John Grisham - The Rainmaker

Just a few questions. He gently pokes around the issue of whether Donny Ray has ever left this house, even for a week or a month, to live elsewhere. Since he’s above the age of eighteen, they’d love to establish that he left home and thus shouldn’t be covered under the policy purchased by his parents.

Donny Ray answers repeatedly with a polite and sickly, “No sir.”

Drummond briefly covers the area of other coverage. Did Donny Ray ever purchase his own medical policy? Ever work for a company where health insurance was provided? A few more questions along this line are all met with a soft “No sir.”

Though the setting is a bit odd, Drummond has been here many times before. He’s probably taken thousands of depositions, and he knows to be careful. The jury will resent any rough treatment of this young man. In fact, it’s a wonderful opportunity for Drummond to curry a little favor with the jury, to show some real compassion for poor little Donny Ray. Plus, he knows that there’s not much hard information to be gathered from this witness. Why drill him?

Drummond finishes in less than ten minutes. I have no redirect examination. The deposition is over. Kipler says so. Dot is quick to wipe her son’s face with a wet cloth. He looks at me for approval, and I give him a thumbs-up. The defense lawyers quietly gather their jackets and briefcases and excuse themselves. They can’t wait to leave. Nor can I.

Judge Kipler begins hauling chairs back to the house, eyeing Buddy as he walks in front of the Fairlane. Claws is perched on the middle of the hood, ready to attack. I hope there’s no bloodshed. Dot and I assist Donny Ray to the house. Just before we step into the door, I look to my left. Deck is working the crowd on the fence, passing out my cards, just a good ole boy.

The woman is actually in my apartment, standing in the den holding one of my magazines when I open the door. She jumps through her skin and drops the magazine when she sees me. Her mouth flies open. “Who are you!?” she almost screams.

She doesn’t appear to be a criminal. “I live here. Who the hell are you?”

“Oh my gosh,” she says, panting with great exaggeration and clutching her heart.

“What’re you doing here?” I ask again, really angry.

“I’m Delbert’s wife.”

“Who the hell is Delbert? And how’d you get in here?”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Rudy. I live here. This is a private residence.” With that, she rolls her eyes quickly around the room, as if to say, “Yeah, some place.”

“Birdie gave me the key, said I could look around.”

“She did not!”

“Did too!” She pulls a key out of her tight shorts and waves it at me. I close my eyes and think of strangling Miss Birdie. “Name’s Vera, from Florida. Just visiting Birdie for a few days.”

Now I remember. Delbert is Miss Birdie’s youngest son, the one she hasn’t seen in three years, never calls, never writes. I can’t remember if Vera here is the one Miss Birdie refers to as a tramp, but it would certainly fit. She’s around fifty, with the bronze leathered skin of a serious Florida sun worshiper. Orange lips that glow in the center of a narrow copper face. Withered arms. Tight shorts over badly wrinkled but gloriously tanned, spindly legs. Hideous yellow sandals.

“You have no right to be here,” I say, trying to relax.

“Get a grip.” She walks past me, and I get a nose full of a cheap perfume that’s scented with coconut oil. “Birdie wants to see you,” she says as she leaves my apartment. I listen as she flops down the stairs in her sandals.

Miss Birdie is sitting on the sofa, arms crossed, staring at another idiotic sitcom, ignoring the rest of the world. Vera is rummaging through the refrigerator. At the kitchen table is another brown creature, a large man with permed hair, badly dyed, and gray, Elvis lamb chop sideburns. Gold-rimmed glasses. Gold bracelets on both wrists. A regular pimp.

“You must be the lawyer,” he says as I close the door behind me. Before him on the table are some papers he’s been examining.

“I’m Rudy Baylor,” I say, standing at the other end of the table.

“I’m Delbert Birdsong. Birdie’s youngest.” He’s in his late fifties and trying desperately to look forty.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, a real pleasure.” He waves at a chair. “Have a seat.”

“Why?” I ask. These people have been here for hours. The kitchen and adjacent den are heavy with conflict. I can see the back of Miss Birdie’s head. I can’t tell if she’s listening to us, or to the television. The volume is low.

“Just trying to be nice,” Delbert says, as if he owns the place.

Vera can’t find anything in the fridge, so she decides to join us. “He yelled at me,” she whimpers to Delbert. “Told me to get out of his apartment. Really rude like.”

“That so?” Delbert asks.

“Hell yes it’s so. I live there, and I’m telling you two to stay out. It’s a private residence.”

He jerks his shoulders backward. This is a man who’s had his share of barroom fights. “It’s owned by my mother,” he says.

“And she happens to be my landlord. I pay rent each month.”

“How much?”

“That’s really none of your business, sir. Your name is not on the deed to this house.”

“I’d say it’s worth four, maybe five hundred dollars a month.”

“Good. Any other opinions?”

“Yeah, you’re a real smartass.”

“Fine. Anything else? Your wife said Miss Birdie wanted to see me.” I say this loud enough for Miss Birdie to hear, but she doesn’t move an inch.

Vera takes a seat and scoots it close to Delbert. They eye each other knowingly. He picks at the corner of a piece of paper. He adjusts his glasses, looks up at me and says, “You been messin’ with Momma’s will?”

“That’s between me and Miss Birdie.” I look on the table, and barely see the top of a document. I recognize it as her will, the most current, I think, the one prepared by her last lawyer. This is terribly disturbing because Miss Birdie has always maintained that neither son, Delbert nor Randolph, knows about her money. But the will plainly seeks to dispose of something around twenty million dollars. Delbert knows it now. He’s been reading the will for the past few hours. Paragraph number three, as I recall, gives him two million.

Even more disturbing is the issue of how Delbert got his hands on the document. Miss Birdie would never voluntarily give it to him.

“A real smartass,” he says. “You wonder why people hate lawyers. I come home to check on Momma, and, damned, she’s got a stinking lawyer living with her. Wouldn’t that worry you?”

Probably. “I live in the apartment,” I say. “A private residence with a locked door. You go in again, I’ll call the police.”

It hits me that I keep a copy of Miss Birdie’s will in a file under my bed. Surely they didn’t find it there. I suddenly feel ill with the thought that I, not Miss Birdie, breached such a private matter.

No wonder she’s ignoring me.

I have no idea what she put in her previous wills, so there’s no way to know whether Delbert and Vera are thrilled to know they might be millionaires, or whether they’re angry because they’re not getting more. And there’s no way in the world I can tell them the truth. I really don’t want to, to be honest.

Delbert snorts at my threat to call the cops. “I’ll ask you again,” he says, a bad imitation of Brando in The Godfather . “Have you prepared a new will for my mother?”

“She’s your mother. Why don’t you ask her?”

“She won’t say a word,” Vera chimes in.

“Good. Then neither will I. It’s strictly confidential.”