John Grisham - The Rainmaker

Remarkably, the package contains no motions! I’ll wait for tomorrow.

Written discovery must be answered within thirty days, and can be filed simultaneously. My own is almost complete, and the receipt of Drummond’s spurs me into action. I’m determined to show Mr. Bigshot that I can play the paper war. He’ll either be impressed, or he’ll once again realize he’s competing with a lawyer who has nothing else to do.

It’s almost dark when I pull quietly into the driveway. There are two strange cars next to Miss Birdie’s Cadillac, two shiny Pontiacs with Avis stickers on the rear bumpers. I hear voices as I tiptoe around the house, hoping to make it to my apartment without being seen.

I stayed at the office until late, mainly because I wanted to avoid Delbert and Vera. I should be so lucky. They’re on the patio with Miss Birdie, drinking tea. And there’s more company.

“There he is,” Delbert says loudly as soon as I’m visible. I break stride, look toward the patio. “Come on over, Rudy.” It’s more of a command than an invitation.

He rises slowly as I walk over, and another man also gets to his feet. Delbert points to the new guy. “Rudy, this here is my brother Randolph.”

Randolph and I shake hands. “My wife June,” he says, waving at another aging leathered tart in the Vera vein, this one with bleached hair. I nod at her. She gives me a look that would boil cheese.

“Miss Birdie,” I say politely, nodding to my landlord.

“Hello, Rudy,” she says sweetly. She’s sitting on the wicker sofa with Delbert.

“Join us,” Randolph says, waving at an empty chair.

“No thanks,” I say. “I need to get to my apartment, see if anybody’s been pilfering.” I glance at Vera as I say this. She’s sitting behind the sofa, away from the rest, probably as far away from June as she can get.

June is between forty and forty-five. Her husband, as I recall, is almost sixty. Now I remember that she’s the one Miss Birdie referred to as a tramp. Randolph’s third wife. Always asking about the money.

“We haven’t been in your apartment,” Delbert says testily.

In contrast with his gaudy brother, Randolph is aging with dignity. He’s not fat, permed, dyed or laden with gold. He’s wearing a golf shirt, bermuda shorts, white socks, white sneakers. Like everybody else, he’s tanned. He could easily pass for a retired corporate executive, complete with a plastic little trophy wife. “How long are you gonna be living here, Rudy?” he asks.

“Didn’t know I was leaving.”

“Didn’t say you were. Just curious. Mother says there’s no lease, so I’m just asking.”

“Why are you asking?” Things are changing rapidly. As of last night, Miss Birdie wasn’t discussing the lease.

“Because from now on, I’m helping Mother handle her affairs. The rent is very low.”

“It certainly is,” June adds.

“You haven’t complained, have you, Miss Birdie?” I ask her.

“Well no,” she says, waffling, as if maybe she’s thought about complaining but just hasn’t found the time.

I could bring up mulching and painting and weed-pulling, but I’m determined not to argue with these idiots. “So there,” I say. “If the landlord’s happy, then what are you worried about?”

“We don’t want Momma taken advantage of,” Delbert says.

“Now, Delbert,” Randolph says.

“Who’s taking advantage of her?” I ask.

“Well, no one, but—”

“What he’s trying to say,” Randolph interrupts, “is that things are gonna be different now. We’re here to help Mother, and we’re just concerned about her business. That’s all.”

I watch Miss Birdie while Randolph is talking, and her face is glowing. Her sons are here, worrying about her, asking questions, making demands, protecting their momma. Though I’m sure she despises her two current daughters-in-law, Miss Birdie is a very content woman.

“Fine,” I say. “Just leave me alone. And stay out of my apartment.” I turn and walk quickly away, leaving behind many unspoken words and many questions they’d planned to ask. I lock my apartment, eat a sandwich, and in the darkness, through a window, hear them chatter in the distance.

I spend a few minutes trying to reconstruct this gathering. At some point yesterday, Delbert and Vera arrived from Florida, for what purpose I’ll probably never know. Somehow they found Miss Birdie’s last will, saw that she had twenty million or so to give away and became deeply concerned about her welfare. They learned she had a lawyer living on the premises, and this concerned them too. Delbert called Randolph, who also lives in Florida, and Randolph hurried home, trophy wife in tow. They spent today grilling their mother about everything imaginable, and have now reached the point of being her protectors.

I really don’t care. I can’t help but chuckle to myself at the entire gathering. Wonder how long it’ll take for them to learn the truth.

For now, Miss Birdie is happy. And I’ll be happy for her.

I arrive early for my nine o’clock appointment with Dr. Walter Kord. A lot of good it does. I wait for an hour, reading Donny Ray’s medical records, which I’ve already memorized. The waiting room fills with cancer patients. I try not to look at them.

A nurse comes for me at ten. I follow her to a windowless exam room deep in a maze. Of all the medical specialties, why would anyone choose oncology? I guess someone has to do it.

Why would anyone choose the law? I sit in a chair with my file and wait another fifteen minutes. Voices in the hall, then the door opens. A young man of about thirty-five rushes in. “Mr. Baylor?” he says, sticking out a hand. We shake as I stand.

“Yes.”

“Walter Kord. I’m in a hurry. Can we do this in five minutes?”

“I guess.”

“Let’s hurry if we can. I have a lot of patients,” he says, actually managing a smile. I’m very aware of how doctors hate lawyers. For some reason, I don’t blame them.

“Thanks for the affidavit. It worked. We’ve already taken Donny Ray’s deposition.”

“Great.” He’s about four inches taller, and stares down at me as if I’m a fool.

I grit my teeth and say, “We need your testimony.”

His reaction is typical of doctors. They hate courtrooms. And to avoid them, they sometimes agree to give evidentiary depositions to be used in lieu of their live testimony. They don’t have to agree. And when they don’t, lawyers occasionally are forced to use a deadly device — the subpoena. Lawyers have the power to have subpoenas issued to almost anyone, including doctors. Thus, to this limited extent, lawyers have power over doctors. This makes doctors despise lawyers even more.

“I’m very busy,” he says.

“I know. It’s not for me, it’s for Donny Ray.”

He frowns and breathes heavily as if this is physically very uncomfortable. “I charge five hundred dollars an hour for a deposition.”

This doesn’t shock me because I expected it. In law school, I heard stories of doctors charging even more. I’m here to beg. “I can’t afford that, Dr. Kord. I opened my office six weeks ago, and I’m about to starve to death. This is the only decent case I have.”

It’s amazing what the truth can do. This guy probably earns a million bucks a year, and he is instantly disarmed by my candor. I see pity in his eyes. He hesitates for a second, maybe he thinks of Donny Ray and the frustration of being unable to help, maybe he feels sorry for me. Who knows?

“I’ll send you a bill, okay? Pay whenever you can.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“Get with my secretary and pick a date. Can we do it here?”

“Certainly.”

“Good. Gotta run.”