John Grisham - The Rainmaker

“Sorry I asked.”

“So we have Leo F. Drummond and his considerable staff, and they have their favorite judge. You got your work cut out for you.”

“Me? What about you?”

“Oh, I’ll be around. But this is your baby. They’ll drown you with paperwork.” He walks to the door. “Remember, they get paid by the hour. The more paper they produce, the more hours they bill.” He laughs at me and slams the door, seemingly happy that I’m about to be roughed up by the big boys.

I’ve been abandoned. There are over a hundred lawyers at Trent & Brent, and I suddenly feel very lonely.

Deck and I eat a bowl of soup at Trudy’s. Her small lunch crowd is strictly blue collar. The place smells of grease, sweat and fried meats. It’s Deck’s favorite lunch spot because he’s picked up a few cases here, mostly on-the-job injuries. One settled for thirty thousand. He took a third of twenty-five percent, or twenty-five hundred dollars.

There are a few bars in the area he also frequents, he confesses, low over the soup. He’ll take off his tie, try to look like one of the boys, and drink a soda. He listens to the workers as they lubricate themselves after work. He might tell me where the good bars are, the good grazing spots, as he likes to call them. Deck’s full of advice for chasing cases and finding clients.

And, yes, he’s even gone to the skin clubs occasionally, but only to be with his clientele. You just have to circulate, he says more than once. He likes the casinos down in Mississippi, and is of the farsighted opinion that they are undesirable places because poor people go there and gamble with grocery money. But there could be opportunity. Crime will rise. Divorces and bankruptcies are bound to increase as more people gamble. Folks will need lawyers. There’s a lot of potential suffering out there, and he’s wise to it. He’s on to something.

He’ll keep me posted.

I eat another fine meal at St. Peter’s, in the Gauze Grill, as this place is known. I overheard a group of interns call it that. Pasta salad from a plastic bowl. I study sporadically, and watch the clock.

At ten, the elderly gentleman in the pink jacket arrives, but he is alone. He pauses, looks around, sees me and walks over, stern-faced and obviously not happy doing whatever he’s doing.

“Are you Mr. Baylor?” he asks properly. He’s holding an envelope, and when I nod affirmatively, he places it on the table. “It’s from Mrs. Riker,” he says, bending just slightly at the waist, then walks away.

The envelope is letter-sized, plain and white. I open it and remove a blank get-well card. It reads:

Dear Rudy:

My doctor released me this morning, so I’m home now. Thanks for everything. Say a prayer for us. You are wonderful.

She signed her name, then added a postscript: “Please don’t call or write, or try to see me. It will only cause trouble. Thanks again.”

She knew I’d be here waiting faithfully. With all the lust-filled thoughts swirling through my brain during the past twenty-four hours, it never occurred to me that she might be leaving. I was certain we’d meet tonight.

I walk aimlessly along the endless corridors, trying to collect myself. I am determined to see her again. She needs me, because there’s no one else to help her.

At a pay phone, I find a listing for Cliff Riker and punch the numbers. A recorded message informs me that the line has been disconnected.

We arrive at the hotel mezzanine early Wednesday morning and are efficiently herded into a ballroom larger than a football field. We are registered and catalogued, the fees having long since been paid. There’s a little nervous chatter, but not much socializing. We’re all scared to death.

Of the two hundred or so people taking the bar exam this outing, at least half finished at Memphis State last month. These are my friends and enemies. Booker takes a seat at a table far away from me. We’ve decided not to sit together. Sara Plankmore Wilcox and S. Todd are in a corner on the other side of the room. They were married last Saturday. Nice honeymoon. He’s a handsome guy with the preppy grooming and cocky air of a blueblood. I hope he flunks the exam. Sara too.

I can feel the competition here, very much like the first few weeks of law school when we were terribly concerned with each other’s initial progress. I nod at a few acquaintances, silently hoping they flunk the exam because they’re silently hoping I collapse too. Such is the nature of the profession.

Once we’re all properly seated at folding tables spaced generously apart, we are given ten minutes’ worth of instruction. Then the exams are passed out at exactly 8 a.m.

The exam begins with a section called Multi-State, an endless series of tricky multiple-choice questions covering that body of law common to all states. It’s absolutely impossible to tell how well I’m prepared. The morning drags along. Lunch is a quiet hotel buffet with Booker, not a word spoken about the exam.

Dinner is a turkey sandwich on the patio with Miss Birdie. I’m in bed by nine.

The exam ends at 5 p.m. Friday, with a whimper. We’re too exhausted to celebrate. They gather our papers for the last time, and tell us we can leave. There’s talk of a cold drink somewhere, for old times’ sake, and six of us meet at Yogi’s for a few rounds. Prince is gone tonight and there’s no sign of Bruiser, which is quite a relief because I’d hate my friends to see me in the presence of my boss. There’d be a lot of questions about our practice. Give me a year, and I’ll have a better job.

We learned after the first semester in law school that it’s best never to discuss exams. If notes are compared afterward, you become painfully aware of things you missed.

We eat pizza, drink a few beers, but are too tired to do any damage. Booker tells me on the way home that the exam has made him physically ill. He’s certain he blew it.

I sleep for twelve hours. I have promised Miss Birdie that I will tend to my chores this day, assuming it’s not raining, and my apartment is filled with bright sunlight when I finally awake. It’s hot, humid, muggy, the typical Memphis July. After three days of straining my eyes and imagination and memory in a windowless room, I’m ready for a little sweat and dirt. I leave the house without being seen, and twenty minutes later I park in the Blacks’ driveway.

Donny Ray is waiting on the front porch, dressed in jeans, sneakers, dark socks, white tee shirt, and wearing a regular-sized baseball cap which over his shrunken face looks much too large. He walks with a cane, but needs a firm hand under his fragile arm for stability. Dot and I shuffle him along the narrow sidewalk and carefully fold him into the front seat of my car. She’s relieved to get him out of the house for a few hours, his first time out in months, she tells me. Now she’s left with only Buddy and the cats.

Donny Ray sits with his cane between his legs, resting his chin on it, as we drive across town. After he thanks me once, he doesn’t say much.

He finished high school three years ago at the age of nineteen, his twin, Ron, having graduated a year earlier. He never attempted college. For two years he worked as a clerk in a convenience store, but quit after a robbery. His employment history is sketchy, but he has never left home. From the records I’ve studied so far, Donny Ray has never earned more than minimum wage.

Ron, on the other hand, scratched his way through UTEP and is now in grad school in Houston. He, too, is single, never married, and seldom returns to Memphis. The boys were never close, Dot said. Donny Ray stayed indoors and read books and built model airplanes. Ron rode bikes and once joined a street gang of twelve-year-olds. They were good boys, Dot assured me. The file is thoroughly documented with clear and sufficient evidence that Ron’s bone marrow would be a perfect match for Donny Ray’s transplant.