John Grisham - The Rainmaker

There are less than fifty people in the place. Some kids, too young for an R-rated movie, sit close to the front, snickering at each obscenity. A few other sad souls are scattered through the darkness. The back row is empty.

She arrives a few minutes late, and sits next to me. She crosses her legs, the skirt inches above her knees. I cannot help but notice.

“You come here often?” she says, and I laugh. She doesn’t appear to be nervous. I certainly am.

“Are we safe?” I ask.

“Safe from whom?”

“Your husband.”

“Yeah, he’s out with the boys tonight.”

“Drinking again?”

“Yes.”

This has enormous implications.

“But not much,” she says as an afterthought.

“So he hasn’t—”

“No. Let’s talk about something else.”

“I’m sorry. I just worry about you, that’s all.”

“Why do you worry about me?”

“Because I think about you all the time. Do you ever think about me?”

We’re staring at the screen but seeing nothing.

“All the time,” she says, and my heart stops.

On-screen, a guy and a girl are suddenly ripping each other’s clothes off. They’re falling onto a bed, pillows and undergarments flying through the air, then they embrace hotly and the bed starts shaking. As the lovers love each other, Kelly slides her arm under mine and inches closer. We don’t speak until the scene changes. Then I start breathing again.

“When did you start to work?” I ask.

“Two weeks ago. We need a little extra for Christmas.”

She’ll probably earn more than me between now and Christmas. “He allows you to work?”

“I’d rather not talk about him.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“How’s the lawyer stuff?”

“Busy. Got a big trial in February.”

“So you’re doing well?”

“It’s a struggle, but business is growing. Lawyers starve, and then if they’re lucky they make money.”

“And if they’re not lucky?”

“They keep starving. I’d rather not talk about lawyers.”

“Fine. Cliff wants to have a baby.”

“What would that accomplish?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t do it, Kelly,” I say with a passion that surprises me. We look at each other and squeeze hands.

Why am I sitting in a dark theater holding hands with a married woman? That’s the question of the day. What if Cliff suddenly appeared and caught me here cuddling with his wife? Who would he kill first?

“He told me to stop taking the pill.”

“Did you?”

“No. But I’m worried about what might happen when I don’t get pregnant. It’s been rather easy in the past, if you’ll recall.”

“It’s your body.”

“Yeah, and he wants it all the time. He’s becoming obsessed with sex.”

“Look, uh, I’d rather talk about something else, okay?”

“Okay. We’re running out of topics.”

“Yes, we are.”

We release each other’s hand and watch the movie for a few moments. Kelly slowly turns and leans on her elbow.

Our faces are just inches apart. “I just wanted to see you, Rudy,” she says, almost in a whisper.

“Are you happy?” I ask, touching her cheek with the back of my hand. How can she be happy?

She shakes her head. “No, not really.”

“What can I do?”

“Nothing.” She bites her lip, and I think I see moist eyes.

“You have a decision to make,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“Either forget about me, or file for divorce.”

“I thought you were my friend.”

“I thought I was too. But I’m not. It’s more than friendship, and both of us know it.”

We watch the movie for a moment.

“I need to go,” she says. “My break is almost over. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“You didn’t bother me, Kelly. I’m glad to see you. But I’m not going to sneak around like this. You either file for divorce or forget about me.”

“I can’t forget about you.”

“Then let’s file for divorce. We can do it tomorrow. I’ll help you get rid of this bum, and then we can have some fun.”

She leans over, pecks me on the cheek and is gone.

Without first consulting me, Deck sneaks his phone from the office and takes it to Butch, then together they take it to an acquaintance who once allegedly worked for some branch of the military. According to the acquaintance, the bugging device still hidden in our phones is quite dissimilar to the bugs typically used by the FBI and other law enforcement agencies. It’s manufactured in Czechoslovakia, of medium grade and quality, and feeds a transmitter located somewhere close by. He’s almost certain it wasn’t planted by cops or feds.

I get this report over coffee a week before Thanksgiving.

“Somebody else is listening,” Deck says nervously.

I’m too stunned to react.

“Who would it be?” asks Butch.

“How the hell am I supposed to know?” I snap angrily at him. This guy has no business asking these questions. As soon as he’s gone, I’ll take Deck to task for involving him this deep. I glare at my partner, who’s looking away, jerking around, waiting for strangers to attack.

“Well, it ain’t the feds,” Butch says with great authority.

“Thanks.”

We pay for the coffee and walk back to our offices. Butch checks the phones once again, just for the hell of it. Same little round gadgets stuck in there.

The question now is, Who’s listening?

I go to my office, lock the door, kill time while waiting for Butch to leave and in the process conceive a brilliant plot. Deck eventually knocks on my door, taps just loud enough for me to hear.

We discuss my little scheme. Deck leaves and drives downtown to the courthouse. Thirty minutes later, he calls me with an update of several fictitious clients. Just checking in, he says, do I need anything from downtown?

We chat for a few minutes about this and that, then I say, “Guess who wants to settle now?”

“Who?”

“Dot Black.”

“Dot Black?” he asks, incredulous and phony. Deck has few acting skills.

“Yeah, I stopped by this morning to check on her, took her a fruitcake. She said she just doesn’t have the will power to suffer through the trial, wants to settle right now.”

“How much?”

“Said she’d take a hundred and sixty. She’s been thinking about it, and since their top offer is one-fifty, she figures she’ll win a small victory if they pay more than they want. She thinks she’s a real negotiator. I tried to explain things to her, but you know how hardheaded she is.”

“Don’t do it, Rudy. This case is worth a fortune.”

“I know. Kipler thinks we’ll get a huge punitive award, but, you know, ethically I’m required to approach Drummond and try to settle. It’s what the client wants.”

“Don’t do it. One-sixty is chicken feed.” Deck is reasonably convincing with this, though I catch myself grinning. The calculator is rattling away as he figures his cut from one hundred and sixty thousand dollars. “Do you think they’ll pay one-sixty?” he asks.

“Don’t know. I got the impression one-fifty was max. But I never countered it.” If Great Benefit will pay one-fifty to settle this case, they’ll throw one-sixty at us.

“Let’s talk about it when I get there,” he says.

“Sure.” We hang up, and thirty minutes later Deck is sitting across my desk.

At five minutes before nine the next morning, the phone rings. Deck grabs it in his office, then runs into mine. “It’s Drummond,” he says.

Our little firm splurged and purchased a forty-dollar recorder from Radio Shack. It’s wired to my phone. We’re hoping like hell it doesn’t affect the bugging device. Butch said he thought there’d be no problem.