John Grisham - The Rainmaker

“I’ll study them tonight.”

“When do you wanna paint?”

“Well, I guess we—”

“I figure we could knock it out in one hard day, that is if we get by with only one coat, you know. I’ll get the paint and supplies this afternoon, and try to get started. Can you help tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

“We need to make a few decisions. What about a fax. Do we get one now or wait? Phone guy’s coming tomorrow, remember? And a copier? I say no, not right now, we can hold our originals and once a day I’ll go down to the print shop. We’ll need an answering machine. A good one costs eighty bucks. I’ll take care of it, if you want. And we need to open a bank account. I know a branch manager at First Trust, says he’ll give us thirty checks a month free and two percent interest on our money. Hard to beat. We need to get the checks ordered because we’ll need to pay some bills, you know.” Suddenly, he looks at his watch. “Hey, I almost forgot.”

He punches a button on the television. “Indictments came down an hour ago, a hundred and something different counts against Bruiser, Bennie ‘Prince’ Thomas, Willie McSwane and others.”

The noon report is already in progress, and the first image we see is a live shot of our former offices. Agents guard the front door, which is unchained at the moment. The reporter explains that the firm’s employees are being allowed to come and go, but can’t remove anything. The next shot is from outside Vixens, a topless club the feds have also seized. “Indictment says Bruiser and Thomas were involved in three clubs,” Deck says. The reporter echoes this. Then there’s some footage of our former boss, skulking around a courthouse corridor during an old trial. Arrest warrants have been issued, but there’s no sign of either Mr. Stone or Mr. Thomas. The agent in charge of the investigation is interviewed, and it’s his opinion that these two gentlemen have fled the area. An extensive search is under way.

“Run Bruiser run,” Deck says.

The story is juicy enough because it involves local thugs, a flamboyant lawyer, several Memphis policemen and the skin business. But it’s spiced up considerably by the element of flight. Prince and Bruiser have obviously hit the road, and this is more than the reporters can stand. There’s footage of policemen being arrested, of another topless club, this time with naked dancers shown from the thighs down, of the U.S. Attorney addressing the media to announce the indictments.

Then there’s a shot that breaks my heart. They’ve closed Yogi’s, wrapped chains around the door handles and posted guards at the doors. They refer to it as the headquarters of Prince Thomas, the kingpin, and the feds seem surprised because they found no cash when they crashed in last night. “Run Prince run,” I say to myself.

The related stories consume most of the noon report.

“Wonder where they are,” Deck says as he turns off the TV.

We think about this in silence for a few seconds. “What’s in there?” I ask, pointing to a storage box beside the card table.

“My files.”

“Anything good?”

“Enough to pay the bills for two months. Some small car wrecks. Workers’ comp cases. There’s also a death case I took from Bruiser. Actually, I didn’t take it. He gave me the file last week and asked me to review some insurance policies in it. It sort of stayed in my office, now it’s here.”

I suspect there are other files in the box which Deck may have lifted from Bruiser’s office, but I shall not inquire.

“Do you think the feds will wanna talk to us?” I ask.

“I’ve been thinking about that. We don’t know anything, and we didn’t remove any files that would be of interest to them, so why worry?”

“I’m worried.”

“Me too.”

I know Deck’s having a hard time controlling his excitement these days. The idea of having his own office and keeping half the fees without the benefit of a law license is terribly thrilling. If I stay out of his way, he’ll have the offices in top shape within a week. I’ve never seen such energy. Maybe he’s a little too gung-ho, but I’ll give him a break.

However, when the phone rings for the second straight morning before the sun is up, and I hear his voice, it’s difficult to be nice.

“Have you seen the paper?” he asks, quite chipper. “I was sleeping.”

“Sorry. You won’t believe it. Bruiser and Prince are all over the front page.”

“Couldn’t this wait for an hour or so, Deck?” I ask. I’m determined to stop this rude habit of his right now. “If you want to wake up at four, then fine. But don’t call me until seven, no, make it eight.”

“Sorry. But there’s more.”

“What?”

“Guess who died last night?”

Now, how in hell am I supposed to know who, in all of Memphis, died last night? “I give up,” I snap at the phone.

“Harvey Hale.”

“Harvey Hale!”

“Yep. Croaked with a heart attack. Fell dead by his swimming pool.”

“Judge Hale?”

“That’s the one. Your buddy.”

I sit on the edge of my bed and try to shake the fuzz from my brain. “That’s hard to believe.”

“Yeah, I can tell you’re really distraught. There’s a nice story about him on the front page, Metro, big photo, all suited up in a black robe, real distinguished. What a prick.”

“How old was he?” I ask, as if it matters.

“Sixty-two. On the bench for eleven years. Quite a pedigree. It’s all in the paper. You need to see it.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that, Deck. See you later.”

The paper seems a bit heavier this morning, and I’m sure it’s because at least half of it is dedicated to the exploits of Bruiser Stone and Prince Thomas. One story follows the next. They have not been seen.

I skim the front section and go to Metro, where I’m greeted with a very dated photo of the Honorable Harvey Hale. I read the sad reflections of his colleagues, including his friend and old roommate, Leo F. Drummond.

Of particular importance is speculation as to who might replace him. The governor will appoint a successor who’ll serve until the next regular election. The county is half black and half white, but only seven of the nineteen circuit court judges are black. Some people are not pleased with these numbers. Last year, when an old white judge retired, a strong effort was made to fill the vacancy with a black judge. It didn’t happen.

Remarkably, the leading candidate last year was my new friend Tyrone Kipler, the Harvard-educated partner at Booker’s firm who lectured us on constitutional law back when we were preparing for the bar exam. Though Judge Hale has been dead less than twelve hours, conventional wisdom, says the story, leans heavily toward Kipler as his replacement. The mayor of Memphis, who is black and vocal, is quoted as saying he and other leaders will push hard for Kipler’s appointment.

The governor was out of town and unavailable for comment, but he’s a Democrat and up for reelection next year. He’ll fall in line this time.

At nine sharp, I’m in the Circuit Clerk’s office flipping through the Black versus Great Benefit file. I breathe a sigh of relief. His Honor Hale did not, prior to his untimely death, sign an order dismissing our case. We’re still in the game.

There’s a wreath on his courtroom door. How touching.

I call Tinley Britt from a pay phone, ask for Leo F. Drummond and am surprised to hear his voice after a few minutes. I express my sympathy for the loss of his friend, and I tell him my clients will not accept his offer to settle. He seems surprised, but has little to say. Bless his heart, he has a lot on his mind right now.

“I think that’s a mistake, Rudy,” he says patiently, as if he’s really on my side.