John Grisham - The Rainmaker

My best friend in college was Craig Baiter. We roomed together for two years. I was in his wedding last year. Craig had one goal when we started college, and that was to teach high school history. He was very bright and college was too easy for him. We had long discussions about what to do with our lives. I thought he was shortchanging himself by wanting to teach, and he’d get angry when I compared my future profession with his. I was headed for big money and success on a high level. He was headed for the classroom, where his salary was subject to factors out of his control.

Craig got a masters and married a schoolteacher. He’s now teaching ninth-grade history and social studies. She’s pregnant and teaching kindergarten. They have a nice home in the country with a few acres and a garden, and they are the happiest people I know. Their joint income is probably around fifty thousand a year.

But Craig doesn’t care about money. He’s doing exactly what he always wanted to do. I, on the other hand, have no idea what I’m doing. Craig’s job is immensely rewarding because he’s affecting young minds. He can envision the results of his labors. I, on the other hand, will go to the office tomorrow in hopes that by hook or crook I’ll seize upon some unsuspecting client wallowing in some degree of misery. If lawyers earned the same salaries as schoolteachers, they’d immediately close nine law schools out of ten.

Things must improve. But before they do, there are still at least two more possible disasters. First, I could be arrested or otherwise embarrassed for the Lake fire, and second, I could flunk the bar exam.

Thoughts of both keep me tottering in the hammock until the early morning hours.

Bruiser’s at the office early, red-eyed and hung over but decked out in his lawyer’s finest — expensive wool suit, nicely starched white cotton shirt, rich silk tie. His flowing mane appears to have received an extra laundering this morning. It has a clean shine.

He’s on his way to court to argue pretrial motions in a drug-trafficking case, and he’s all nerves and action. I’ve been summoned to stand before his desk and receive my instructions.

“Good work on Van Landel,” he says, awash in papers and files. Dru is buzzing around behind him, just out of harm’s way. The sharks watch her hungrily. “I talked to the insurance company a few minutes ago. Plenty of coverage. Liability looks clear. How bad’s the boy hurt?”

I spent a nerve-racking hour last night at the hospital with Dan Van Landel and his wife. They had lots of questions, the principal concern being how much they might get. I had few solid answers, but performed admirably with legalspeak. So far, they’re sticking. “Broken leg, arm, ribs, plenty of lacerations. His doctor says he’ll spend ten days in the hospital.”

Bruiser smiles at this. “Stay on it. Do the investigating. Listen to Deck. This could be a nice settlement.”

Nice for Bruiser, but I won’t share in the rewards. This case will not count as fee origination for me.

“The cops want to take your statement about the fire,” he tosses out while reaching for a file. “Talked to them last night. They’ll do it here, in this office, with me present.”

He says this as if it’s already planned and I have no choice. “And if I refuse?” I ask.

“Then they’ll probably take you downtown for questioning. If you have nothing to hide, I suggest you give them the statement. I’ll be here. You can consult with me. Talk to them, and after that they’ll leave you alone.”

“So they think it’s arson?”

“They’re reasonably sure.”

“What do they want from me?”

“Where you were, what you were doing, times, places, alibis, stuff like that.”

“I can’t answer everything, but I can tell the truth.”

Bruiser smiles. “Then the truth shall set you free.”

“Let me write that down.”

“Let’s do it at two this afternoon.”

I nod affirmatively but say nothing. It’s odd that in this state of vulnerability I have complete trust in Bruiser Stone, a man I would never trust otherwise.

“I need some time off, Bruiser,” I say.

His hands freeze in midair and he stares at me. Dru, in a corner picking through a file cabinet, stops and looks. One of the sharks seems to have heard me.

“You just started,” Bruiser says.

“Yeah, I know. But the bar exam is just around the corner. I’m really behind with my studies.”

He cocks his head to one side and strokes his goatee. Bruiser has really harsh eyes when he’s drinking and having fun. Now they’re like lasers. “How much time?”

“Well, I’d like to come in each morning and work till noon or so. Then, you know, depending on my trial calendar and schedule of appointments, sneak off to the library and study.” My attempt at humor falls incredibly flat.

“You could study with Deck,” Bruiser says with a sudden smile. It’s a joke, so I laugh goofily. “Tell you what you do,” he says, serious again. “You work till noon, then you pack your books and hang out in the cafeteria at St. Peter’s. Study like hell, okay, but also keep your eyes open. I want you to pass the bar, but I’m much more concerned about new cases right now. Take a cellular phone so I can reach you at all times. Fair enough?”

Why did I do this? I kick myself in the rear for mentioning the bar exam. “Sure,” I say with a frown.

Last night in the hammock I thought that maybe with a little luck I might be able to avoid St. Peter’s. Now I’m being stationed there.

The same two cops who came to my apartment present themselves to Bruiser for his permission to interrogate me. The four of us sit around a small round table in the corner of his office. Two tape recorders are placed in the center, both are turned on.

It quickly becomes boring. I repeat the same story I told these two clowns the first time we met, and they waste an enormous amount of time rehashing each tiny little aspect of it. They try to force me into discrepancies on thoroughly insignificant details — “thought you said you were wearing a navy shirt, now you’re saying it was blue” — but I’m telling the absolute truth. There are no lies to cover, and after an hour they seem to realize that I’m not their man.

Bruiser gets irritated and tells them more than once to move forward. They obey him, for a while. I honestly think these two cops are afraid of Bruiser.

They finally leave, and Bruiser says that’ll be the end of it. I’m not really a suspect anymore, they’re just covering their tails. He’ll talk to their lieutenant in the morning and get the book closed on me.

I thank him. He hands me a tiny phone that folds into the palm of my hand. “Keep this with you at all times,” he says: “Especially when you’re studying for the bar. I might need you in a hurry.” The tiny device suddenly grows much heavier. Through it I’ll be subject to his whim around the clock.

He dispatches me to my office.

I return to the grill near the orthopedic wing with a solemn resolve to hide in a corner, study my materials, keep the damned cellular phone handy, but to ignore those around me.

The food is not terrible. After seven years of college cuisine, anything tastes fine. I dine on a pimento cheese sandwich and chips. I spread my bar review course on a table in the corner, my back to the wall.

I eat first, devouring the sandwich while examining the other diners. Most wear medical garb of some variety — doctors in their scrubs, nurses in their whites, technicians in their lab jackets. They sit in small groups and discuss the ins and outs of ailments and treatments I’ve never heard of. For people who are supposed to be concerned with health and nutrition, they eat the worst junk foods possible. Fries, burgers, nachos, pizza. I watch a group of young doctors huddled over their dinner, and wonder what they would think if they knew there was a lawyer in their midst, one studying for the bar so he could one day sue them.