John Grisham - The Rainmaker

Cliff’s name is called, and he swaggers to a podium in front of the bench. His lawyer is beside him with the papers. The prosecutor announces to the court that the charges against Cliff Riker have been dropped for lack of evidence.

“Where’s the victim?” the judge interrupts.

“She chose not to be here,” the prosecutor answers.

“Why?” the judge asks.

Because she’s in a wheelchair, I want to scream.

The prosecutor shrugs as if she doesn’t know, and, furthermore, doesn’t really care. Cliff’s lawyer shrugs as if he’s surprised the little lady is not here to exhibit her wounds.

The prosecutor is a busy person, with dozens of cases to work before noon. She quickly recites a summary of the facts, the arrest, the lack of evidence because the victim will not testify.

“This is the second time,” the judge says, glaring at Cliff. “Why don’t you divorce her before you kill her?”

“We’re trying to get some help, Your Honor,” Cliff says in a pitifully rehearsed voice.

“Well, get it quick. If I see these charges again, I will not dismiss them. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir,” Cliff answers, as if he’s deeply sorry to be such a bother. The paperwork is handed to the bench. The judge signs it while shaking his head. The charges are dismissed.

The voice of the victim once again has not been heard. She’s at home with a broken ankle, but that’s not what kept her away. She’s hiding because she prefers not to be beaten again. I wonder what price she paid for dropping the charges.

Cliff shakes hands with his lawyer, and struts down the aisle, past my bench, out the door, free to do whatever he pleases, immune from prosecution because there’s no one to help Kelly.

There’s a frustrating logic to this assembly line justice. Not far away, sitting over there in orange jumpsuits and handcuffs, are rapists, murderers, drug dealers. The system barely has enough time to run these thugs through and allocate some measure of justice. How can the system be expected to care for the rights of one beaten wife?

While I was taking the bar last week, Deck was making phone calls. He found the Rikers’ new address and phone number. They just moved to a large apartment complex in southeast Memphis. One bedroom, four hundred a month. Cliff works for a freight company, not far from our office, a nonunion terminal. Deck suspects he makes about seven dollars an hour. His lawyer is just another ham-and-egger, one of a million in this city.

I have told Deck the truth about Kelly. He said he thought it was important for him to know, because when Cliff blows my head off with a shotgun, he, Deck, will be around to tell why it happened.

Deck also told me to forget about her. She’s nothing but trouble.

There’s a note on my desk to immediately see Bruiser. He’s alone behind his oversized desk, on the phone, the one to his right. There’s another phone to his left, and three more scattered around the office. One in his car. One in his briefcase. And the one he gave me so he can reach me around the clock.

He motions for me to sit, rolls his black and red eyes as if he’s conversing with some nut and grunts an affirmative reaction into the receiver. The sharks are either asleep or hidden behind some rocks. The aquarium filter gurgles and hums.

Deck has whispered to me that Bruiser makes between three hundred and five hundred thousand dollars a year from this office. That’s hard to believe, looking around the cluttered room. He keeps four associates out there beating the bushes, rustling up injury cases. (And now he’s got me.) Deck was able to click off five cases last year which earned Bruiser a hundred and fifty thousand. He makes a bundle from drug cases, and has earned the reputation in the narcotics industry as a lawyer who can be trusted. But, according to Deck, Bruiser Stone’s real income is from his investments. He’s involved, to what extent no one knows and the federal government evidently is trying desperately to ascertain, in the topless business in Memphis and Nashville. It’s a cash-rich industry, so there’s no telling what he skims.

He’s been divorced three times, Deck reported over a greasy sandwich at Trudy’s, has three teenaged children who, not surprisingly, live with their assorted mothers, likes the company of young table dancers, drinks and gambles too much, and will never, regardless of how much cash he can clutch with his thick hands, have enough money to satisfy him.

He was arrested seven years ago on federal racketeering charges, but the government didn’t stand a chance. The charges were dismissed after a year. Deck confided that he was worried about the FBI’s current investigation into the Memphis underworld, an investigation that has repeatedly yielded the names of Bruiser Stone and his best friend, Prince Thomas. Deck said that Bruiser has been acting a bit unusual — drinking too much, getting angrier faster, stomping and growling around the office more than normal.

Speaking of phones. Deck is certain that the FBI has bugged every phone in our offices, including mine. And he thinks the walls are wired too. They’ve done it before, he said with grave authority. And be careful at Yogi’s too.

He left me with this comforting thought yesterday afternoon. If I pass the bar exam, get just a little money in my pocket, I’m outta here.

Bruiser finally hangs up and wipes his tired eyes. “Take a look at this,” he says, shoving a thick stack of papers at me.

“What is it?”

“Great Benefit responds. You’re about to learn why it’s painful to sue big corporations. They have lots of money to hire lots of lawyers who produce lots of paper. Leo F. Drummond probably clips Great Benefit for two-fifty per hour.”

It’s a motion to dismiss the Blacks’ lawsuit, with a supporting brief that’s sixty-three pages long. There’s a notice to hear argument on said motion before the Honorable Harvey Hale.

Bruiser watches me calmly. “Welcome to the battlefield.”

I have a nice lump in my throat. Responding in kind to this will take days. “It’s impressive,” I say with a dry throat. I don’t know where to begin.

“Read the rules carefully. Respond to the motion. Write your brief. Do it fast. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“It’s not?”

“No, Rudy. It’s paperwork. You’ll learn. These bastards will file every motion known and many they invent, all with thick supporting briefs. And they’ll want to run to court every time to have a hearing on their beloved little motions. They really don’t care if they win or lose them, they’re making money regardless. Plus, it delays the trial. They’ve got it down to a fine art, and their clients foot the bill. Problem is, they’ll run you ragged in the process.”

“I’m already tired.”

“It’s a bitch. Drummond snaps his fingers, says, ‘I wanna motion to dismiss,’ and three associates bury themselves in the library, and two paralegals pull up old briefs on their computers. Presto! In no time there’s a fat brief, thoroughly researched. Then Drummond has to read it several times, plow through it at two-fifty an hour, maybe get a partner buddy of his to read it too. Then he has to edit and cut and modify, so the associates go back to the library and the paralegals go back to their computers. It’s a rip-off, but Great Benefit has plenty of money and doesn’t mind paying people like Tinley Britt.”

I feel like I’ve challenged an army. Two phones ring at once, and Bruiser grabs the nearest. “Get busy,” he says to me, then says “Yeah” into the receiver.

With both hands, I carry the bundle to my office and close the door. I read the motion to dismiss with its handsomely presented and perfectly typed brief, a brief I quickly find to be filled with persuasive arguments against almost everything I said in the lawsuit. The language is rich and clear, as devoid of dense legalese as any brief can be, remarkably well written. The positions set forth are fortified with a multitude of authorities which appear to be squarely on point. There are fancy footnotes at the bottom of most pages. There’s even a table of contents, an index and a bibliography.