The Rainmaker (22 page)

A little dignity, some self-respect. His reasoning is completely logical. I say nothing. My stride is long and quick, and I try not to watch him jerk and shuffle. “You see, Rudy, in law school they don’t teach you what you need to know. It’s all books and theories and these lofty notions of the practice of law as a profession, like between gentleman, you know. It’s an honorable calling, governed by pages of written ethics.”

“What’s wrong with ethics?”

“Oh, nothing, I guess. I mean, I believe a lawyer should fight for his client, refrain from stealing money, try not to lie, you know, the basics.”

Deck on Ethics. We spent hours probing ethical and moral dilemmas, and, wham, just like that, Deck has reduced the Canons of Ethics to the Big Three: Fight for your client, don’t steal, try not to lie.

We take a sudden left and enter a newer hallway. St. Peter’s is a maze of additions and annexes. Deck is in a lecturing mood. “But what they don’t teach you in law school can get you hurt. Take that guy back there, Van Landel. I get the feeling you were nervous about being in his room.”

“I was. Yes.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“But it’s unethical to solicit cases. It’s blatant ambulance chasing.”

“Right. But who cares? Better us than the next guy. I promise you that within the next twenty-four hours an
other lawyer will contact Van Landel and try to sign him up. It’s simply the way it’s done, Rudy. It’s competition, the marketplace. There are lots of lawyers out there.”

As if I don’t know this. “Will the guy stick?” I ask.

“Probably. We’ve been lucky so far. We hit him at the right time. It’s usually fifty-fifty going in, but once they sign on the dotted line, then it’s eighty-twenty they’ll stick with us. You need to call him in a couple of hours, talk to his wife, offer to come back here tonight and discuss the case with them.”

“Me?”

“Sure. It’s easy. I’ve got some files you can go through. Doesn’t take a brain surgeon.”

“But I’m not sure—”

“Look, Rudy, take it easy. Don’t be afraid of this place. He’s our client now, okay. You have the right to visit him, and there’s nothing anybody can do. They can’t throw you out. Relax.”

WE DRINK COFFEE from plastic cups in a grill on the third floor. Deck prefers this small cafeteria because it’s near the orthopedic wing, and because it’s the result of a recent renovation and few lawyers know about it. The lawyers, he explains in a hushed tone as he examines each patient, are known to hang out in hospital cafeterias, where they prey on injured folks. He says this with a certain scorn for such behavior. Irony is lost on Deck.

Part of my job as a young associate for the law firm of J. Lyman Stone will be to hang out here and graze these pastures. There is also a large cafeteria on the main floor of Cumberland Hospital, two blocks away. And the VA Hospital has three cafeterias. Deck, of course, knows where they are, and he shares this knowledge.

He advises me to start off with St. Peter’s because it has the largest trauma unit. He draws a map on a napkin
showing me the locations of other potential hot spots—the main cafeteria, a grill near maternity on the second floor, a coffee shop near the front lobby. Nighttime is good, he says, still studying the prey, because the patients often get bored in their rooms and, assuming they’re able, like to wheel down for a snack. Not too many years ago, one of Bruiser’s lawyers was trolling in the main cafeteria at one in the morning when he hooked a kid who’d been burned. The case settled a year later for two million. Problem was, the kid had fired Bruiser and hired another lawyer.

“It got away,” Deck says like a defeated fisherman.

Seventeen

M
ISS BIRDIE RETIRES TO BED AFTER the “M
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H” reruns go off at eleven. She’s invited me several times to sit with her after dinner and watch television, but so far I’ve been able to find the right excuses.

I sit on the steps outside my apartment and wait for her house to become dark. I can see her silhouette moving from one door to the next, checking locks, pulling shades.

I suppose old people grow accustomed to loneliness, though no one expects to spend his or her last years in solitude, absent from loved ones. When she was younger, I’m sure she looked ahead with the confidence that these years would be spent surrounded by her grandchildren. Her own kids would be nearby, stopping by daily to check on Mom, bringing flowers and cookies and gifts. Miss Birdie did not plan to spend her last years alone, in an old house with fading memories.

She rarely talks about her children or grandchildren. There are a few photographs sitting around, but, judging by the fashions, they are quite dated. I’ve been here for a
few weeks, and I’m not aware of a single contact she’s had with her family.

I feel guilty because I don’t sit with her at night, but I have my reasons. She watches one stupid sitcom after another, and I can’t bear them. I know this because she talks about them constantly. Plus, I need to be studying for the bar exam.

There’s another good reason I’m keeping my distance. Miss Birdie has been hinting rather strongly that the house needs painting, that if she can ever get the mulch finished then she’ll have time for the next project.

I drafted and mailed a letter today to a lawyer in Atlanta, signed my name as a paralegal to J. Lyman Stone, and in it made a few inquiries about the estate of one Anthony L. Murdine, the last husband of Miss Birdie. I’m slowly digging, without much luck.

Her bedroom light goes off, and I ease down the rickety steps and tiptoe barefoot across the wet lawn to a shredded hammock swinging precariously between two small trees. I swung in it for an hour the other night without injury. Through the trees, the hammock has a splendid view of the full moon. I rock gently. The night is warm.

I’ve been in a funk since the Van Landel episode today at the hospital. I started law school less than three years ago with typical noble aspirations of one day using my license to better society in some small way, to engage in an honorable profession governed by ethical canons I thought all lawyers would strive to uphold. I really believed this. I knew I couldn’t change the world, but I dreamed of working in a high-pressure environment filled with sharp-witted people who adhered to a set of lofty standards. I wanted to work hard and grow in my profession, and in doing so attract clients not by slick advertising but by reputation. And along the way, as my skills and fees
increased, I would be able to take on unpopular cases and clients without the burden of getting paid. These dreams are not unusual for beginning law students.

To the credit of the law school, we spent hours studying and debating ethics. Great emphasis was placed on the subject, so much so that we assumed the profession was zealous about enforcing a rigid set of guidelines. Now I’m depressed by the truth. For the past month, I’ve had one real lawyer after another throw darts in my balloon. I’ve been reduced to a poacher in hospital cafeterias, for a thousand bucks a month. I’m sickened and saddened by what I’ve become, and I’m staggered by the speed at which I’ve fallen.

My best friend in college was Craig Baiter. We roomed together for two years. I was in his wedding last year. Craig had one goal when we started college, and that was to teach high school history. He was very bright and college was too easy for him. We had long discussions about what to do with our lives. I thought he was shortchanging himself by wanting to teach, and he’d get angry when I compared my future profession with his. I was headed for big money and success on a high level. He was headed for the classroom, where his salary was subject to factors out of his control.

Craig got a masters and married a schoolteacher. He’s now teaching ninth-grade history and social studies. She’s pregnant and teaching kindergarten. They have a nice home in the country with a few acres and a garden, and they are the happiest people I know. Their joint income is probably around fifty thousand a year.

But Craig doesn’t care about money. He’s doing exactly what he always wanted to do. I, on the other hand, have no idea what I’m doing. Craig’s job is immensely rewarding because he’s affecting young minds. He can envision the results of his labors. I, on the other hand, will go
to the office tomorrow in hopes that by hook or crook I’ll seize upon some unsuspecting client wallowing in some degree of misery. If lawyers earned the same salaries as schoolteachers, they’d immediately close nine law schools out of ten.

Things must improve. But before they do, there are still at least two more possible disasters. First, I could be arrested or otherwise embarrassed for the Lake fire, and second, I could flunk the bar exam.

Thoughts of both keep me tottering in the hammock until the early morning hours.

BRUISER’S AT THE OFFICE early, red-eyed and hung over but decked out in his lawyer’s finest—expensive wool suit, nicely starched white cotton shirt, rich silk tie. His flowing mane appears to have received an extra laundering this morning. It has a clean shine.

He’s on his way to court to argue pretrial motions in a drug-trafficking case, and he’s all nerves and action. I’ve been summoned to stand before his desk and receive my instructions.

“Good work on Van Landel,” he says, awash in papers and files. Dru is buzzing around behind him, just out of harm’s way. The sharks watch her hungrily. “I talked to the insurance company a few minutes ago. Plenty of coverage. Liability looks clear. How bad’s the boy hurt?”

I spent a nerve-racking hour last night at the hospital with Dan Van Landel and his wife. They had lots of questions, the principal concern being how much they might get. I had few solid answers, but performed admirably with legalspeak. So far, they’re sticking. “Broken leg, arm, ribs, plenty of lacerations. His doctor says he’ll spend ten days in the hospital.”

Bruiser smiles at this. “Stay on it. Do the investigating. Listen to Deck. This could be a nice settlement.”

Nice for Bruiser, but I won’t share in the rewards. This case will not count as fee origination for me.

“The cops want to take your statement about the fire,” he tosses out while reaching for a file. “Talked to them last night. They’ll do it here, in this office, with me present.”

He says this as if it’s already planned and I have no choice. “And if I refuse?” I ask.

“Then they’ll probably take you downtown for questioning. If you have nothing to hide, I suggest you give them the statement. I’ll be here. You can consult with me. Talk to them, and after that they’ll leave you alone.”

“So they think it’s arson?”

“They’re reasonably sure.”

“What do they want from me?”

“Where you were, what you were doing, times, places, alibis, stuff like that.”

“I can’t answer everything, but I can tell the truth.”

Bruiser smiles. “Then the truth shall set you free.”

“Let me write that down.”

“Let’s do it at two this afternoon.”

I nod affirmatively but say nothing. It’s odd that in this state of vulnerability I have complete trust in Bruiser Stone, a man I would never trust otherwise.

“I need some time off, Bruiser,” I say.

His hands freeze in midair and he stares at me. Dru, in a corner picking through a file cabinet, stops and looks. One of the sharks seems to have heard me.

“You just started,” Bruiser says.

“Yeah, I know. But the bar exam is just around the corner. I’m really behind with my studies.”

He cocks his head to one side and strokes his goatee. Bruiser has really harsh eyes when he’s drinking and having fun. Now they’re like lasers. “How much time?”

“Well, I’d like to come in each morning and work till
noon or so. Then, you know, depending on my trial calendar and schedule of appointments, sneak off to the library and study.” My attempt at humor falls incredibly flat.

“You could study with Deck,” Bruiser says with a sudden smile. It’s a joke, so I laugh goofily. “Tell you what you do,” he says, serious again. “You work till noon, then you pack your books and hang out in the cafeteria at St. Peter’s. Study like hell, okay, but also keep your eyes open. I want you to pass the bar, but I’m much more concerned about new cases right now. Take a cellular phone so I can reach you at all times. Fair enough?”

Why did I do this? I kick myself in the rear for mentioning the bar exam. “Sure,” I say with a frown.

Last night in the hammock I thought that maybe with a little luck I might be able to avoid St. Peter’s. Now I’m being stationed there.

THE SAME TWO COPS who came to my apartment present themselves to Bruiser for his permission to interrogate me. The four of us sit around a small round table in the corner of his office. Two tape recorders are placed in the center, both are turned on.

It quickly becomes boring. I repeat the same story I told these two clowns the first time we met, and they waste an enormous amount of time rehashing each tiny little aspect of it. They try to force me into discrepancies on thoroughly insignificant details—“thought you said you were wearing a navy shirt, now you’re saying it was blue”—but I’m telling the absolute truth. There are no lies to cover, and after an hour they seem to realize that I’m not their man.

Bruiser gets irritated and tells them more than once to move forward. They obey him, for a while. I honestly think these two cops are afraid of Bruiser.

They finally leave, and Bruiser says that’ll be the end of
it. I’m not really a suspect anymore, they’re just covering their tails. He’ll talk to their lieutenant in the morning and get the book closed on me.

I thank him. He hands me a tiny phone that folds into the palm of my hand. “Keep this with you at all times,” he says: “Especially when you’re studying for the bar. I might need you in a hurry.” The tiny device suddenly grows much heavier. Through it I’ll be subject to his whim around the clock.

He dispatches me to my office.

I RETURN TO THE GRILL near the orthopedic wing with a solemn resolve to hide in a corner, study my materials, keep the damned cellular phone handy, but to ignore those around me.