John Grisham - The Rainmaker

I arrive, as instructed by Booker, promptly at noon. The offices are modern and busy, and the oddest thing about the place is that everyone is black. I’ve seen my share of law offices in the past month, and I can recall only one black secretary and no black lawyers. Here, there’s not a white face to be seen.

Booker gives me a quick tour. Even though it’s lunch, the place is hopping. Word processors, copiers, faxes, phones, voices — there’s a veritable racket in the hallways. The secretaries eat hurriedly at their desks, desks invariably covered with tall stacks of pending work. The lawyers and paralegals are nice enough, but need to be on their way. And there’s a strict dress code for everyone — dark suits, white shirts for the men, plain dresses for the women — no bright colors, no pants.

Comparisons with the firm of J. Lyman Stone race before my eyes, and I cut them off.

Booker explains that Marvin Shankle runs a tight ship. He dresses sharp, is thoroughly professional in all aspects, and maintains a wicked work schedule. He expects nothing less from his partners and staff.

The conference room is in a quiet corner. I’m in charge of lunch, and I unpack some sandwiches I picked up at Yogi’s. Free sandwiches. We chat for five minutes at the most about family and law school friends. He asks a few questions about my job, but he knows to keep his distance. I’ve already told him everything. Almost everything. I prefer that he doesn’t know about my new outpost at St. Peter’s or my activities there.

Booker’s become such a damned lawyer! He glances at his watch after the allotted time for small talk, then launches into the splendid afternoon he has planned for us. We’ll work nonstop for six hours, taking coffee and rest room breaks only, and at 6 p.m. sharp we’re outta here because someone else has reserved the room.

From twelve-fifteen to one-thirty we review federal income taxation. Booker does most of the talking because he’s always had a better grasp for tax. We’re working from bar review materials, and tax is as dense now as it was in the fall of last year.

At one-thirty he lets me use the rest room and get some coffee, and from then until two-thirty I take the ball and run with the federal rules of evidence. Thrilling stuff. Booker’s high-octane vigor is contagious, and we blitz through some tedious material.

Flunking the bar exam is a nightmare for any young associate, but I sense that it would be especially disastrous for Booker. Frankly, it wouldn’t be the end of the world for me. It would crush my ego, but I’d rally. I’d study harder and take it again in six months. Bruiser wouldn’t care as long as I snare a few clients each month. One good burn case and Bruiser wouldn’t expect me to take the exam again.

But Booker might be in trouble. I suspect Mr. Marvin Shankle would make his life miserable if he flunks it the first time. If he flunks it twice, he’s probably history.

At precisely two-thirty, Marvin Shankle enters the conference room and Booker introduces me. He’s in his early fifties, very fit and trim. His hair is slightly gray around the ears. His voice is soft but his eyes are intense. I think Marvin Shankle can see around corners. He’s a legend in Southern legal circles, and it’s an honor to meet him.

Booker has arranged a lecture. For almost an hour we listen intently as Shankle covers the basics of civil rights litigation and employment discrimination. We take notes, ask a few questions, but mainly we just listen.

Then he’s off to a meeting, and we spend the next half hour by ourselves, blitzing through antitrust law and monopolies. At four, another lecture.

Our next speaker is Tyrone Kipler, a Harvard-educated partner whose speciality is the Constitution. He starts slow, and picks up some steam only after Booker jumps in and peppers him with questions. I catch myself lurking in the shrubbery at night, jumping out like a madman with a Ruthian-sized baseball bat and beating the hell out of Cliff Riker. To stay awake, I walk around the table, gulping coffee, trying to concentrate.

By the end of the hour, Kipler is animated and feisty, and we’re drilling him with questions. He stops in mid-sentence, looks wildly at his watch and says he has to go. A judge is waiting somewhere. We thank him for his time, and he races away.

“We have one hour,” Booker says. It’s five minutes after five. “What shall we do?”

“Let’s grab a beer.”

“Sorry. It’s real property law or ethics.”

I need the ethics, but I’m tired and in no mood to be reminded of how grave my sins are. “Let’s do property.” Booker bounces across the room and grabs the books.

It’s almost eight before I drag myself through the maze of corridors deep in the heart of St. Peter’s and find my favorite table occupied by a doctor and a nurse. I get coffee and sit nearby. The nurse is very attractive and quite distraught, and judging by their whispers I’d say the affair is on the rocks. He’s sixty with hair transplants and a new chin. She’s thirty, and evidently will not be elevated to the position of wife. Just mistress for now. Serious whispers.

I’m in no mood to study. I’ve had enough for one day, but I’m motivated only by the fact that Booker is still at the office, working and preparing for the exam.

The lovers abruptly leave after a few minutes. She’s in tears. He’s cold and heartless. I ease into my chair at my table and spread my notes, try to study.

And I wait.

Kelly arrives a few minutes after ten, but she has a new guy pushing her wheelchair. She glances coldly at me, and points to a table in the center of the room. He parks her there. I look at him. He looks at me.

I assume it’s Cliff. He’s about my height, no more than six-one, with a stocky frame and the beginnings of a beer belly. His shoulders are wide, though, and his biceps bulge through a tee shirt that’s much too tight and worn specifically to flaunt his arms. Tight jeans. Hair that’s brown and curly and too long to be stylish. Lots of growth on his forearms and face. Cliff was the kid who was shaving in the eighth grade.

He has greenish eyes and a handsome face that looks much older than nineteen. He steps around the ankle that he broke with a Softball bat, and walks to the counter for drinks. She knows I’m staring at her. She very deliberately glances around the room, then at the last moment gives me a quick wink. I almost spill my coffee.

It doesn’t take much of an imagination to hear the words that have been passed between these two lately. Threats, apologies, pleas, more threats. It appears as though they’re having a rough time of it tonight. Both faces are stern. They sip their drinks in silence. There’s an occasional word or two, but they’re like two puppy lovers in the midst of their weekly pouting session. A short sentence here, an even shorter reply there. They look at each other only when necessary, a lot of hard stares at the floor and the walls. I hide behind a book.

She’s positioned herself so that she can glance at me without getting caught. His back is almost squarely to me. He looks around every now and then, but his movements are telegraphed. I can scratch my hair and pore over my studies long before he lays eyes on me.

After ten minutes of virtual silence, she says something that draws a hot response. I wish I could hear. He’s suddenly shaking and snarling words at her. She dishes it right back. The volume increases and I quickly discern that they’re discussing whether or not she’ll testify against him in court. Seems she hasn’t made up her mind. Seems this really bothers Cliff. He has a short fuse, no surprise for a macho redneck, and she’s telling him not to yell. He glances around, and tries to lower his voice. I can’t hear what he says.