The Rainmaker (44 page)

“Of course it would be.”

Kord has been practicing for a few years. He knows
about trials and depos. He leans forward, elbows on knees. “Then let’s forget the depo. I’ll do it live and in color, and I won’t send a bill.”

“That’s very generous.”

“Don’t mention it. It’s the least I could do.”

We think about this for a long time. There’s a random light noise from the kitchen, but the house is silent. Kord is the type who’s not bothered by long lapses in conversation.

“You know what I do?” he finally asks. “What?”

“I diagnose people, then I prepare them for death.”

“Why’d you go into oncology?”

“You want the truth?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“There’s a demand for oncologists. Easy to figure out, right? It’s less crowded than most other specialties.”

“I guess someone has to do it.”

“It’s not that bad, really. I love my work.” He pauses for a moment and looks at his patient. “This is a tough one, though. Watching a patient go untreated. If the marrow transplants weren’t so expensive, maybe we could’ve done something. I was willing to donate my time and effort, but it’s still a two-hundred-thousand-dollar procedure. No hospital or clinic in the country can afford to eat that kind of money.”

“Makes you hate the insurance company, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. It really does.” A long pause, then, “Let’s stick it to them.”

“I’m trying.”

“Are you married?” he asks, sitting up straight and glancing at his watch.

“No. You?”

“No. Divorced. Let’s go get a beer.”

“Okay. Where?”

“You know Murphy’s Oyster Bar?”

“Sure.”

“Let’s meet there.”

We tiptoe past Donny Ray, say good-bye to Dot, who’s rocking and smoking on the front porch, and leave them for now.

I HAPPEN TO BE ASLEEP when the phone rings at three-twenty in the morning. Either Donny Ray’s dead, or a plane’s gone down and Deck’s in hot pursuit. Who else would call at such an hour?

“Rudy?” a very familiar voice gushes from the other end.

“Miss Birdie!” I say, sitting and reaching for a light.

“Sorry to call at such an awful time.”

“That’s okay. How are you?”

“Well, they’re being mean to me.”

I close my eyes, breathe deeply and fall back onto the bed. Why am I not surprised by this? “Who’s being mean?” I ask, but only because I’m supposed to. It’s hard to care at this point.

“June’s the meanest,” she says, as if they’re ranked. “She doesn’t want me in the house.”

“You’re living with Randolph and June?”

“Yes, and it’s awful. Just awful. I’m afraid to eat the food.”

“Why?”

“Because it might have poison in it.”

“Come on, Miss Birdie.”

“I’m serious. They’re all waiting for me to die, that’s all. I signed a new will that gives them what they want, signed it up in Memphis, you know, then as soon as we got down here to Tampa they were real sweet for a few days. Grandkids stopped by all the time. Brought me flowers and chocolates. Then Delbert took me to the doctor for a
physical. Doctor checked everything, and told them I was in great health. I think they were expecting something else. They seemed so disappointed at what the doctor said, and they changed overnight. June went back to being the mean little tramp she really is. Randolph took up golf again and is never home. Delbert stays at the dog track. Vera hates June and June hates Vera. The grandkids, most of them don’t have jobs, you know, just up and vanished.”

“Why are you calling me at this hour, Miss Birdie?”

“Because, well, I have to sneak around and use the phone. Yesterday, June told me I couldn’t use it anymore, and I went to Randolph and he said I could use it twice a day. I miss my house, Rudy. Is it okay?”

“It’s fine, Miss Birdie.”

“I can’t stay here much longer. They’ve got me stuck back in a little bedroom with a tiny little bathroom. I’m used to lots of room, you know, Rudy.”

“Yes, Miss Birdie.” She’s waiting for me to volunteer to come get her, but it’s not the thing to do now. She’s been gone for less than a month. This is good for her.

“And Randolph is after me to sign a power of attorney that would allow him to do things on my behalf. What do you think?”

“I never advise my clients to sign those things, Miss Birdie. It’s not a good idea.” I’ve never had a client faced with this problem, but in her case it’s bad business.

Poor Randolph. He’s busting his butt to get his hands on her twenty-million-dollar fortune. What will he do if he finds out the truth? Miss Birdie thinks things are bad now. Just wait.

“Well, I just don’t know.” Her words fade.

“Don’t sign it, Miss Birdie.”

“And another thing. Yesterday, Delbert, oops … somebody’s coming. Gotta go.” The phone slams on the
other end. I can see June with a leather strap beating Miss Birdie for an unauthorized phone call.

The phone call does not register as a significant event. It’s almost comical. If Miss Birdie wants to come home, then I’ll get her home.

I manage to fall asleep.

Thirty-six

I
DIAL THE NUMBER AT THE PENAL FARM, and ask for the same lady I spoke with the first time I visited Ott. Regulations require all visits to be cleared with her. I want to visit him again before we take his deposition.

I can hear her pecking away at a keyboard. “Bobby Ott is no longer here,” she says.

“What?”

“He was released three days ago.”

“He told me he had eighteen days left. And that was a week ago.”

“That’s too bad. He’s gone.”

“Where’d he go?” I ask in disbelief.

“You must be kidding,” she says, and hangs up.

Ott is loose. He lied to me. We got lucky the first time we found him, and now he’s in hiding again.

THE PHONE CALL I’ve been dreading finally comes on a Sunday morning. I’m sitting on Miss Birdie’s patio like I own the place, reading the Sunday paper, sipping coffee
and enjoying a beautiful day. It’s Dot, and she tells me she found him about an hour ago. He went to sleep last night, and never woke up.

Her voice wavers a little, but her emotions are under control. We talk for a moment, and I realize that my throat is getting dry and my eyes are wet. There’s a trace of relief in her words. “He’s better off now,” she says more than once. I tell her I’m sorry, and I promise to come over this afternoon.

I walk across the backyard to the hammock, where I lean against an oak tree and wipe tears from my cheeks. I sit on the edge of the hammock, my feet on the ground, my head hung low, and say the last of my many prayers for Donny Ray.

I CALL JUDGE KIPLER at home with the news of the death. The funeral will be tomorrow afternoon at two, which presents a problem. The home office depositions are scheduled to begin at nine in the morning, and run for most of the week. I’m sure the suits from Cleveland are already in town, probably sitting in Drummond’s office right now doing rehearsals before video cameras. That’s how thorough he is.

Kipler asks me to be in court at nine anyway, and he’ll handle things from there. I tell him I’m ready. I certainly should be. I’ve typed every possible question for each of the witnesses, and His Honor himself has made suggestions. Deck has reviewed them too.

Kipler hints that he might postpone the depositions because he has two important hearings tomorrow.

Whatever. I really don’t care right now.

BY THE TIME I get to the Blacks’, the whole neighborhood has come to mourn. The street and driveway are bumper to bumper with parked cars. Old men loiter in
the front yard and sit on the porch. I smile and nod and work my way inside through the crowd, where I find Dot in the kitchen, standing by the refrigerator. The house is packed with people. The kitchen table and countertops are covered with pies and casseroles and Tupperware filled with fried chicken.

Dot and I hug each other gently. I express my sympathy by simply saying that I’m sorry, and she thanks me for coming. Her eyes are red but I sense that she’s tired of crying. She waves at all the food and tells me to help myself. I leave her with a group of ladies from the neighborhood.

I’m suddenly hungry. I fill a large paper plate with chicken and baked beans and coleslaw, and go to the tiny patio, where I eat in solitude. Buddy, bless his heart, is not in his car. She’s probably locked him in the bedroom, where he can’t embarrass her. I eat slowly, and listen to the quiet chatter emanating from the open windows of the kitchen and den. When my plate is empty, I fill it for the second time and again hide on the patio.

I’m soon joined by a young man who looks oddly familiar. “I’m Ron Black,” he says, sitting in the chair next to mine. “The twin.”

He’s lean and fit, not very tall. “Nice to meet you,” I say.

“So you’re the lawyer.” He’s holding a canned soft drink.

“That’s me. Rudy Baylor. I’m sorry about your brother.”

“Thanks.”

I’m very aware of how little Dot and Donny Ray talked about Ron. He left home shortly after high school, went far away and has kept his distance. I can understand this to a certain degree.

He’s not in a talkative mood. His sentences are short
and forced, but we eventually get around to the bone marrow transplant. He confirms what I already believe to be true, that he was ready and willing to donate his marrow to save his brother, and that he’d been told by Dr. Kord that he was a perfect match. I explain to him that it’ll be necessary for him to explain this to a jury in a few short months, and he says he’d love to. He has a few questions about the lawsuit, but never indicates any curiosity about how much money he might get from it.

I’m sure he’s sad, but he handles his grief well. I open the door to their childhood and hope to hear a few warm stories all twins must share about pranks and jokes they played on others. Nothing. He grew up here, in this house and this neighborhood, and it’s obvious he has no use for his past.

The funeral is tomorrow at two, and I’ll bet Ron Black is on a plane back to Houston by five.

The crowd thins then swells, but the food remains. I eat two pieces of chocolate cake while Ron sips a warm soda. After two hours of sitting, I’m exhausted. I excuse myself and leave.

ON MONDAY, there’s a regular throng of stern-faced and darkly dressed men sitting around Leo F. Drummond on the far side of the courtroom.

I’m ready. Scared and shaking and weary, but the questions are written and waiting. If I completely choke, I’ll still be able to read the questions and make them answer.

It is amusing to see these corporate honchos cowering in fear. I can only imagine the harsh words they had for Drummond and me and Kipler and lawyers in general and this case in particular when they were informed that they had to appear en masse here today, and not only appear and give testimony, but sit and wait for hours and days until I finish with them.

Kipler takes the bench and calls our case first. We’re taking the depositions next door, in a courtroom that’s vacant this week, close by so His Honor can stick his head in at random and keep Drummond in line. He calls us forth because he has something to say.

I take my seat on the right. Four boys from Trent & Brent take theirs to the left.

“We don’t need a record for this,” Kipler tells the court reporter. This is not a scheduled hearing. “Mr. Drummond, are you aware that Donny Ray Black died yesterday morning?”

“No sir,” Drummond answers gravely. “I’m very sorry.”

“The funeral is this afternoon, and that poses a problem. Mr. Baylor here is a pallbearer. In fact, he should be with the family right now.”

Drummond is standing, looking at me, then at Kipler.

“We’re going to postpone these depositions. Have your people here next Monday, same time, same place.” Kipler is glaring at Drummond, waiting for the wrong response.

The five important men from Great Benefit will be forced to rearrange and rejuggle their busy lives and travel to Memphis next week.

“Why not start tomorrow?” Drummond asks, stunned. It’s a perfectly legitimate question.

“I run this court, Mr. Drummond. I control discovery, and I certainly plan to control the trial.”

“But, Your Honor, if you please, and I’m not being argumentative, your presence is not necessary to the depositions. These five gentlemen have gone to great hardship to be here today. It might not be possible next week.”

This is exactly what Kipler wanted to hear. “Oh, they’ll be here, Mr. Drummond. They’ll be right here at nine o’clock next Monday morning.”

“Well, I think it’s unfair, with all due respect.”

“Unfair? These depositions could’ve been taken in
Cleveland two weeks ago, Mr. Drummond. But your client started playing games.”

A judge has unbridled discretion in matters like these, and there’s no way to appeal. Kipler is punishing Drummond and Great Benefit, and, in my humble opinion, I think he’s a bit overboard. There will be a trial here in a few short months, and the judge is establishing himself. He’s telling the hotshot lawyer that he, His Honor, will rule at trial.

Fine with me.

BEHIND A SMALL COUNTRY CHURCH, a few miles north of Memphis, Donny Ray Black is laid to rest. Because I’m one of eight pallbearers, I’m instructed to stand behind the chairs where the family is seated. It’s chilly with overcast skies, a day for a burial.

The last funeral I attended was my father’s, and I try desperately not to think of it.

The crowd inches together under the burgundy canopy as the young minister reads from the Bible. We stare at the gray casket with flowers around it. I can hear Dot crying softly. I can see Buddy sitting next to Ron. I stare away, trying to mentally leave this place and dream of something pleasant.

DECK IS A NERVOUS WRECK when I return to the office. His pal Butch, the private detective, is sitting on a table, his massive biceps bulging under a tight turtleneck. He’s a scruffy type with red cheeks, pointed-toe boots, the look of a man who enjoys brawls. Deck introduces us, refers to Butch as a client, then hands me a legal pad with the message, “Keep talking about nothing, okay,” scrawled in black felt on the top sheet.