John Grisham - The Rainmaker

Four of them are my buddies from Trent & Brent. One is a familiar face from the hearings in Memphis, the other three are strangers, and they all instantly clam up when they realize I’ve arrived. For a second, they stop sipping and chewing and talking, and just gawk at me. I’ve interrupted a very serious conversation.

T. Pierce Morehouse recovers first. “Rudy, come on in,” he says, but only because he has to. I nod to B. Dewey Clay Hill the Third and to M. Alec Plunk Junior and to Brandon Fuller Grone, then shake hands with the four new acquaintances as Morehouse spits out their names, names that I immediately forget. Jack Underhall is the familiar face from the skirmishes in Kipler’s courtroom. He’s one of the in-house lawyers for Great Benefit, and the designated corporate spokesman.

My opponents look bright-eyed and fresh, lots of sleep last night after a quick flight up and a relaxing dinner. They’re all creased and starched, just as if their clothes came out of their closets this morning and not a travel bag. My eyes are red and tired, my shirt wrinkled. But I have more important things on my mind.

The court reporter arrives, and T. Pierce herds us to the end of the table. He points here and there, saving the end seat for the witnesses, pondering for a second about just exactly how to seat everyone. He finally figures it out. I dutifully take my chair and try to pull it closer to the table. It’s a strain, because the damned thing weighs a ton. Across from me, at least ten feet away, the four boys from Trent & Brent open their briefcases with as much noise as they can create — latches clicking, zippers zipping, files snatched out, papers ruffling. Within seconds, the table is littered with piles of paper.

The four corporate suits are loitering behind the court reporter, uncertain about their next move and waiting for T. Pierce. His papers and pads finally arranged, he says, “Now, Rudy, we thought we’d start with the deposition of our corporate designee, Jack Underhall.”

I anticipated this, and I’ve already decided against it. “No, I don’t think so,” I say, somewhat nervously. I’m trying desperately to act cool in spite of being on strange turf and surrounded by enemies. There are several reasons I don’t want to start with the corporate designee, not the least of which is that it’s what they want. These are my depositions, I keep telling myself.

“Beg your pardon?” T. Pierce says.

“You heard me. I want to start with Jackie Lemancyzk, the claims handler. But first I want the file.”

The heart of any bad-faith case is the claim file, the collection of letters and documents kept by the claims handler in the home office. In a good bad-faith case, the claim file is an amazing historical account of one screwup after another. I’m entitled to it, and should’ve received it ten days ago. Drummond pled his innocence, said his client was dragging its feet. Kipler stated unequivocally in a court order that the file must be waiting for me first thing this morning.

“We think it would be best to start with Mr. Underhall,” T. Pierce says without authority.

“I don’t care what you think,” I say, sounding remarkably perturbed and indignant. I can get by with this be cause the judge is my buddy. “Shall we call the judge?” I ask, taunting, a real swaggering ass.

Though Kipler is not here, his presence still dominates. His order states, in very plain terms, that the six witnesses I’ve requested are to be available at nine this morning, and that I have sole discretion as to the order in which they’re deposed. They must remain on call until I release them. The order also leaves the door open for additional depos once I start asking questions and digging deeper. I couldn’t wait to threaten them with a phone call to His Honor.

“Uh, we, well, we, uh, have a problem with Jackie Lemancyzk,” T. Pierce says, glancing nervously at the four suits who’ve eased backward closer to the door. They’re collectively studying their feet, shuffling and twitching. T. Pierce is directly across the table from me, and he’s struggling.

“What kind of problem?” I ask.

“She doesn’t work here anymore.”

I catch my mouth falling open. I am genuinely stunned, and for a second can’t think of anything to say. I stare at him and try to collect my thoughts. “When did she leave?” I ask.

“Late last week.”

“How late? We were in court last Thursday. Did you know it then?”

“No. She left Saturday.”

“Was she terminated?”

“She resigned.”

“Where is she now?”

“She’s no longer an employee, okay? We can’t produce her as a witness.”

I study my notes for a second, scanning for more names. “Okay, how about Tony Krick, junior claims examiner?”

More twitching and shuffling and struggling. “He’s gone too,” T. Pierce says. “He’s been downsized.”

I take a second blow to the nose. I’m dizzy with thoughts of what to do next.

Great Benefit has actually fired people to keep them from talking to me.

“What a coincidence,” I say, floored. Plunk, Hill and Grone refuse to look up from their legal pads. I can’t imagine what they’re writing.

“Our client is going through a periodical downsizing,” T. Pierce says, managing to keep a serious face.

“What about Richard Pellrod, senior claims examiner? Lemme guess, he’s been downsized too.”

“No. He’s here.”

“And Russell Krokit?”

“Mr. Krokit left us for another company.”

“So he wasn’t downsized.”

“No.”

“He resigned, like Jackie Lemancyzk.”

“That’s correct.”

Russell Krokit was the Senior Claims Supervisor when he wrote the Stupid Letter. As nervous and scared as I’ve been about this trip, I was actually looking forward to his deposition.

“And Everett Lufkin, Vice President of Claims? Downsized?”

“No. He’s here.”

There’s an incredibly long period of silence as everyone busies himself with nothing-work while the dust settles. My lawsuit has caused a bloodletting. I write carefully on my legal pad, listing the things I should do next.

“Where’s the file?” I ask.

T. Pierce reaches behind himself and picks up a stack of papers. He slides these across the table. They’re neatly copied and bound with thick rubber bands.

“Is it in chronological order?” I ask. Kipler’s order requires this.

“I think so,” T. Pierce says, looking at the four Great Benefit suits as if he could choke them.

The file is almost five inches thick. Without removing the rubber bands, I say, “Give me an hour. Then we’ll continue.”

“Sure,” T. Pierce says. “There’s a small conference room right there.” He rises and points to the wall behind me.

I follow him and Jack the Suit into an adjacent room, where they quickly leave me. I sit at the table and immediately begin plowing through the documents.

An hour later, I reenter the boardroom. They’re drinking coffee and suffering through small talk. “We need to call the judge,” I say, and T. Pierce snaps to attention. “In here,” I say, pointing to my little room.

With him on one phone and me on another, I dial Kipler’s office number. He answers on the second ring. We identify ourselves and say good morning. “Got some problems here, Your Honor,” I say, anxious to start the conversation with the right tone.

“What kinda problems?” he demands. T. Pierce is listening and staring blankly at the floor.

“Well, of the six witnesses specified in my notice, and in your order, three have suddenly disappeared. They’ve either resigned, been downsized or suffered some other equal fate, but they aren’t here. Happened very late last week.”