dollars.”

My hand shakes as I scrawl on my pad. Wham! Just like that, I’ve created four millionaires. “What about the rest?” I ask in a low whisper.

She jerks backward, sits erectly and says, “Not a dime. They don’t call me, never send gifts or cards. Cut ’em out.”

If I had a grandmother worth twenty million dollars I’d send flowers once a week, cards every other day, chocolates whenever it rained and champagne whenever it didn’t. I’d call her once in the morning and twice before bedtime. I’d take her to church every Sunday and sit with her, hand in hand, during the service, then off to brunch we’d go and then to an auction or a play or an art show or wherever in the hell Granny wanted to go. I’d take care of my grandmother.

And I was thinking of doing the same for Miss Birdie.

“Okay,” I say solemnly as if I’ve done this many times. “And nothing for your two children?”

“That’s what I said. Absolutely nothing.”

“What, may I ask, have they done to you?”

She exhales heavily as if frustrated by this, and she rolls her eyes around as if she hates to tell me, but then she lurches forward on both elbows to tell me anyway. “Well,” she whispers, “Randolph, the oldest, he’s almost sixty, just married for the third time to a little tramp who’s always asking about the money. Whatever I leave to him she’ll end up with, and I’d rather give it to you, Rudy, than to my own son. Or to Professor Smoot, or to anyone but Randolph. Know what I mean?”

My heart stops. Inches, just inches, from striking paydirt with my first client. To hell with Brodnax and Speer and all those conferences awaiting me.

“You can’t leave it to me, Miss Birdie,” I say, and offer her my sweetest smile. My eyes, and probably my lips and mouth and nose as well, beg for her to say Yes! Dammit! It’s my money and I’ll leave it to whomever I want, and if I want you, Rudy, to have it, then dammit! It’s yours!

Instead, she says, “Everything else goes to the Reverend Kenneth Chandler. Do you know him? He’s on television all the time now, out of Dallas, and he’s doing all sorts of wonderful things around the world with our donations, building homes, feeding babies, teaching from the Bible. I want him to have it.”

“A television evangelist?”

“Oh, he’s much more than an evangelist. He’s a teacher and statesman and counselor, eats dinner with heads of state, you know, plus he’s cute as a bug. Got this head full of curly gray hair, premature, but he wouldn’t dare touch it up, you know.”

“Of course not. But—”

“He called me the other night. Can you believe it? That voice on television is as smooth as silk, but over the phone it’s downright seductive. Know what I mean?”

“Yes, I think I do. Why did he call you?”

“Well, last month, when I sent my pledge for March, I wrote him a short note, said I was thinking of redoing my will now that my kids have abandoned me and all, and that I was thinking of leaving some money for his ministries. Not three days later he called, just full of himself, so cute and vibrant on the phone, and wanted to know how much I might be thinking of leaving him and his ministries. I shot him a ballpark figure, and he’s been calling ever since. Said he would even fly out in his own Learjet to meet me if I so desired.”

I struggle for words. Smoot has Bosco by the arm and is attempting to pacify him and sit him once again before N. Elizabeth Erickson, who at the moment has lost the chip on her shoulder and is obviously embarrassed by her first client and ready to crawl under the table. She cuts her eyes around, and I flash her a quick grin so she knows I’m watching. Next to her, F. Franklin Donaldson the Fourth is locked in a deep consultation with an elderly couple. They are discussing a document which appears to be a will. I’m smug in the knowledge that the will I’m holding is worth far more than the one he’s frowning over.

I decide to change the subject. “Uh, Miss Birdie, you said you had two children. Randolph and—”

“Yes, Delbert. Forget him too. I haven’t heard from him in three years. Lives in Florida. Cut, cut, cut.”

I slash with my pen and Delbert loses his millions.

“I need to see about Bosco,” she says abruptly, and jumps to her feet. “He’s such a pitiful little fella. No family, no friends except for us.”

“We’re not finished,” I say.

She leans down and again our faces are inches apart. “Yes we are, Rudy. Just do as I say. A million each to those four, and all the rest to Kenneth Chandler. Everything else in the will stays the same; executor, bond, trustees, all stays the same. It’s simple, Rudy. I do it all the time. Professor Smoot says y’all will be back in two weeks with everything all typed up real nice and neat. Is that so?”

“I guess.”

“Good. See you then, Rudy.” She flutters to the end of the table and puts her arm around Bosco, who is immediately calm and innocent again.

I study the will and take notes from it. It’s comforting to know that Smoot and the other professors will be available to guide and assist, and that I have two weeks to collect my senses and figure out what to do. I don’t have to do this, I tell myself. This delightful little woman with twenty million needs more advice than I can give her. She needs a will that she can’t possibly understand, but one the IRS will certainly take heed of. I don’t feel stupid, just inadequate. After three years of studying the law, I’m very much aware of how little I know.

Booker’s client is trying gallantly to control his emotions, and his lawyer has run out of things to say. Booker continues to take notes and grunts yes or no every few seconds. I can’t wait to tell him about Miss Birdie and her fortune.

I glance at the dwindling crowd, and in the second row I notice a couple who appear to be staring at me. At the moment, I’m the only available lawyer, and they seem to be undecided about whether to try their luck with me. The woman’s holding a bulky wad of papers secured by rubber bands. She mumbles something under her breath, and her husband shakes his head as if he’d rather wait for one of the other bright young legal eagles.

Slowly, they stand and make their way to my end of the table. They both stare at me as they approach. I smile. Welcome to my office.

She takes Miss Birdie’s chair. He sits across the table and keeps his distance.

“Hi there,” I say with a smile and an outstretched hand. He shakes it limply, then I offer it to her. “I’m Rudy Baylor.”

“I’m Dot and he’s Buddy,” she says, nodding at Buddy, ignoring my hand.

“Dot and Buddy,” I repeat, and start taking notes. “What is your last name?” I ask with all the warmth of a seasoned counselor.

“Black. Dot and Buddy Black. It’s really Marvarine and Willis Black, but everybody just calls us Dot and Buddy.” Dot’s hair is all teased and permed and frosted silver on top. It appears clean. She’s wearing cheap white sneakers, brown socks and oversized jeans. She is a thin, wiry woman with a hard edge.