John Grisham - The Rainmaker

“I don’t know. I, uh, well, it just happened, I guess. You know.”

I walk back to my table in search of nothing in particular. I want him to hang here for a few seconds so the jury can hate him sufficiently. He stares blankly at the floor, whipped, defeated, wishing he was anywhere but here.

I confidently walk to the defense table and hand Drummond a copy of Section U. I give him a toothy, nasty smile, and give Morehouse one as well. Then I hand a copy to Kipler. I take my time so the jury can watch and wait with great anticipation.

“Well, Mr. Lufkin, let’s talk about the mysterious Section U. Let’s explain it to the jury. Would you look at it, please?”

He takes the manual, turns the pages.

“It went into effect January 1, 1991, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Did you draft it?”

“No.” Of course not.

“Okay, then who did?”

Another suspicious pause as he gropes for a suitable lie. “I’m not sure,” he says.

“You’re not sure? But I thought you just testified that this fell squarely under your responsiblity at Great Benefit?”

He’s staring at the floor again, hoping I’ll go away.

“Fine,” I say. “Let’s skip paragraphs one and two, and read paragraph three.”

Paragraph three directs the claims handler to immediately deny every claim within three days of receiving it. No exceptions. Every claim. Paragraph four allows for the subsequent review of some claims, and prescribes the paperwork necessary to indicate that a claim might be inexpensive, very valid and therefore payable. Paragraph five tells the handler to send all claims with a potential value in excess of five thousand dollars to underwriting, with a letter of denial to the insured, subject to review by underwriting, of course.

And so it goes. I make Lufkin read from his manual, then I grill him with questions he can’t answer. I use the word “scheme” repeatedly, especially after Drummond objects and Kipler overrules him. Paragraph eleven sets forth a veritable glossary of secret code signals the handlers are supposed to use in the file to indicate a strong reaction from the insured. It’s obvious the scheme is designed to play the odds. If an insured threatens with lawyers and lawsuits, the file is immediately reviewed by a supervisor. If the insured is a pushover, then the denial sticks.

Paragraph eighteen b. requires the handler to cut a check for the amount of the claim, send the check and the file to underwriting with instructions not to mail the check until further word from claims. Word, of course, never comes. “So what happens to the check?” I ask Lufkin. He doesn’t know.

The other half of the scheme is in Section U of the underwriting manual, and so I get to do this again tomorrow with another VP.

It’s really not necessary. If we could stop right now, the jury would give whatever I ask, and they haven’t even seen Donny Ray yet.

We break for a quick recess at four-thirty. I’ve had Lufkin on the stand for two and a half hours, and it’s time to finish him off. As I step into the hall on my way to the rest room, I see Drummond pointing angrily to a room he wants Lufkin and Underhall to enter. I’d love to hear this mauling.

Twenty minutes later, Lufkin is back on the stand. I’m through with the manuals for now. The jury can read the fine print when it deliberates.

“Just a few more quick questions,” I say, smiling and refreshed. “In 1991, how many health insurance policies did Great Benefit have issued and in effect?”

Again, the weasel looks helplessly at his lawyer. This information was due me three weeks ago.

“I’m not sure,” he says.

“And how many claims were filed in 1991?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You’re the Vice President of Claims, and you don’t know?”

“It’s a big company.”

“How many claims were denied in 1991?”

“I don’t know.”

At this point, perfectly on cue, Judge Kipler says, “The witness may be excused for today. We’re going to recess for a few minutes so the jury can go home.”

He says good-bye to the jury, thanks them again, and gives them their instructions. I get a few smiles as they file past our table. We wait for them to leave, and when the last juror disappears through the double doors, Kipler says, “Back on the record. Mr. Drummond, both you and your client are in contempt of court. I insisted that this information be forwarded to the plaintiff several weeks ago. It hasn’t been done. It’s very relevant and pertinent, and you have refused to provide it. Are you and your client prepared to be incarcerated until this information is received?”

Leo is on his feet, very tired, aging quickly. “Your Honor, I’ve tried to get this information. I’ve honestly done my best.” Poor Leo. He’s still trying to comprehend Section U. And, at this moment, he is perfectly believable. His client has just proven to the world that it will hide documents from him.

“Is Mr. Keeley nearby?” His Honor asks.

“In the witness room,” Drummond says.

“Go get him.” Within seconds, the bailiff leads the CEO into the courtroom.

Dot has had enough. She needs to pee and must have a smoke.

Kipler points to the witness stand. He swears Keeley himself, then asks him if there’s any good reason why his company has refused to provide the information I’ve asked for.

He stutters, stammers, tries to blame it on the regional offices and the district offices.

“Do you understand the concept of contempt of court?” Kipler asks.

“Maybe, well, not really.”

“It’s very simple. Your company is in contempt of court, Mr. Keeley. I can either fine your company, or place you, as the CEO, in jail. Which shall it be?”

I’m sure some of his pals have pulled time at the federal country clubs, but Keeley knows that jail here means one downtown with lots of street types. “I really don’t want to go to jail, Your Honor.”

“Didn’t think so. I hereby fine Great Benefit the sum of ten thousand dollars, due and payable to the plaintiff by 5 p.m. tomorrow. Call the home office and get a check FedExed, okay?”

Keeley can do nothing but nod.

“Furthermore, if this information is not faxed in here by nine in the morning, then you’ll be taken to the Memphis City Jail, where you’ll remain until you comply. Plus, while you’re there, your company will be fined five thousand dollars a day.”

Kipler turns and points downward at Drummond. “I have repeatedly warned you about these documents, Mr. Drummond. This behavior is grossly unacceptable.”

He raps his gavel angrily, and leaves the bench.

Under normal circumstances, I might feel silly wearing a blue and gray cap with a tiger on it, along with my suit, and leaning on a wall in Concourse A of the Memphis airport. But this day has been anything but normal. It’s late, and I’m dead tired, but the adrenaline is hopping. A better first day of trial would be impossible.

The flight from Chicago arrives on time, and I’m soon spotted by my cap. A woman behind a large pair of dark sunglasses approaches, looks me up and down, finally says, “Mr. Baylor?”

“That’s me.” I shake hands with Jackie Lemancyzk, and with her male companion, a man who introduces himself only as Carl. He has a carry-on bag, and they’re ready to go. These people are nervous.

We talk on the way to the hotel, a Holiday Inn downtown, six blocks from the courthouse. She sits in the front with me. Carl lurks in the backseat, saying nothing but guarding her like a rottweiler. I replay most of the first day’s excitement. No, they do not know she’s coming. Her hands shake. She’s brittle and frail, and scared of her shadow. Other than revenge, I can’t figure out her motive for being here.