John Grisham - The Rainmaker

“When’s she coming back?” I ask. It’s really none of my business, but I can’t help but ask.

“Don’t know. She might not. Look, me and Delbert will be looking after her business from now on. Guess we sorta dropped the ball lately, but she wants us to take care of things.

“And we want you to stay right here. In fact, we gotta deal for you. You stay here, look after the house, tend to the place, and there’s no rent.”

“What do you mean by tending to the place?”

“General upkeep, nothing heavy. Momma says you’ve been a good yard boy this summer, just keep doing what you’ve been doing. We’re having the mail forwarded, so that won’t be a problem. Anything major comes up, call me. It’s a sweet deal, Rudy.”

It is indeed. “I’ll take it,” I say.

“Good. Momma really likes you, you know, says you’re a fine young man who can be trusted. Even though you are a lawyer. Ha, ha, ha.”

“What about her car?”

“I’m driving it to Florida tomorrow.” He hands me a large envelope. “Here are the keys to the house, phone numbers for the insurance agent, alarm company, stuff like that. Plus my address and phone number.”

“Where is she staying?”

“With us, near Tampa. We have a nice little house with a guest room. She’ll be well taken care of. A couple of my kids are nearby, so she’ll have lots of company.”

I can see them now, falling all over themselves to be of service to Granny. They’ll be happy to smother her for a while, they’re just hoping she doesn’t live too long. They can’t wait for her to die so they’ll all be rich. It’s very hard to suppress a grin.

“That’s good,” I say. “She’s been a lonely old woman.”

“She really likes you, Rudy. You’ve been good to her.” His voice is soft and sincere, and I’m touched with sadness.

We shake hands and say good-bye.

I sway in the hammock, swat mosquitoes, stare at the moon. I seriously doubt if I’ll ever see Miss Birdie again, and I feel the odd loneliness of losing a friend. These people will keep her under their thumb until she’s dead, making damned sure she doesn’t get a chance to monkey around with her will. I feel a twinge of guilt for knowing the truth about her wealth, but it’s a secret I cannot share.

At the same time, I can’t help but smile at her fate. She’s out of this lonely old house and now surrounded by her family. Miss Birdie is suddenly the center of attention, a position she craves. I think of her at the Cypress Gardens Senior Citizens Building, the way she worked the crowd, led the songs, made the speeches, fussed over Bosco and the other geezers. She has a heart of gold, but she also hungers for attention.

I hope the sunshine’s good for her. I pray she’s happy. I wonder who’ll take her place at Cypress Gardens.

I suspect the reason Booker chose this fancy restaurant is that he has good news. The table is covered with silver. The napkins are linen. He must have a client who’s paying for this.

He arrives fifteen minutes late, very unlike him, but he’s a busy man these days, and the first words out of his mouth are “I passed it.” We sip our water while he goes through an animated history of his appeal to the Board of Law Examiners. His exam was regraded, his score was raised three points and he’s now a full-fledged lawyer. I’ve never seen him smile so much. Only two others from our group had successful appeals. Sara Plankmore was not one of them. Booker’s heard a rumor that her score was miserable, and that her job with the U.S. Attorney’s office might be in jeopardy.

Against his wishes, I order a bottle of champagne, and I instruct the waiter to hand me the bill. You just can’t hide money.

The food arrives, incredibly tiny slivers of salmon but beautifully presented, and we admire it for a while before eating. Shankle’s got Booker running in thirty directions, fifteen hours a day, but Charlene is a woman of great patience. She realizes he must make sacrifices in these early years to reap rewards later. For the moment, I’m thankful I have no wife and kids.

We talk about Kipler, who’s talked a bit to Shankle and word has leaked. Lawyers have great trouble keeping secrets. Shankle mentioned to Booker that Kipler mentioned to him that his buddy, me, has a case that could be worth millions. Evidently, Kipler has become convinced that I’ve got Great Benefit nailed to a rock, and it’s simply a question of how much the jury will give us. Kipler is determined to get me to the jury in one piece.

This is splendid gossip.

Booker wants to know what else I’m doing. It sounds as though Kipler might have also mentioned something to the effect that I apparently have little else to do, or something like this.

Over cheesecake, Booker says he has some files that I might want to look at. He explains. The second-largest furniture store in Memphis is called Ruffin’s, a black-owned company with stores all over town. Everybody knows Ruffin’s, mainly because they saturate late night TV with ads screaming out all sorts of bargains for no money down. They do about eight million a year, Booker says, and Marvin Shankle is their lawyer. They extend their own credit, and they have lots of bad debts. It’s the nature of their business. The Shankle firm has become burdened with hundreds of collection files for Ruffin’s customers.

Would I like a few of these files?

Collection law is not the reason bright young students flock to law school. The defendants are past-due folks who bought cheap furniture to begin with. The client doesn’t want the furniture back, just the money. In most cases, no answer is filed, no appearance is made by the defendant, so the lawyer has to attach personal assets, or wages. This can be dangerous. Three years ago a Memphis lawyer was shot but not killed by an angry young man whose paycheck had just been garnished.

To make it work, a lawyer needs a bunch of files because each suit is worth but a few hundred dollars. The law allows the recovery of attorney fees and costs.

It’s grimy work, but, and this is the reason Booker is offering, fees can be squeezed from these files. Modest fees, but volume can produce enough to pay overhead and buy groceries.

“I can send over fifty,” he says, “along with the necessary forms. And I’ll help you get the first batch filed. There’s a system.”

“What’s the average fee?”

“It’s hard to say, because on some files you won’t collect a dime. They’ve either skipped town or they’ll go bankrupt. But on the average, I’d say a hundred dollars a file.”

A hundred times fifty is five thousand dollars.

“The average file takes four months,” he explains, “and if you want, I can send over twenty or so a month. File them all at one time, same court, same judge, returnable the same day in the future, and you make only one court appearance. Take the defaults, go from there. It’s ninety percent paperwork.”

“I’ll do it,” I say. “Anything else you guys want to unload?”

“Maybe. I’m always looking.”

The coffee arrives, and we backslide into what lawyers do best — talking about other lawyers. In our case, we gossip about our classmates and how they’re faring in the real world.

Booker has been revived.

Deck can sneak through the tiniest crack in an open door without making a sound. He does this to me all the time. I’ll be at my desk, deep in thought or buried in one of the rare files I own, and, Presto! here’s Deck! I wish he would knock, but I hate to fuss at him.

Here he is, suddenly standing in front of my desk, holding an armload of mail. He notices the stack of shiny new collection files on the corner. “What’s this?” he asks.