The Rainmaker (43 page)

I’m taking notes as fast as I can.

“Lemme talk to Pierce now,” he says, “and lay him out.”

JACK UNDERHALL is a compact little man with a clipped mustache and clipped speech. He sheds light on the company itself. Great Benefit is owned by PinnConn, a privately held corporation whose owners are hard to pin down. I question him at length about the affiliations and connections of the three companies that call this place home, and it becomes hopelessly confused. We talk for an hour about the corporate structure, starting with the CEO on down. We talk about products, sales, markets, divisions, personnel, all interesting to a point but mostly useless. He produces two letters of resignation from the missing witnesses, and assures me their departures had absolutely nothing to do with this case.

I grill him for three hours, then quit. I had resigned myself to the reality of spending at least three days in Cleveland, enclosed in a room with the boys from Trent & Brent, wrangling with one hostile witness after another, and plowing through reams of documents at night.

But I leave this place just before two, never to return,
loaded with fresh documents for Deck to scour, secure in the knowledge that now these assholes will be forced to come to my turf and give their depositions in my courtroom, with my judge nearby.

The bus ride back to Memphis seems much faster.

Thirty-five

D
ECK HAS A BUSINESS CARD WHICH DESCRIBES him as a
Paralawyer
, an animal new to me. He roams the hallways outside City Court and hustles small-time criminals who are waiting for their first appearances before the various judges. He picks out a guy who looks scared and is holding a piece of paper, and he makes his move. Deck calls this the Buzzard Two-Step, a quick little solicitation perfected by many of the street lawyers who hang around City Court. He once invited me to go with him so I could learn the ropes. I declined.

DERRICK DOGAN was originally targeted as a victim of the Buzzard Two-Step, but the hustle fell apart when he asked Deck, “What the hell’s a paralawyer?” Deck, ever quick with a canned response, failed to satisfy this inquiry, and left in a hurry. But Dogan kept the card with Deck’s name on it. Later the same day, Dogan was broadsided by a teenager who was speeding. About twenty-four hours after he told Deck to get lost outside City Court, he dialed the number on the card from his semiprivate room at St.
Peter’s. Deck took the call at the office, where I was sifting through an impenetrable web of insurance documents. Minutes later, we were racing down the street toward the hospital. Dogan wanted to talk to a real lawyer, not a paralawyer.

THIS IS a semi-legitimate visit to the hospital, my first. We find Dogan alone with his broken leg, broken ribs, broken wrist and facial cuts and bruises. He’s young, around twenty, no wedding band. I take charge like a real lawyer, feed him the usual well-practiced lines about avoiding insurance companies and saying nothing to anybody. It’s just us against them, and my firm handles more car wrecks than anybody else in town. Deck smiles. He’s taught me well.

Dogan signs a contract and a medical release which will allow us to obtain his records. He’s in significant pain, so we don’t stay long. His name’s on the contract. We say good-bye and promise to see him tomorrow.

By noon, Deck has a copy of the accident report and has already talked to the teenager’s father. They’re insured by State Farm. The father, against his better judgment, offers Deck the opinion that he thinks the policy has a limit of twenty-five thousand dollars. He and the kid are really sorry about this. No problem, says Deck, quite thankful that the accident occurred.

One third of twenty-five thousand is eight thousand and change. We eat lunch at a place called Dux, a wonderful restaurant in The Peabody. I have wine. Deck has dessert. It’s the biggest moment in the history of our firm. We count and spend our money for three hours.

ON THE THURSDAY after the Monday I spent in Cleveland, we’re in Kipler’s courtroom at five-thirty in the afternoon. His Honor picked this time so the great Leo F.
Drummond could rush over after a long day in court and receive another tongue lashing. His presence completes the defense team—all five are present and looking sufficiently smug though everybody knows they’re in for the worst. Jack Underhall, one of the in-house lawyers for Great Benefit, is here, but the rest of the corporate suits have elected to stay in Cleveland. I don’t blame them.

“I warned you about the documents, Mr. Drummond,” His Honor is scolding from the bench. He called us to order less than five minutes ago, and Drummond’s already bleeding. “I thought I was rather specific, even put it all in writing, in an order, you know. Now, what happened?”

This is probably not Drummond’s fault. His client is playing games with him, and I strongly suspect he’s already done some lashing of his own at the guys in Cleveland. Leo Drummond is a study in ego, and he doesn’t take humiliation well. I almost feel sorry for him. He’s in the middle of a zillion-dollar lawsuit in federal court, probably sleeping three hours a night, a hundred things on his mind, and now he’s dragged across the street to defend the suspicious actions of his wayward client.

I
almost
feel sorry for him.

“There’s no excuse, Your Honor,” he says, and his sincerity is convincing.

“When did you first learn that these three witnesses no longer worked for your client?”

“Sunday afternoon.”

“Did you attempt to notify counsel for the plaintiff?”

“I did. We couldn’t locate him. We even called the airlines in an attempt to track him. No luck.”

Shoulda called Greyhound.

Kipler makes a big production out of shaking his head and acting disgusted. “Be seated, Mr. Drummond,” he says. I have yet to open my mouth.

“Here’s the plan, gentlemen,” His Honor says. “One week from next Monday, we will gather here for depositions. The following people will appear on behalf of the defendant: Richard Pellrod, senior claims examiner; Everett Lufkin, Vice President of Claims; Kermit Aldy, Vice President of Underwriting; Bradford Barnes, Vice President of Administration and M. Wilfred Keeley, CEO.” Kipler told me to make a wish list of the ones I wanted.

I can almost feel the air being sucked from the room into the lungs of the boys across the aisle.

“No excuses, no delays, no continuances. They will of course travel here at their own expense. They will make themselves available for depositions at the pleasure of the plaintiff, and be released only when Mr. Baylor says so. All expenses of the depositions, including stenographer’s fees and copying, will be borne by Great Benefit. Let’s plan on three days for these depositions.

“Furthermore, copies of all documents shall be delivered to the plaintiff no later than Wednesday of next week, five days before the depositions. The documents are to be neatly copied and in chronological order. Failure to do so will result in severe sanctions.

“And, speaking of sanctions, I hereby order the defendant, Great Benefit, to pay to Mr. Baylor, as sanctions, the cost of his wasted trip to Cleveland. Mr. Baylor, how much is a round-trip plane ticket to Cleveland?”

“Seven hundred dollars,” I say, answering truthfully.

“Is that first class or coach?”

“Coach.”

“Mr. Drummond, you guys sent four lawyers to Cleveland. Did you fly first class or coach?”

Drummond glances at T. Pierce, who cringes like a kid caught stealing, then says, “First class.”

“That’s what I thought. How much is a first-class ticket?”

“Thirteen hundred.”

“How much did you spend on food and lodging, Mr. Baylor?”

Actually, less than forty dollars. But it would be terribly embarrassing to admit this in open court. I wish I’d stayed in a penthouse suite. “Around sixty bucks,” I say, fudging a little but not being greedy. I’m sure their rooms were a hundred and fifty dollars a night.

Kipler is writing this down with great drama, the calculator clicking in his brain. “What’d you spend traveling? A couple hours each way?”

“I guess,” I say.

“At two hundred bucks an hour, that’s eight hundred dollars. Any other expenses?”

“Two hundred fifty to the court reporter.”

He writes this down, adds it all up, checks his figures and says, “I order the defendant to pay Mr. Baylor the sum of two thousand four hundred and ten dollars, as sanctions, to be paid within five days. If not received by Mr. Baylor within five days, the sum will automatically double each day until the check is received. Do you understand this, Mr. Drummond?”

I can’t help smiling.

Drummond rises slowly, slightly bent at the waist, hands spreading out. “I object to this,” he says. He’s burning, but he’s under control.

“Your objection is noted. Your client has five days.”

“There’s no proof that Mr. Baylor flew first class.”

It’s the nature of a defense lawyer to contest everything. Nitpicking is a native feature. It’s also profitable. But the money is peanuts to his client, and Drummond should realize he’ll get nowhere with this.

“Evidently the trip to Cleveland and back is worth thirteen hundred dollars, Mr. Drummond. That’s what I’m ordering your client to pay.”

“Mr. Baylor does not get paid by the hour,” he replies.

“Are you saying his time is not valuable?”

“No.”

What he wants to say is that I’m just a rookie street lawyer and my time is not nearly as valuable as his or his buddies.

“Then you’ll pay him two hundred per hour. Consider yourself lucky. I was thinking of charging you for every hour he spent in Cleveland.”

So close!

Drummond waves his arms in frustration and retakes his seat. Kipler is glaring down. After a few months on the bench, he’s already famous for his dislike of the big firms. He’s been quick with sanctions in other cases, and there’s lots of buzz about it in legal circles. It doesn’t take much.

“Anything else?” he growls in their direction.

“No sir,” I say loudly, just to let everyone know I’m still here.

There’s a general, collective shaking of heads among the conspirators across the aisle, and Kipler raps his gavel. I gather my papers quickly and leave the courtroom.

FOR DINNER, I eat a bacon sandwich with Dot. The sun falls slowly behind the trees in their backyard, behind the Fairlane where Buddy sits and refuses to come eat. She says he’s spending more and more time out there because of Donny Ray. It’s a matter of days now before he dies, and Buddy’s way of dealing with it is to hide in the car out there and drink. He sits with his son for a few minutes each morning, usually leaves the room in tears, then tries to avoid everybody for the rest of the day.

Plus, he usually doesn’t come in if there’s company in the house. Fine with me. And fine with Dot. We chat about the lawsuit, about the actions of Great Benefit and the incredible fairness of Judge Tyrone Kipler, but she’s
lost interest. The fiery woman I first met six months ago at Cypress Gardens seems to have given up the fight. Then, she honestly thought a lawyer, any lawyer, even me, could scare Great Benefit into doing right. There was still time for a miracle. Now all hope is gone.

Dot will always blame herself for Donny Ray’s death. She’s told me more than once that she should’ve gone straight to a lawyer when Great Benefit first denied the claim. She chose instead to write the letters herself. I now have a strong suspicion Great Benefit would’ve stepped in quickly, after being threatened with litigation, and provided treatment. I think this for two reasons: First, they’re dead wrong and they know it. And, second, they offered seventy-five thousand dollars to settle shortly after I, a rather green rookie, sued them. They’re scared. Their lawyers are scared. The boys in Cleveland are scared.

Dot serves me a cup of instant decaf, then leaves to check on her husband. I take my coffee to the back of the house, to Donny Ray’s room, where he’s sleeping under the sheets, curled on his right side. A small lamp in the corner gives the only light. I sit close to it with my back to the open window, catching a cool breeze. The neighborhood is quiet, the room is still.

His will is a simple two-paragraph document leaving everything to his mother. I prepared it a week ago. He neither owes nor owns anything, and the will is unnecessary. But it made him feel better. He’s also planned his funeral. Dot’s made the arrangements. He wants me to be a pallbearer.

I pick up the same book I’ve been reading intermittently for two months now, a condensed book with four novels in it. It’s thirty years old, one of the few books in the house. I leave it in the same place and read a few pages on each visit.

He grunts and jerks a bit. I wonder what she’ll do when she eases in one morning and he doesn’t wake up.

She leaves us alone when I’m sitting with Donny Ray. I can hear her washing dishes. Buddy, I think, is in the house now. I read for an hour, glancing at Donny Ray occasionally. If he wakes, then we’ll chat, or perhaps I’ll turn on the TV. Whatever he wants.

I hear a strange voice in the den, then a knock on the door. It opens slowly and it takes a few seconds for me to recognize the young man standing there. It’s Dr. Kord, making a house call. We shake hands and speak softly at the foot of the bed, then walk three steps to the window.

“Just passing by,” he says, still whispering, as if he drives through this neighborhood all the time.

“Sit down,” I say, pointing to the only other chair. We sit with our backs to the window, knees touching, eyes on the dying kid in the bed six feet away.

“How long you been here?” he asks.

“Couple of hours. I ate dinner with Dot.”

“Has he been awake?”

“No.”

We sit in semidarkness with a gentle wind against our necks. Clocks rule our lives, but right now there is no sense of time.

“I’ve been thinking,” Kord says, almost under his breath. “About this trial. Any idea when it might happen?”

“February 8.”

“Is that definite?”

“Looks that way.”

“Don’t you think it would be more effective if I testified live, as opposed to talking to the jury through a video or a written deposition?”