John Grisham - The Rainmaker

“Who?”

I’m sure he has the file in front of him, looking at the names.

“Jackie Lemancyzk, Tony Krick and Russell Krokit no longer work here. Pellrod, Lufkin, and Underhall, the designee, miraculously survived the carnage.”

“How about the file?”

“I have the claim file, and I’ve scanned it.”

“And?”

“There’s at least one missing document,” I say, watching T. Pierce carefully. He frowns hard at me, as if he can’t believe this.

“What is it?” Kipler asks.

“The Stupid Letter. It’s not in the file. I haven’t had time to check everything else.”

The attorneys for Great Benefit saw the Stupid Letter for the first time last week. The copy Dot handed to Drummond during her depo had the word COPY stamped three times across the top. I did this on purpose so if the letter turned up later we’d know where it came from. The original is locked safely away in my files. It would’ve been too risky for Drummond et al. to forward their marked copy of the letter to Great Benefit to belatedly add it to the claim file.

“Is this true, Pierce?” Kipler demands.

Pierce is genuinely at a loss. “I’m sorry, Your Honor, I don’t know. I’ve gone through the file, but, well, I guess so, you know. I haven’t checked everything.”

“Are you guys in the same room?” Kipler asks.

“Yes sir,” we answer in unison.

“Good. Pierce, leave the room. Rudy, stay on the phone.”

T. Pierce starts to say something, but thinks better of it. Confused, he hangs up his phone and leaves the room.

“Okay, Judge, it’s just me,” I say.

“What’s their mood?” he asks.

“Pretty tense.”

“I’m not surprised. This is what I’m gonna do. By killing off witnesses and hiding documents, they’ve given me the authority to order all depositions to be taken down here. It’s discretionary, and they’ve earned themselves the punishment. I think you should depose Underhall and no one else. Ask him everything under the sun, but try and pin him down on the terminations of the three missing witnesses. Throw everything at him. When you’re finished with him, come home. I’ll order a hearing for later this week and get to the bottom of this. Get the underwriting file too.”

I’m taking notes as fast as I can.

“Lemme talk to Pierce now,” he says, “and lay him out.”

Jack Underhall is a compact little man with a clipped mustache and clipped speech. He sheds light on the company itself. Great Benefit is owned by PinnConn, a privately held corporation whose owners are hard to pin down. I question him at length about the affiliations and connections of the three companies that call this place home, and it becomes hopelessly confused. We talk for an hour about the corporate structure, starting with the CEO on down. We talk about products, sales, markets, divisions, personnel, all interesting to a point but mostly useless. He produces two letters of resignation from the missing witnesses, and assures me their departures had absolutely nothing to do with this case.

I grill him for three hours, then quit. I had resigned myself to the reality of spending at least three days in Cleveland, enclosed in a room with the boys from Trent & Brent, wrangling with one hostile witness after another, and plowing through reams of documents at night.

But I leave this place just before two, never to return, loaded with fresh documents for Deck to scour, secure in the knowledge that now these assholes will be forced to come to my turf and give their depositions in my courtroom, with my judge nearby.

The bus ride back to Memphis seems much faster.

Deck has a business card which describes him as a Paralawyer , an animal new to me. He roams the hallways outside City Court and hustles small-time criminals who are waiting for their first appearances before the various judges. He picks out a guy who looks scared and is holding a piece of paper, and he makes his move. Deck calls this the Buzzard Two-Step, a quick little solicitation perfected by many of the street lawyers who hang around City Court. He once invited me to go with him so I could learn the ropes. I declined.

Derrick Dogan was originally targeted as a victim of the Buzzard Two-Step, but the hustle fell apart when he asked Deck, “What the hell’s a paralawyer?” Deck, ever quick with a canned response, failed to satisfy this inquiry, and left in a hurry. But Dogan kept the card with Deck’s name on it. Later the same day, Dogan was broadsided by a teenager who was speeding. About twenty-four hours after he told Deck to get lost outside City Court, he dialed the number on the card from his semiprivate room at St. Peter’s. Deck took the call at the office, where I was sifting through an impenetrable web of insurance documents. Minutes later, we were racing down the street toward the hospital. Dogan wanted to talk to a real lawyer, not a paralawyer.

This is a semi-legitimate visit to the hospital, my first. We find Dogan alone with his broken leg, broken ribs, broken wrist and facial cuts and bruises. He’s young, around twenty, no wedding band. I take charge like a real lawyer, feed him the usual well-practiced lines about avoiding insurance companies and saying nothing to anybody. It’s just us against them, and my firm handles more car wrecks than anybody else in town. Deck smiles. He’s taught me well.

Dogan signs a contract and a medical release which will allow us to obtain his records. He’s in significant pain, so we don’t stay long. His name’s on the contract. We say good-bye and promise to see him tomorrow.

By noon, Deck has a copy of the accident report and has already talked to the teenager’s father. They’re insured by State Farm. The father, against his better judgment, offers Deck the opinion that he thinks the policy has a limit of twenty-five thousand dollars. He and the kid are really sorry about this. No problem, says Deck, quite thankful that the accident occurred.

One third of twenty-five thousand is eight thousand and change. We eat lunch at a place called Dux, a wonderful restaurant in The Peabody. I have wine. Deck has dessert. It’s the biggest moment in the history of our firm. We count and spend our money for three hours.

On the Thursday after the Monday I spent in Cleveland, we’re in Kipler’s courtroom at five-thirty in the afternoon. His Honor picked this time so the great Leo F. Drummond could rush over after a long day in court and receive another tongue lashing. His presence completes the defense team — all five are present and looking sufficiently smug though everybody knows they’re in for the worst. Jack Underhall, one of the in-house lawyers for Great Benefit, is here, but the rest of the corporate suits have elected to stay in Cleveland. I don’t blame them.

“I warned you about the documents, Mr. Drummond,” His Honor is scolding from the bench. He called us to order less than five minutes ago, and Drummond’s already bleeding. “I thought I was rather specific, even put it all in writing, in an order, you know. Now, what happened?”

This is probably not Drummond’s fault. His client is playing games with him, and I strongly suspect he’s already done some lashing of his own at the guys in Cleveland. Leo Drummond is a study in ego, and he doesn’t take humiliation well. I almost feel sorry for him. He’s in the middle of a zillion-dollar lawsuit in federal court, probably sleeping three hours a night, a hundred things on his mind, and now he’s dragged across the street to defend the suspicious actions of his wayward client.

I almost feel sorry for him.

“There’s no excuse, Your Honor,” he says, and his sincerity is convincing.

“When did you first learn that these three witnesses no longer worked for your client?”