John Grisham - The Rainmaker

He still dreams of fame and fortune in the big leagues. She longs for the careless years so recently gone, and dreams of the college she’ll never see.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You’re young enough to go to college,” I say.

She chortles at my optimism, as if this dream buried itself long ago. “I didn’t finish high school.”

Now, what am I supposed to say to this? Some trite little bootstrap speech, get a GED, go to night school, you can do it if you really want.

“Do you work?” I ask instead.

“Off and on. What kind of lawyer do you want to be?”

“I enjoy trial work. I’d like to spend my career in courtrooms.”

“Representing criminals?”

“Maybe. They’re entitled to their day in court, and they have a right to a good defense.”

“Murderers?”

“Yeah, but most can’t pay for a private lawyer.”

“Rapists and child molesters?”

I frown and pause for a second.

“No.”

“Men who beat their wives?”

“No, never.” I’m serious about this, plus I’m suspicious about her injuries. She approves of my preference in clients.

“Criminal work is a rare specialty,” I explain. “I’ll probably do more civil litigation.”

“Lawsuits and stuff.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Non-criminal litigation.”

“Divorces?”

“I’d rather avoid them. It’s really nasty work.”

She’s working hard at keeping the conversation on my side of the table, away from her past and certainly her present. This is fine with me. Those tears can appear instantaneously, and I don’t want to ruin this conversation. I want it to last.

She wants to know about my college experience — the studying, partying, things like fraternities, dorm life, exams, professors, road trips. She’s watched a lot of movies, and has a romanticized image of a perfect four years on a quaint campus with leaves turning yellow and red in the fall, of students dressed in sweaters rooting for the football team, of new friendships that last a lifetime. This poor kid barely made it out of Podunk, but she had wonderful dreams. Her grammar is perfect, her vocabulary broader than mine. She reluctantly confesses that she would’ve finished first or second in her graduating class, had it not been for the teenaged romance with Cliff, Mr. Riker.

Without much effort, I bolster the glory days of my undergraduate studies, skipping over such essential facts as the forty hours a week I worked delivering pizzas so I could remain a student.

She wants to know about my firm, and I’m in the middle of an incredible reimaging of J. Lyman and his offices when the phone rings two tables away. I excuse myself by telling her it’s the office calling.

It’s Bruiser, at Yogi’s, drunk, with Prince. They are amused by the fact that I’m sitting where I’m sitting while they’re drinking and betting on whatever ESPN happens to be broadcasting. Sounds like a riot in the background. “How’s the fishing?” Bruiser yells into the phone.

I smile at Kelly, who’s undoubtedly impressed by this call, and explain as quietly as I can that I’m talking to a prospect this very instant. Bruiser roars with laughter, then hands the phone to Prince, who’s the drunker of the two. He tells a lawyer joke with absolutely no punch line, something about ambulance chasing. Then he launches into an I-told-you-so speech about getting me hooked with Bruiser, who’d teach me more law than fifty professors. This takes a while, and before long Kelly’s volunteer arrives for the ride back to her room.

I take a few steps toward her table, cover the phone with my hand and say, “I enjoyed meeting you.”

She smiles and says, “Thanks for the drink, and the conversation.”

“Tomorrow night?” I ask, with Prince screaming in my ear.

“Maybe.” Very deliberately, she winks at me, and my knees tremble.

Evidently, her escort in pink has been around this place long enough to spot a hustler. He frowns at me and whisks her away. She’ll be back.

I punch a button on the phone and cut off Prince in mid-sentence. If they call back, I won’t answer. If they remember it later, which is extremely doubtful, I’ll blame it on Sony.

Deck loves a challenge, especially when it involves the gathering of dirt through hushed phone conversations with unnamed moles. I give him the bare details about Kelly and Cliff Riker, and in less than an hour he slips into my office with a proud grin.

He reads from his notes. “Kelly Riker was admitted to St. Peter’s three days ago, at midnight I might add, with assorted injuries. The police had been called to her apartment by unidentified neighbors who reported a rather fierce domestic squabble. Cops found her beat to hell and lying on a sofa in the den. Cliff Riker was obviously intoxicated, highly agitated and initially wanted to give the cops some of what he’d been dishing out to his wife. He was wielding an aluminum softball bat, evidently his weapon of choice. He was quickly subdued, placed under arrest, charged with assault, taken away. She was transported by ambulance to the hospital. She gave a brief statement to the police, to the effect that he came home drunk after a softball game, some silly argument erupted, they fought, he won. She said he struck her twice on the ankle with the bat, and twice in the face with his fist.”

I lost sleep last night thinking about Kelly Riker and her brown eyes and tanned legs, and the thought of her being attacked in such a manner makes me sick. Deck’s watching my reaction, so I try to keep a poker face. “Her wrists are bandaged,” I say, and Deck proudly flips the page. He has another report from another source, this one buried deep in the files of Rescue, Memphis Fire Department. “Kind of sketchy on the wrists. At some point during the assault, he pinned her wrists to the floor and tried to force intercourse. Evidently, he was not in the mood he thought he was, probably too much beer. She was nude when the cops found her, covered only with a blanket. She couldn’t run because her ankle was splintered.”

“What happened to him?”

“Spent the night in jail. Bailed out by his family. Due in court in a week, but nothing will happen.”

“Why not?”

“Odds are she’ll drop the charges, they’ll kiss and make up, and she’ll hold her breath until he does it again.”

“How do you know—”

“Because it’s happened before. Eight months ago, cops get the same call, same fight, same everything except she was luckier. Just a few bruises. Evidently, the bat was not handy. Cops separate them, do a little on-the-spot counseling, they’re just kids, right, newlyweds, and they kiss and make up. Then, three months ago the bat is introduced into battle, and she spends a week at St. Peter’s with broken ribs. The matter gets turned over to the Domestic Abuse Section of Memphis P.D., and they push hard for a severe punishment. But she loves the old boy, and refuses to testify against him. Everything’s dropped. Happens all the time.”

It takes a moment for this to sink in. I suspected trouble at home, but nothing this horrible. How can a man take an aluminum bat and beat his wife with it? How can Cliff Riker punch such a beautiful face?

“Happens all the time,” Deck repeats himself, perfectly reading my mind.

“Anything else?” I ask.

“No. Just don’t get too close.”

“Thanks,” I say, feeling dizzy and weak. “Thanks.”

He eases to his feet. “Don’t mention it.”

It’s no surprise that Booker has been studying for the bar exam much more than I. And, typically, he’s worried about me. He’s scheduled a marathon review for this afternoon in a conference room at the Shankle firm.