John Grisham - The Rainmaker

The first motion is nothing but posturing. The second is downright nasty. Both come with long, handsome briefs properly footnoted, indexed, bibliographed.

As I read them carefully for the second time, I decide that Drummond has filed them to prove a point. Relief is rarely granted on either motion, and I think their purpose is to show me just how much paperwork the troops at Trent & Brent can produce in a short period of time, and over non-issues. Since each side has to respond to the other’s motions, and since I wouldn’t settle, Drummond is telling me that I’m about to be suffocated with paper.

The phones have yet to start ringing. Deck is downtown somewhere. I’m afraid to guess where he might be prowling. I have plenty of time to play the motion game. I am motivated by thoughts of my sorrowful little client and the screwing that he got. I’m the only lawyer Donny Ray has, and it will take much more than paper to slow me down.

I’ve fallen into the habit of calling Donny Ray each afternoon, usually around five. After the first call several weeks ago, Dot mentioned how much it meant to him, and I’ve tried to call each day since. We talk about a variety of things, but never his illness or the lawsuit. I try to remember something funny during the course of the day, and save it for him. I know the calls have become an important part of his waning life.

He sounds strong this afternoon, says he’s been out of bed and sitting on the front porch, that he’d love to go somewhere for a few hours, get away from the house and his parents.

I pick him up at seven. We eat dinner at a neighborhood barbecue place. He gets a few stares, but seems oblivious. We talk about his childhood, funny stories from the earlier days of Granger when gangs of children roamed the streets. We laugh some, probably the first time in months for him. But the conversation tires him. He barely touches his food.

Just after dark, we arrive at a park near the fairgrounds where two softball games are in progress on adjacent fields. I study them both as I ease through the parking lot. I’m looking for a team in yellow shirts.

We park on a grassy incline, under a tree, far down the right field line. There is no one near us. I remove two folding lawn chairs from my trunk, borrowed from Miss Birdie’s garage, and I help Donny Ray into one of them. He can walk by himself, and is determined to do so with as little assistance as possible.

It’s late summer, the temperature after dark still hovers around ninety. The humidity is virtually visible. My shirt sticks to me in the center of my back. The badly weathered flag on the pole in centerfield does not move an inch.

The field is nice and level, the outfield turf is thick and freshly mowed. The infield is dirt, no grass. There are dugouts, bleachers, umpires, a scoreboard with lights, a concession stand between the two fields. This is the A League, highly competitive slow-pitch softball with teams consisting of very good players. They think they’re good anyway.

The game is between PFX Freight, the team with the yellow shirts, and Army Surplus, the team in green with the nickname Gunners on their shirts. And it’s serious business. They chatter, hustle like mad, scream encouragement to one another, occasionally ride the opposing players. They dive, slide headfirst, argue with the umpires, throw their bats when they make an out.

I played slow-pitch softball in college, but was never taken with the sport. It appears the object here is to knock the ball over the fence, nothing else matters. This happens occasionally, and the home run struts would shame Babe Ruth. Almost all of the players are in their early twenties, in reasonably good shape, extremely cocky and trimmed out with more garb than the pros use; gloves on all hands, wide wristbands, eye-black smeared across their cheeks, different gloves for fielding.

Most of these guys are still waiting to be discovered. They still have the dream.

There are several older players with larger stomachs and slower feet. They’re ludicrous trying to sprint between bases and race for fly balls. You can almost hear muscles popping loose. But they’re even more intense than the young guys. They have something to prove.

Donny Ray and I talk little. I buy him popcorn and a soda from the concession stand. He thanks me, and thanks me again for bringing him here.

I pay particular attention to the third baseman for PFX, a muscular player with quick feet and hands. He’s fluid and intense, lots of trash-talking to the other team. The inning is over, and I watch as he walks to the fence beside his dugout, and says something to his girl. Kelly smiles, I can see the dimples and teeth from here, and Cliff laughs. He pecks her quickly on the lips, and struts off to join his team as they prepare to hit.

They appear to be a couple of lovebirds. He loves her madly and likes for his guys to see him kiss her. They can’t get enough of each other.

She leans on the fence, crutches beside her, a smaller walking cast on her foot. She’s alone, away from the bleachers and the other fans. She can’t see me up here on the other side of the field. I’m wearing a cap just in case.

I wonder what she’d do if she recognized me. Nothing, probably, except ignore me.

I should be glad that she appears to be happy and healthy and getting along with her husband. The beatings have apparently stopped, and I’m thankful for this. The image of him knocking her around with a bat makes me ill. It’s ironic, though, that the only way I’ll get Kelly is if the abuse continues.

I hate myself for this thought.

Cliff’s at the plate. He crushes the third pitch, sends it well over the lights in left, completely out of sight. It is truly an amazing shot, and he swaggers around the bases, yells something to Kelly as he steps on third. He’s a talented athlete, much better than anyone else on the field. I cannot imagine the horror of him swinging a bat at me.

Maybe he’s stopped drinking, and maybe in a sobered state he’ll stop the mistreatment. Maybe it’s time for me to butt out.

After an hour, Donny Ray is ready for sleep. We drive and talk about his deposition. I filed a motion today asking the court to allow me to take his evidentiary deposition, one that can be used at trial, as soon as possible. My client will soon be too weak to endure a two-hour question-and-answer session with a bunch of lawyers, so we need to hurry.

“We’d better do it pretty soon,” he says softly as we pull into his driveway.

The setting might be comical if I wasn’t so nervous. I’m sure the casual observer would see the humor, but no one in the courtroom is smiling. Especially me.

I’m alone at my counsel table, the piles of motions and briefs stacked neatly before me. My notes and quick references are on two legal pads, at my fingertips, strategically arranged. Deck is seated behind me, not at the table, where he might be of some benefit, but in a chair just inside the bar, at least three arm-lengths away, so it appears as if I’m alone.

I feel very isolated.

Across the narrow aisle, the table for the defense is rather heavily populated. Leo F. Drummond sits in the center, of course, facing the bench, associates surrounding him. Two on each side. Drummond is sixty years old, an alum of Yale Law, with thirty-six years of trial experience. T. Pierce Morehouse is thirty-nine, Yale Law, a Trent & Brent partner, fourteen years’ experience in all courts. B. Dewey Clay Hill the Third is thirty-one, Columbia, not yet a partner, six years’ trial experience. M. Alec Plunk Junior is twenty-eight, two years’ experience, and is making his initial foray into the case because, I’m sure, he went to Harvard. The Honorable Tyrone Kipler, now presiding, also went to Harvard. Kipler is black. Plunk is too. Harvard-educated black lawyers are not too common in Memphis. Trent & Brent just happened to have one, and so here he is, present no doubt to try and strike a bond with His Honor. And, if things go as expected, we’ll one day have a jury sitting over there. Half the registered voters in this county are black, so it’s safe to assume the jury will be about fifty-fifty. M. Alec Plunk Junior will be used, it is hoped, to develop some silent harmony and trust with certain jurors.