John Grisham - The Rainmaker

“Work.”

He picks up a file. “Ruffin’s?”

“Yes sir. We’re now counsel for the second-largest furniture store in Memphis.”

“It’s a collection file,” he says in disgust, as if he’s dirtied his hands. This from a man who dreams of more paddle wheel disasters.

“It’s honest work, Deck.”

“It’s beating your head against a wall.”

“Go chase an ambulance.”

He drops my mail on the desk and vanishes as silently as he appeared. I take a deep breath and tear open a heavy envelope from Trent & Brent. It’s a stack of legal-sized papers, at least two inches thick.

Drummond has answered my interrogatories, denied my requests for admissions and produced some of the documents I requested. It’ll take hours to plow through this, and even more time to figure out what he hasn’t produced.

Of particular importance are his answers to my interrogatories. I have to depose a corporate spokesman, and he designates a gentleman by the name of Jack Underhall at the corporate headquarters in Cleveland. I also asked for the official titles and addresses of several Great Benefit employees, names I found repeatedly in Dot’s paperwork.

Using a form Judge Kipler gave me, I prepare a notice to depose six people. I pick a date a week away, knowing full well that Drummond will have a conflict. This is what he did to me with Dot’s depo, and this is how the game is played. He’ll run to Kipler, who’ll have little sympathy.

I’m about to spend a couple of days in Cleveland at the corporate headquarters of Great Benefit. This is not something I want to do, but I have no choice. It will be an expensive trip — travel, lodgings, food, court reporters. Deck and I have not discussed it yet. Frankly, I’ve been waiting for him to reel in a quickie car wreck.

The Black case has now moved into the third expandable file. I keep it in a cardboard box on the floor next to my desk. I look at it many times each day and ask myself if I know what I’m doing. Who am I to dream of a huge courtroom victory? Of handing the great Leo F. Drummond a humbling defeat?

I’ve never said a word to a jury.

Donny Ray was too weak to talk on the phone an hour ago, so I drive to their house in Granger. It’s late September, and I don’t remember the exact date, but Donny Ray was first diagnosed over a year ago. Dot’s eyes are red when she comes to the door. “I think he’s about gone,” she says through sniffles. I didn’t think it was possible for him to look worse, but his face is even paler and more fragile. He’s asleep in the unlighted room. The sun is low to the west, and the shadows fall in perfect rectangles across the white sheets on his narrow bed. The TV is off. The room is silent.

“He hasn’t eaten a bite today,” she whispers as we stare down at him.

“How much pain?”

“Not too bad. I’ve given him two shots.”

“I’ll sit for a while,” I whisper as I ease into a folding chair. She leaves the room. I hear her sniffling in the hallway.

He could be dead for all I know. I concentrate on his chest, wait for it to move up and down slightly, but I can’t detect anything. The room gets darker. I turn on a small lamp on a table near the door, and he moves slightly. His eyes open, then close.

So this is how the uninsured die. In a society filled with wealthy doctors and gleaming hospitals and state-of-the-art medical gadgetry and the bulk of the world’s Nobel winners, it seems outrageous to allow Donny Ray Black to wither away and die without proper medical care.

He could’ve been saved. By law, he was solidly under the umbrella, leaky as it was, of Great Benefit when his body became afflicted with this terrible disease. At the moment he was diagnosed, he was covered by a policy which his parents paid good money for. By law, Great Benefit had a contractual obligation to provide medical treatment.

One day very soon I hope to meet the person responsible for this death. He or she might be a lowly claims handler who was simply following orders. He or she might be a vice president who gave the orders. I wish I could take a picture of Donny Ray right now, then hand it to this pathetic person when we finally meet.

He coughs, moves again, and I think he’s trying to tell me that he’s still alive. I turn off the light and sit in darkness.

I’m alone and outgunned, scared and inexperienced, but I’m right . If the Blacks do not prevail in this lawsuit, then there is nothing fair with the system.

A streetlight comes on somewhere in the distance, and a stray ray flickers through the window and across Donny Ray’s chest. It’s moving now, up and down slightly. I think he’s trying to wake.

There will not be many more moments sitting in this room. I stare at his bony frame barely visible under the sheets, and I vow revenge.

It is an angry judge who takes the bench with his black robe settling around him. It’s a Motion Day, a time set aside for brief, nonstop arguments on multitudes of motions in dozens of cases. The courtroom is filled with lawyers.

We go first because Judge Kipler is perturbed. I filed a notice to take the deposition of six employees of Great Benefit, beginning next Monday in Cleveland. Drummond objected, claiming he, of course, is unavailable because of his sacred trial calendar. But not only is he tied up, all six of the prospective deponents are too busy to be bothered. All six!

Kipler arranged a phone conference with Drummond and me, and things went badly, at least for the defense. Drummond has legitimate courtroom obligations, and he faxed over the pretrial order from the other case to prove this. What angered the judge was Drummond’s assertion that it would be two months before he could spare three days in Cleveland. Furthermore, the six employees up there are very busy people, and it might be months before they could all be caught at one place.

Kipler ordered this hearing so he could formally chew Drummond’s ass, and get it on the record. Since I’ve talked to His Honor every day for the past four, I know precisely what’s about to happen. It will be ugly. I won’t have to say much.

“On the record,” Kipler snaps at the court reporter, and the clones across the aisle lurch forward and hover over their legal pads. Four, today. “In case number 214668, Black versus Great Benefit , the plaintiff has noticed the deposition of the corporate designee, along with five other employees of the defendant, to be taken next Monday, October 5, at the corporate offices in Cleveland, Ohio. Defense counsel, not surprisingly, has objected on the grounds that there’s a scheduling conflict. Correct, Mr. Drummond?”

Drummond stands slowly, “Yes sir. I have previously submitted to the court a copy of a pretrial order for a case in federal court starting Monday. I am lead counsel for the defense in that case.”

Drummond and Kipler have had at least two raging arguments on this issue, but it’s important to do it now for the record.

“And when might you be able to work this into your schedule?” Kipler asks with heavy sarcasm. I’m sitting alone at my table. Deck is not here. There are at least forty lawyers seated behind me in the benches, all watching the great Leo F. Drummond in the process of getting trashed. They must be wondering who I am, this unknown rookie who’s so good he’s got the judge fighting for him.

Drummond shifts his weight from one foot to the next, then says, “Well, Your Honor, I’m really booked. It might be—”

“I believe you said two months. Did I hear this correctly?” Kipler asks this as if he’s in shock, that surely no single lawyer is that busy.

“Yes sir. Two months.”

“And these are trials?”