John Grisham - The Rainmaker

I stand, walk to the bar, give them a warm smile and say the words that I’ve practiced a thousand times. “Good morning. My name is Rudy Baylor, and I represent the Blacks.” So far so good. After two hours of being hammered from the bench, they’re ready for something different. I look at them warmly, sincerely. “Now, Judge Kipler has asked a lot of questions, and these are very important. He’s covered everything I wanted to ask, so I won’t waste time. In fact, I have only one question. Can any of you think of any reason why you shouldn’t serve on this jury and hear this case?”

No response is expected, and none is received. They’ve been looking at me for over two hours, and I merely want to say hello, give them another nice smile and be very brief. There are few things in life worse than a long-winded lawyer. Plus, I have a hunch Drummond will hit them pretty hard.

“Thank you,” I say with a smile, then I slowly turn to the bench and say loudly, “The panel looks fine to me, Your Honor.” I return to my seat, patting Dot on the shoulder as I sit.

Drummond is already on his feet. He tries to look calm and affable, but the man is burning. He introduces himself and begins by talking about his client, and the fact that Great Benefit is a big company with a healthy balance sheet. It’s not to be punished for this, you understand? Will this influence any of you? He’s actually arguing the case, which is improper. But he’s close enough to the line not to get called down. I’m not sure if I should object. I’ve vowed that I’ll do so only when I’m certain I’m right. This line of questioning is very effective. His smooth voice begs to be trusted. His graying hair conveys wisdom and experience.

He covers a few more areas without a single response. He’s planting seeds. Then it hits the fan.

“Now, what I’m about to ask you is the most important question of the day,” he says gravely. “Please listen to me carefully. This is crucial.” A long, dramatic pause. A deep breath. “Have any of you been contacted about this case?”

The courtroom is perfectly still as his words linger, then slowly settle. It’s more of an accusation than a question. I glance at their table. Hill and Plunk are glaring at me. Morehouse and Grone are watching the jurors.

Drummond is frozen for a few seconds, ready to pounce on the first person who’s brave enough to raise a hand and say, “Yes! The plaintiff’s lawyer stopped by my house last night!” Drummond knows it’s coming, he just knows it. He’ll extract the truth, expose me and my corrupt paralawyer partner, move to have me admonished, sanctioned and ultimately disbarred. The case will be postponed for years. It’s coming!

But his shoulders slowly sink. The air quietly rushes from his lungs. Buncha lying schmucks!

“This is very important,” he says. “We need to know.” His tone is one of distrust.

Nothing. No movement anywhere. But they’re watching him intensely, and he’s making them very uneasy. Keep going, big boy.

“Let me ask it another way,” he says, very coolly. “Did any of you have a conversation yesterday with either Mr. Baylor here or Mr. Deck Shifflet over there?”

I lunge to my feet. “Objection, Your Honor! This is absurd!”

Kipler is ready to come over the bench. “Sustained! What are you doing, Mr. Drummond!” Kipler yells this directly into his microphone, and the walls shake.

Drummond is facing the bench. “Your Honor, we have reason to believe this panel has been tampered with.”

“Yeah, and he’s accusing me,” I say angrily.

“I don’t understand what you’re doing, Mr. Drummond,” Kipler says.

“Perhaps we should discuss it in chambers,” Drummond says, glaring at me.

“Let’s go,” I shoot back, as if I’m just itching for a fight.

“A brief recess,” Kipler says to his bailiff.

Drummond and I sit across the desk from His Honor. The other four Trent & Brents stand behind us. Kipler is extremely perturbed. “You better have your reasons,” he says to Drummond.

“This panel has been tampered with,” Drummond says.

“How do you know this?”

“I can’t say. But I know it for a fact.”

“Don’t play games with me, Leo. I want proof.”

“I can’t say, Your Honor, without divulging confidential information.”

“Nonsense! Talk to me.”

“It’s true, Your Honor.”

“Are you accusing me?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“You are acting rather bizarre, Leo,” His Honor says.

“I think I can prove it,” he says smugly.

“How?”

“Let me finish questioning the panel. The truth will come out.”

“They haven’t budged yet.”

“But I’ve barely started.”

Kipler thinks about this for a moment. When this trial’s over, I’ll tell him the truth.

“I would like to address certain jurors individually,” Drummond says. This is usually not done, but it’s within the judge’s discretion.

“What about it, Rudy?”

“No objection.” Personally, I can’t wait for Drummond to start grilling those we allegedly polluted. “I have nothing to hide.” A couple of the turds behind me cough at this.

“Very well. It’s your grave you’re digging, Leo. Just don’t get out of line.”

“What’d y’all do in there?” Dot asks when I return to the table.

“Just lawyer stuff,” I whisper. Drummond is at the bar. The jurors are highly suspicious of him.

“Now, as I was saying. It’s very important that you tell us if anyone has contacted you and talked about this case. Please raise your hand if this has happened.” He sounds like a first-grade teacher.

No hands anywhere.

“It’s a very serious matter when a juror is contacted either directly or indirectly by any of the parties involved in a trial. In fact, there could be severe repercussions for both the person initiating the contact, and also for the juror if the juror fails to report it.” This has a deathly ring to it.

No hands. No movement. Nothing but a bunch of people who are quickly getting angry.

He shifts weight from one foot to the next, rubs his chin and zeroes in on Billy Porter.

“Mr. Porter,” he says in a deep voice, and Billy feels zapped. He bolts upright, nods. His cheeks turn red.

“Mr. Porter, I’m going to ask you a direct question. I’d appreciate an honest response.”

“You ask an honest question and I’ll give you an honest answer,” Porter says angrily. This is a guy with a short fuse. Frankly, I’d leave him alone.

Drummond is stopped for a second, then plunges onward. “Yes, now, Mr. Porter, did you or did you not have a phone conversation last night with Mr. Rudy Baylor?”

I stand, spread my arms, look blankly at Drummond as if I’m completely innocent and he’s lost his mind, but say nothing.

“Hell no,” Porter says, the cheeks getting redder.

Drummond leans on the railing, both hands clutching the thick mahogany bar. He stares down at Billy Porter, who’s on the front row, less than five feet away.

“Are you sure, Mr. Porter?” he demands.

“I damned sure am!”

“I think you did,” Drummond says, out of control now and over the edge. Before I can object and before Kipler can call him down, Mr. Billy Porter charges from his seat and pounces on the great Leo F. Drummond.

“Don’t call me a liar, you sonofabitch!” Porter screams as he grabs Drummond by the throat. Drummond falls over the railing, his tassled loafers flipping through the air. Women scream. Jurors jump from their seats. Porter is on top of Drummond, who’s grappling and wrestling and kicking and trying to land a punch or two.

T. Pierce Morehouse and M. Alec Plunk Junior dash from their seats and arrive at the melee first. The others follow. The bailiff is quick on the scene. Two of the male jurors try to break it up.