John Grisham - The Rainmaker

“So do I.”

“You’re welcome to go through this. It’s all perfectly organized. I have a great paralegal, two actually.”

Yes, but I, Rudy Baylor, have a paralawyer!

He leaves me with the boxes, and I go straight for the dark green manuals. One is for claims, the other for underwriting. At first, they appear almost identical to the ones I’ve obtained in discovery. The procedures are arranged by sections. There’s an outline in the front, a glossary in the back, they’re nothing more than handbooks for the paper pushers.

Then I notice something different. In the back of the manual for claims, I notice a Section U. My copy does not have this section. I read it carefully, and the conspiracy unravels. The manual for underwriting also has a Section U. It’s the other half of the scheme, precisely as Cooper Jackson described it. The manuals, when read together, direct each department to deny the claim, pending further review, of course, then send the file to the other department with instructions not to pay until further notice.

The further notice never comes. Neither department can pay the claim until the other department says so.

Both Section U’s set forth plenty of directions on how to document each step, basically how to build a paper trail to show, if one day necessary, all the hard work that went into properly evaluating the claim before denying it.

Neither of my manuals has a Section U. They were conveniently removed before they were given to me. They — the crooks in Cleveland and perhaps their lawyers in Memphis — deliberately hid the Section U’s from me. It is, to put it mildly, a staggering discovery.

The shock wears off quickly, and I catch myself laughing at the thought of yanking these sections out at trial and waving them before the jury.

I spend hours digging through the rest of the file, but can’t keep my eyes off the manuals.

Cooper likes to drink vodka in his office, but only after 6 p.m. He invites me to join him. He keeps the bottle in a small freezer in a closet that serves as a bar, and he sips it straight, no ice, no water. I sip mine too. About two good drops per drink, and it burns all the way down.

After he drains his first shot glass, he says, “I’m sure you have copies of the various state investigations of Great Benefit.”

I feel completely ignorant, and there’s no sense lying. “No, not really.”

“You need to check them out. I reported the company to the Attorney General of South Carolina, a law school buddy of mine, and they’re investigating now. Same in Georgia. The Commissioner of Insurance in Florida has started an official inquiry. Seems as if an excessive number of claims were denied over a short period of time.”

Months ago, back when I was still a student of the law, Max Leuberg mentioned filing a complaint with the state Department of Insurance. He also said it probably wouldn’t do any good because the insurance industry was notoriously cozy with those who sought to regulate it.

I can’t help but feel as if I’ve missed something. Hey, this is my first bad-faith case.

“There’s talk of a class action, you know,” he says, his eyes glistening and blinking at me suspiciously. He knows I know nothing about any class action.

“Where?”

“Some lawyers in Raleigh. They have a handful of small bad-faith claims against Great Benefit, but they’re waiting. The company has yet to get hit. I suspect they quietly settle the ones that worry them.”

“How many policies are out there?” I’ve actually asked this question in discovery, and am still waiting for a reply.

“Just under a hundred thousand. If you figure a claim rate of ten percent, that’s ten thousand claims a year, about the average for the industry. Let’s say they deny, just for the hell of it, half of the claims. Down to five thousand. The average claim is ten thousand dollars. Five thousand times ten thousand is fifty million bucks. And let’s say they spend ten million, just a figure from the air, to settle the few lawsuits that pop up. They clear forty million with their little plot, then maybe the next year they start paying the legitimate claims again. Skip a year, go back to the denial routine. Cook up another scheme. They make so damned much money they can afford to screw anybody.”

I stare at him for a long time, then ask, “Can you prove this?”

“Nope. Just a hunch. It’s probably impossible to prove because it’s so incriminating. This company does some incredibly stupid things, but I doubt if they’re dumb enough to put something this bad in writing.”

I start to mention the Stupid Letter, but decide against it. He’s on a roll. He’ll win every battle of one-upsmanship.

“Are you active in any trial lawyer groups?” he asks.

“No. I just started practicing a few months ago.”

“I’m pretty active. There’s a loose network of us lawyers who enjoy suing insurance companies for bad faith. We keep in touch, you know. Lots of gossip. I’m hearing Great Benefit this and Great Benefit that. I think they’ve denied too many claims. Everybody’s sorta waiting for the first big trial to expose them. A huge verdict will start the stampede.”

“I’m not sure about the verdict, but I can guarantee there will be a trial.”

He says he might call his buddies, work the network, interface, gather the gossip, see what’s coming down around the country. And he might just be in Memphis in February to watch the trial. One big verdict, he says again, will burst the dam.

I spend half of the next day backtracking through Jackson’s file, then thank him and leave. He insists that I keep in touch. He has a hunch that a lot of lawyers will be watching our trial.

Why does this scare me?

I drive to Memphis in twelve hours. As I unload the Volvo behind Miss Birdie’s dark house, a light snow begins to fall. Tomorrow is the new year.

The pretrial conference is held in the middle of January in Judge Kipler’s courtroom. He arranges us around the defense table, and stations his bailiff at the door to keep wandering lawyers out. He sits at one end, without his robe, his secretary on one side, his court reporter on the other. I’m to his right, with my back to the courtroom, and across the table is the entire defense team. It’s the first time I’ve seen Drummond since Kord’s deposition on December 12, and it’s a struggle to be civil. Every time I pick up my office phone I can see this well-dressed, perfectly groomed and highly respected thug listening to my conversation.

Both sides have submitted proposed pretrial orders, and we’ll work out the kinks today. The final order will serve as a blueprint for the trial.

Kipler was only slightly surprised when I showed him the manuals I borrowed from Cooper Jackson. He’s carefully compared them to the manuals submitted to me by Drummond. According to His Honor, I am not required to notify Drummond that I know now they’ve withheld documents. I’m perfectly within the rules to wait until the trial, then spring this on Great Benefit in front of the jury.

It should be devastating. I’ll yank down their pants before the jury and watch them run for cover.

We get to the witnesses. I’ve listed the names of just about everybody connected with the case.

“Jackie Lemancyzk no longer works for my client,” Drummond says.

“Do you know where she is?” Kipler asks me.

“No.” This is true. I’ve made a hundred phone calls to the Cleveland area and have not found a trace of Jackie Lemancyzk. I even convinced Butch to try and track her by phone, and he had the same luck.

“Do you?” he asks Drummond.

“No.”

“So she’s a maybe.”

“That’s correct.”