BRUISER'S CASUAL LITTLE ASIDE THAT HE might let me handle some of the argument in the Black hearing keeps me awake most of the night. I don't know if it was simply the usual bluff of the wise mentor, but I worry about it more than I worry about going into business with Deck.
It's dark when I arrive at Trudy's. I'm her first customer. The coffee is brewing and the doughnuts are hot. We chat for a moment, but Trudy has things to do.
So do I. I ignore the newspapers and bury myself in my notes. From time to time I glance through the window into the empty parking lot and strain to see agents out there in unmarked vehicles, smoking filterless cigarettes, drinking stale coffee, just like in the movies. At times Deck is perfectly believable, and at times he's as nutty as he looks.
He's early too. He gets his coffee at a few minutes after seven, and eases into the chair across from me. The place is half-full now.
"Well?" he says, his first word.
next moves. Four months ago, the idea of practicing law with someone like Deck would have been unthinkable, even laughable, yet here I am unable to create enough excuses to keep him from becoming my partner.
"You don't want me as your partner?" he says pitifully.
"I'm just thinking, Deck. Give me a minute. You've hit me over the head with this."
"I'm sorry. But we have to move fast."
"How much do you know?"
"Enough to convince me. Don't ask any more questions."
"Give me a few hours. Let me sleep on it."
"Fair enough. We're both going to court tomorrow, so let's meet early. At Trudy's. We can't talk in our office. You sleep on it and tell me in the morning."
"It's a deal."
"How many files do you have?"
I think for a second. I have a thick file on the Black case, a rather thin one on Miss Birdie and a useless workers' compensation case Bruiser dumped on me last week. "Three."
"Get them out of your office. Take them home."
"Now?"
"Now. This afternoon. And anything else you might want from your office, better remove it quickly. But don't get caught, okay?"
"Is someone watching us?"
He jerks and glances, then carefully nods his head at me, eyes rolling wildly behind the crooked glasses.
"Who?"
"Feds, I think. The office is under surveillance."
Deck reluctantly calls Bruiser's condo, no answer. Dru said she expected him at eight. She tries his car phone, no answer. Maybe he'll just meet us in court, she says.
Deck and I stuff the file in my briefcase and leave the office at a quarter to nine. He knows the quickest route, he says, so he drives while I sweat. My hands are clammy and my throat is dry. If Bruiser stiffs me on this hearing, I'll never forgive him. In fact, I'll hate him forever.
"Relax," Deck says, hunched over the wheel, zipping around cars and running red lights. Even Deck can look at me and see the fright. "I'm sure Bruiser'11 be there." He says this without the slightest trace of conviction. "And if he's- not, then you'll do fine. It's just a motion. I mean, there's no jury in the box, you know."
"Just shut up and drive, Deck, okay. And try not to get us killed."
"Touchy, touchy."
We're downtown, in traffic, and I glance with horror at my watch. It's nine, straight up. Deck forces two pedestrians off the street, then zips through a tiny parking lot. "You see that door over there," he says, pointing at the corner of the Shelby County Courthouse, a massive structure that covers an entire city block.
"Yeah."
"Take it, go up one flight, courtroom is the third door on your right."
"You think Bruiser's there?" I ask, my voice quite frail.
"Sure," he says, lying. He slams on the brakes, hits the curb, and I jump out scrambling. "I'll be there after I park," he yells. I bound up a flight of concrete steps, through the door, up another flight, then suddenly I'm in the halls of justice.
The Shelby County Courthouse is old, stately and wonderfully preserved. The floors and walls are marble, the double doors are polished mahogany. The hallway is wide,
"Let's try it for a year," I say. I've decided that we'll sign an agreement which will last for only one year, and it will also include a thirty-day walkout clause in the event either of us becomes dissatisfied.
His shining teeth quickly emerge and he can't hide his excitement. He sticks his right hand across the table for me to shake. This is a huge moment for Deck. I wish I felt the same way.
I've also decided that I'll try to rein him in, to shame him from racing to every disaster. By working hard and servicing our clients, we can make a nice living and hopefully grow. I'll encourage Deck to study for the bar, get his license and approach the profession with more respect.
This, of course, will have to be done gradually.
And I'm not naive. Expecting Deck to stay away from hospitals will be as easy as expecting a drunk to steer clear of bars. But at least I'll try.
"Did you remove your files?" he whispers, looking at the door where two truck drivers have just entered.
"Yes. And you?"
"I've been sneaking stuff out for a week."
I'd rather not hear any more about this. I change the conversation to the Black hearing, and Deck moves it back to our new venture. At eight, we walk down to our offices, Deck eyeing every car in the parking lot as if they're all loaded with G-men.
Bruiser has not arrived by eight-fifteen. Deck and I are arguing the points made in Drummond's briefs. Here, where the walls and phones are wired, we discuss nothing but the law.
Eight-thirty, and there's no sign of Bruiser. He specifically said he'd be here at eight to go over the file. Judge Hale's courtroom is in the Shelby County Courthouse downtown, twenty minutes away in unpredictable traffic.
syrup and burns like straight vodka. She smacks her lips. "We'd better sit down," she says.
After a few sips, Miss Birdie is snoring on the sofa. I mute the movie, and pour another cup. It's a potent liquor, and after the initial searing the taste buds are not as offended. I drink it on the patio, under the moon, still smiling upward in glorious thanks for this divine news.
THE EFFECTS of the melon brandy linger until well after sunrise. I shower and ease from my apartment, sneak to my car, then race down the driveway in reverse until I hit the street.
I go to a yuppie coffee bar with bagels and blends of the day. I pay for a thick Sunday paper and spread it on a table in the rear. Several items hit close to home.
For the fourth day in a row, the front page is filled with stories about the paddle wheel disaster. Forty-one kids were killed. The lawyers have already started filing suits.
The second item, this one in the Metro section, is the latest installment of an investigative series about police corruption, and more specifically the relationship between the topless business and law enforcement. Bruiser's name is mentioned several times as the lawyer for Willie Mc-Swane, a local kingpin. And Bruiser's name is mentioned as the lawyer for Bennie Thomas, also known as Prince, a local tavern owner and former federal indictee. And Bruiser's name is mentioned as a likely federal target in his own right.
I can feel the train coming. The federal grand jury has been meeting nonstop for a month. This newspaper runs stories almost daily. Deck is increasingly nervous.
The third item is a complete surprise. On the last page of the business section is a small story with the caption 161 PASS BAR EXAM. It's a three-sentence press release from the
dark, quiet, and lined w|th wooden benches under portraits of distinguished jurists.
I slow to a jog, then stop at the courtroom of the Honorable Harvey Hale. Circuit Court Division Eight, according to a brass sign beside the doors.
There's no sign of Bruiser outside the courtroom, and as I slowly push open the door and look inside, the first thing I don't see is his huge body. He's not here.
But the courtroom is not empty. I gaze down the red-carpeted aisle, past the rows of polished and cushioned benches, through the low swinging gate, and I see that quite a few people are waiting for me. Up high, in a black robe, in a large burgundy leather chair, and scowling down my way, is an unpleasant man I presume to be Judge Harvey Hale. A clock on the wall behind him gives the time as twelve minutes after nine. One hand holds his chin while the fingers on the other tap impatiently.
To my left, beyond the bar that separates the spectators' section from the bench, the jury box and the counsel tables, I see a group of men, all of whom are straining to see me. Amazingly, they all possess the same appearance and dress-short hair, dark suits, white shirts, striped ties, stern faces, contemptible smirks.
The room is silent. I feel like a trespasser. Even the court reporter and bailiff seem to have an attitude.
With heavy feet and rubbery knees, I walk with zero confidence to the gate in the bar. My throat is parched. The words are dry and weak. "Excuse me, sir, but I'm here for the Black hearing."
The judge's expression doesn't change. His fingers keep tapping. "And who are you?"
"Well, my name's Rudy Baylor. I work for Bruiser Stone."
"Where's Mr. Stone?" he asks.
"I'm not sure. He was supposed to meet me here."
There's a rustling of activity to my left, among the cluster of lawyers, but I don't look. Judge Hale stops his tapping, raises his chin from his hand and shakes his head in frustration. "Why am I not surprised?" he says into his micro-. phone.
Since Deck and I are bolting, I am determined to flee with the Black case safely in tow. It's mine! No one else can have it. Judge Hale has no way of knowing at this moment that I'm the lawyer who'll be prosecuting this case, not Bruiser. As scared as I am, I decide quickly that this is the moment to establish myself.
"I suppose you want a continuance," he says.
"No sir. I'm prepared to argue the motion," I say as forcefully as possible. I ease through the gate and place the file on the table to my right.
"Are you a lawyer?" he asks.
"Well, I just passed the bar."
"But you haven't received your license?"
I don't know why this distinction hasn't hit me until now. I guess I've been so proud of myself it just slipped my mind. Plus, Bruiser was going to do the talking today, with me perhaps chiming in for a bit of practice. "No sir. We take the oath next week."
One of my enemies clears his throat loudly so that the judge will look at him. I turn and see a distinguished gentleman in a navy suit in the process of dramatically rising from his chair. "May it please the court," he says as if he's said it a million times. "For the record, my name is Leo F. Drummond of Tinley Britt, counsel for Great Benefit Life." He says this somberly, up in the direction of his lifelong friend and Yale roommate. The keeper of the record, the court reporter, has returned to her nail filing.
"And we object to this young man's appearance in this matter." He sweeps his arms toward me. His words are
slow and heavy. I hate him already. "Why, he doesn't even have a license."
I hate him for his patronizing tone, and for his silly hairsplitting. This is only a motion, not a trial.
'Tour Honor, I'll have my license next week," I say. My anger is greatly assisting my voice.
"That's not good enough, Your Honor," Drummond says, arms open wide, like this is such a ridiculous idea. The nerve?
"I've passed the bar exam, Your Honor."
"Big deal," Drummond snaps at me.
I look directly at him. He's standing in the midst of four other people, three of whom are sitting at his table with legal pads in front of them. The fourth sits behind them. I'm getting the collective glare.
"It is a big deal, Mr. Drummond. Go ask Shell Boykin," I say. Drummond's face tightens and there's a noticeable flinch. In fact, there's a collective flinch from the defense table.
This is a real cheap shot, but for some reason I couldn't resist. Shell Boykin is one of two students from our class privileged enough to be hired by Trent & Brent. We despised each other for three years, and we took the exam together last month. His name was not in the newspaper last Sunday. I'm sure the great firm is slightly embarrassed that one of its bright young recruits flunked the bar.
Drummond's scowl intensifies, and I smile in return. In the few brief seconds that we stand and watch each other, I learn an enormously valuable lesson. He's just a man. He might be a legendary trial lawyer with lots of notches in his belt, but he's just another man. He's not about to step across the aisle and slap me, because I'd whip his ass. He can't hurt me, and neither can his little covey of minions.
Courtrooms are level from one side to the other. My table is as large as his.
"Sit down!" His Honor growls into the microphone. "Both of you." I find a chair and take a seat. "One question, Mr. Baylor. Who will handle this case on behalf of your firm?"
"I will, Your Honor."
"And what about Mr. Stone?"
"I can't say. But this is my case, these are my clients. Mr. Stone filed it on my behalf, until I passed the bar."
"Very well. Let's proceed. On the record," he says, looking at the court reporter who's already working her machine. "This is the defendant's motion to dismiss, so Mr. Drummond goes first. I'll allow each side fifteen minutes to argue, then I'll take it under advisement. I don't want to be here all morning. Are we in agreement?"
Everybody nods. The defense table resembles wooden ducks wobbling on a carnival firing range, all heads rocking in unison. Leo Drummond strolls to a portable podium in the center of the courtroom, and begins his argument. He's slow and meticulous, and after a few minutes becomes boring. He's summarizing the major points already set forth in his lengthy brief, the gist of which is that Great Benefit is being wrongly sued because its policy does not cover bone marrow transplants. Then there's the issue of whether Donny Ray Black should be covered under the policy since he's an adult and no longer a member of the household.
Frankly, I expected more. I thought I'd witness something almost magical from the great Leo Drummond. Before yesterday, I had caught myself looking forward to this initial skirmish. I wanted to see a good brawl between Drummond, the polished advocate, and Bruiser, the courtroom brawler.
But if I weren't so nervous, I'd fall asleep. He goes past
fifteen minutes without a pause. Judge Hale is looking down, reading something, probably a magazine. Twenty minutes. Deck said he's heard that Drummond bills two-hundred fifty bucks an hour for office work, three-fifty when in court. That's well below New York and Washington standards, but it's very high for Memphis. He has good reason to talk slow and repeat himself. It pays to be thorough, even tedious, when billing at that rate.
His three associates scribble furiously on legal pads, evidently trying to write down everything their leader has to say. It's almost comical, and under better circumstances I might force a laugh out of myself. First they did the research, then they wrote the brief, then they rewrote it several times, then they responded to my brief and now they're writing down Drummond's arguments, which are taken directly from the briefs. But they're getting paid for this. Deck figures Tinley Brirt bills its associates out at around one-fifty for office work, probably a bit more for hearings and trials. If Deck is right, then the three of these young clones are scrawling aimlessly for around two hundred bucks an hour each. Six hundred dollars. Plus, three-fifty for Drummond. That's almost a thousand dollars an hour for what I'm witnessing.
The fourth man, the one sitting behind the associates, is older, about the same age as Drummond. He's not scratching on a notepad, so he can't be a lawyer. He's probably a representative of Great Benefit, maybe one of their in-house lawyers.
I forget about Deck until he taps me on the shoulder with a legal pad. He's behind me, reaching across the bar. He wants to correspond. On the legal pad, he's written a note: "This guy's boring as hell. Just follow your brief. Keep it under ten minutes. No sign of Bruiser?"
I shake my head without turning around. As if Bruiser could be in the courtroom without being seen.
After thirty-one minutes, Drummond finishes his monologue. The reading glasses are perched on the tip of his nose. He's the professor lecturing the class. He struts back to his table, immensely satisfied with his brilliant logic and amazing powers of summation. His clones tip their heads in unison and whisper quick tributes to his marvelous presentation. What a bunch of asskissers! No wonder his ego is warped.
I place my legal pad on the podium and look up at Judge Hale, who, for the moment, seems awfully interested in whatever I'm, about to say. I'm scared to death at this point, but there's nothing to do but press on.
This is a simple lawsuit. Great Benefit's denial has robbed my client of the only medical treatment that could save his life. The company's actions will Mil Donny Ray Black. We're right and they're wrong. I'm comforted by the image of his gaunt face and withered body. It makes me mad.
Great Benefit's lawyers will be paid a ton of money to confuse the issues, to muddle the facts, to hopefully strangle the judge and later the jury with red herrings. That's their job. That's why Drummond rambled for thirty-one minutes and said nothing.
My version of the facts and the law will always run shorter. My briefs and arguments will remain clear and to the point. Surely, someone down the line will appreciate this.
I nervously begin with a few basic points about motions to dismiss in general, and Judge Hale stares down incredulously as if I'm the biggest fool he's ever listened to. His face is contorted with skepticism, but at least he keeps his mouth shut, I try to avoid his eyes.
Motions to dismiss are rarely granted in cases where there's a clear dispute between the parties. I may be nervous and awkward, but I'm confident we'll prevail.
I slog my way through my notes without revealing anything new. His Honor is soon as bored with me as he was with Drummond, and returns to his reading materials. When I finish, Drummond asks for five minutes to rebut what I've said, and his friend waves at the podium.
Drummond rambles for another eleven precious and valuable minutes, clears up whatever was on his mind but does so in such a way as to keep the rest of us in the dark, then sits.
"I'd like to see counsel in chambers," Hale says, rising and quickly disappearing behind the bench. Since I don't know where his chambers happen to be located, I stand and wait for Mr. Drummond to lead die way. He's polite as we meet near the podium, even places his arm on my shoulder and tells me what a superb job I did.
The robe is already off by the time we enter the judge's office. He's standing behind his desk, waving at two chairs. "Please come in. Have a seat." The room is dark with decorum; heavy drapes pulled together over the window, burgundy carpet, rows of heavy books in shelves from floor to ceiling.
We sit. He ponders. Then, "This lawsuit bothers me, Mr. Baylor. I wouldn't use the word frivolous, but I'm not impressed with the merits of it, to be frank. I'm really tired of these types of suits."
He pauses and looks at me as if I'm supposed to respond now. But I'm at a complete loss.
"I'm inclined to grant the motion to dismiss," he says, opening a drawer, then slowly removing several bottles of pills. He carefully lines them up on his desk as we watch. He stops and looks at me. "Maybe you can refile it in federal court, you know. Take it somewhere else. I just don't want it clogging up my docket." He counts, pills, at least a dozen from four plastic cylinders.
"Excuse me while I visit the can," he says, and steps to a small door across the room, to his right. It locks loudly.
I sit in a dazed stillness, staring blankly at the pill bottles, hoping he chokes on them in there. Drummond hasn't said a word, but as if on cue rises and perches his butt on the corner of the desk. He looks down at me, all warmth and smiles.
"Look, Rudy, I'm a very expensive lawyer, from a very expensive firm," he says in a low, trusting voice, as if he's divulging secret information. "When we first get a case like this, we do some math and project the cost of defending it. We give this estimate to our client, and this is before we lift a finger. I've handled a lot of cases, and I can hit pretty close to the center of the dartboard." He shifts a bit, prepping for the punch line. "I've told Great Benefit that the cost of defending this case through a full-blown trial will run them between fifty and seventy-five thousand dollars."
He waits for me to indicate that this figure is impressive, but I just stare at his tie. The toilet flushes and rumbles in the distance.
"And so, Great Benefit has authorized me to offer you and your clients seventy-five thousand to settle."
I exhale heavily. A dozen wild thoughts race before me, the largest of which is the figure of twenty-five thousand dollars. My fee! I can see it.
Wait a minute. If his pal Harvey here is about to dismiss the case, why is he offering me this money?
And, then, it hits me-the good cop/bad cop routine. Harvey lowers the boom and scares the hell out of me, then Leo steps in with the velvet touch. I can't help but wonder how many times they've played tag-team in this office.
"No admission of liability, you understand," he says. "It's a one-time offer, good for only the next forty-eight
hours, take it or leave it right now while it's on the table. If you say no, then it's World War III."
"But why?"
"Simple economics. Great Benefit saves some money, plus they don't run the risk of some cra2y verdict. They don't like to get sued, you understand? Their executives don't like to waste time in depositions and court appearances. They're a quiet bunch. They like to avoid this kind of publicity. Insurance is a cutthroat business, and they don't want their competitors to get wind of this. Lots of good reasons for them to settle quietly. Lots of good reasons for your clients to take the money and run. Most of it's tax-free, you know."
He's smooth. I could argue the merits of the case and talk about how rotten his client is, but he'd just smile and nod along with me. Water off a duck's back. Right now Leo Drummond wants me to take his money, and if I said nasty things about his wife it wouldn't fate him.
The door opens and His Honor exits his private little rest room. Leo now has a full bladder, and he excuses himself. The tag is made. The duet moves along.
"High blood pressure," Hale says to himself as he sits behind his desk and gathers his bottles. Not high enough, I want to say.
"Not much of a lawsuit, kid, I'm afraid. Maybe I can lean on Leo to make an offer of settlement. That's part of my job, you know. Other judges approach it differently, but not me. I like to get involved in settlement from day one. It moves things along. These boys might throw some money at you to keep from paying Leo a thousand bucks a minute." He laughs as if this is really funny. His face turns bloodred and he coughs.
I can almost see Leo in the rest room, ear stuck to the door, listening. It wouldn't surprise me if they have a mike in there.
I watch him hack until his eyes water. When he stops, I say, "He just offered me the cost of defense."
Male's a lousy actor. He tries to seem surprised. "How much?"
"Seventy-five thousand."
His mouth falls open. "Geez! Look, son, you're crazy if you don't take it."
"You think so?" I ask, playing along.
"Seventy-five. Jeez, that's a buncha money. That doesn't sound like Leo."
"He's a great guy."
"Take the money, son. I've been doing this for a long time, and you need to listen to me."
The door opens, and Leo rejoins us. His Honor stares at Leo, and says, "Seventy-five thousand!" You'd think the money was coming out of Bale's office budget.
"That's what my client said," Leo explains. His hands are tied. He's powerless.
They serve and volley for a while longer. I'm not thinking rationally, so I say little. I leave the room with Leo's arm around my shoulder.
I find Deck in the hallway, on the phone, and so I sit on a nearby bench and try to collect myself. They were expecting Bruiser. Would they have tag-teamed him the same way? No, I don't think so. How did they plan their ambush of me so quickly? They probably had another routine planned for him.
I'm convinced of two things: First, Hale is serious about dismissing the lawsuit. He's a sick old man who's been on the bench for a long time, and is immune from pressure. He couldn't care less if he's right or wrong. And it might be very difficult to file it again in another court. The lawsuit is in serious trouble. Second, Drummond is too anxious to settle. He's scared, and he's scared because his client has been caught red-handed in a very nasty act.
DECK'S MADE eleven phone calls in the past twenty minutes, and there's no sign of Bruiser. As we speed back to the office, I replay the bizarre scene in Male's office. Deck, ever the quick-change artist, wants to take the money and run. He makes the very good argument that no amount of money will save Donny Ray's life at this point, so we should grab what we can and make things a bit easier for Dot and Buddy.
Deck claims that he's heard many sordid tales of badly tried lawsuits in Hale's courtroom. For a sitting judge, he's unusually vocal in his support of tort reform. Hates plaintiffs, Deck says more than once. A fair trial will be hard to obtain. Let's take the money and run, Deck says.
DRU IS IN TEARS in the lobby as we enter. She's hysterical because everybody's looking for Bruiser. Her mascara runs down her cheeks as she curses and cries. This is just not like him, she says over and over. Something bad has happened.
Being a thug himself, Bruiser hangs out with dubious and dangerous people. Finding his fat body stuffed into the trunk of a car at the airport would not surprise me, and Deck allows as much. The thugs are after him.
I'm after him too. I call Yogi's to talk to Prince. He'll know where Bruiser is. I talk to Billy, the manager, a guy I know well,' and after a few minutes learn that Prince seems to have vanished too. They've called everywhere, with no luck. Billy's worried and nervous. The feds just left. What's going on?
Deck goes from office to office, rallying the troops. We meet in the conference room-me, Deck, Toxer and Ridge, four secretaries and two flunkies I've never seen before. Nicklass, the other lawyer, is out of town. Everyone compares notes of their last meeting with Bruiser:
Anything suspicious? What was he supposed to do today? Who was he supposed to see? Who talked to him last? There is an atmosphere of panic in the room, an air of confusion that's not alleviated in the least by Dru's incessant bawling. She just knows something's gone wrong.
The meeting breaks up as we silently file back to our offices and lock our doors. Deck, of course, follows me. We talk aimlessly for a while, careful not to say anything we don't want overheard if in fact the place is wired. At eleven-thirty, we ease out a rear door and leave for lunch.
We will never set foot in the place again.