The Rainmaker (24 page)

“Because it’s odd that you’re here alone in the hospital, obviously injured in some way, and he’s not around.”

“He was here earlier.”

“Now he’s home with the kids?”

“We don’t have kids. Do you?”

“No. No wife, no children.”

“How old are you?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” I say with a smile. Her eyes are sparkling. “Twenty-five. How old are you?”

She thinks about this for a second. “Nineteen.”

“That’s awfully young to be married.”

“It wasn’t by choice.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. I got pregnant when I was barely eighteen, got married shortly thereafter, miscarried a week after I got married, and life’s been downhill since. There, does that satisfy your curiosity?”

“No. Yes. I’m sorry. What do you want to talk about?”

“College. Where did you go to college?”

“Austin Peay. Law school at Memphis State.”

“I always wanted to go to college, but it didn’t work out. Are you from Memphis?”

“I was born here, but I grew up in Knoxville. What about you?”

“A small town an hour from here. We left there when I got pregnant. My family was humiliated. His family is trash. It was time to leave.”

There’s some heavy family stuff prowling just beneath the surface here, and I’d like to stay away from it. She’s brought up her pregnancy twice, and both times it could’ve been avoided. But she’s lonely, and she wants to talk.

“So you moved to Memphis?”

“We ran to Memphis, got married by a justice of the peace, a real classy ceremony, then I lost the baby.”

“What does your husband do?”

“Drives a forklift. Drinks a lot. He’s a washed-up jock who still dreams of playing major league baseball.”

I didn’t ask for all this. I take it he was a high school athletic stud, she was the cutest cheerleader, the perfect all-American couple, Mr. and Miss Podunk High, most handsome, most beautiful, most athletic, most likely to
succeed until they get caught one night without a condom. Disaster strikes. For some reason they decide against an abortion. Maybe they finish high school, maybe they don’t. Disgraced, they flee Podunk for the anonymity of the big city. After the miscarriage, the romance wears off and they wake up to the reality that life has arrived.

He still dreams of fame and fortune in the big leagues. She longs for the careless years so recently gone, and dreams of the college she’ll never see.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You’re young enough to go to college,” I say.

She chortles at my optimism, as if this dream buried itself long ago. “I didn’t finish high school.”

Now, what am I supposed to say to this? Some trite little bootstrap speech, get a GED, go to night school, you can do it if you really want.

“Do you work?” I ask instead.

“Off and on. What kind of lawyer do you want to be?”

“I enjoy trial work. I’d like to spend my career in courtrooms.”

“Representing criminals?”

“Maybe. They’re entitled to their day in court, and they have a right to a good defense.”

“Murderers?”

“Yeah, but most can’t pay for a private lawyer.”

“Rapists and child molesters?”

I frown and pause for a second.

“No.”

“Men who beat their wives?”

“No, never.” I’m serious about this, plus I’m suspicious about her injuries. She approves of my preference in clients.

“Criminal work is a rare specialty,” I explain. “I’ll probably do more civil litigation.”

“Lawsuits and stuff.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Non-criminal litigation.”

“Divorces?”

“I’d rather avoid them. It’s really nasty work.”

She’s working hard at keeping the conversation on my side of the table, away from her past and certainly her present. This is fine with me. Those tears can appear instantaneously, and I don’t want to ruin this conversation. I want it to last.

She wants to know about my college experience—the studying, partying, things like fraternities, dorm life, exams, professors, road trips. She’s watched a lot of movies, and has a romanticized image of a perfect four years on a quaint campus with leaves turning yellow and red in the fall, of students dressed in sweaters rooting for the football team, of new friendships that last a lifetime. This poor kid barely made it out of Podunk, but she had wonderful dreams. Her grammar is perfect, her vocabulary broader than mine. She reluctantly confesses that she would’ve finished first or second in her graduating class, had it not been for the teenaged romance with Cliff, Mr. Riker.

Without much effort, I bolster the glory days of my undergraduate studies, skipping over such essential facts as the forty hours a week I worked delivering pizzas so I could remain a student.

She wants to know about my firm, and I’m in the middle of an incredible reimaging of J. Lyman and his offices when the phone rings two tables away. I excuse myself by telling her it’s the office calling.

It’s Bruiser, at Yogi’s, drunk, with Prince. They are amused by the fact that I’m sitting where I’m sitting while they’re drinking and betting on whatever ESPN happens to be broadcasting. Sounds like a riot in the background. “How’s the fishing?” Bruiser yells into the phone.

I smile at Kelly, who’s undoubtedly impressed by this call, and explain as quietly as I can that I’m talking to a prospect this very instant. Bruiser roars with laughter,
then hands the phone to Prince, who’s the drunker of the two. He tells a lawyer joke with absolutely no punch line, something about ambulance chasing. Then he launches into an I-told-you-so speech about getting me hooked with Bruiser, who’d teach me more law than fifty professors. This takes a while, and before long Kelly’s volunteer arrives for the ride back to her room.

I take a few steps toward her table, cover the phone with my hand and say, “I enjoyed meeting you.”

She smiles and says, “Thanks for the drink, and the conversation.”

“Tomorrow night?” I ask, with Prince screaming in my ear.

“Maybe.” Very deliberately, she winks at me, and my knees tremble.

Evidently, her escort in pink has been around this place long enough to spot a hustler. He frowns at me and whisks her away. She’ll be back.

I punch a button on the phone and cut off Prince in mid-sentence. If they call back, I won’t answer. If they remember it later, which is extremely doubtful, I’ll blame it on Sony.

Eighteen

D
ECK LOVES A CHALLENGE, ESPECIALLY when it involves the gathering of dirt through hushed phone conversations with unnamed moles. I give him the bare details about Kelly and Cliff Riker, and in less than an hour he slips into my office with a proud grin.

He reads from his notes. “Kelly Riker was admitted to St. Peter’s three days ago, at midnight I might add, with assorted injuries. The police had been called to her apartment by unidentified neighbors who reported a rather fierce domestic squabble. Cops found her beat to hell and lying on a sofa in the den. Cliff Riker was obviously intoxicated, highly agitated and initially wanted to give the cops some of what he’d been dishing out to his wife. He was wielding an aluminum softball bat, evidently his weapon of choice. He was quickly subdued, placed under arrest, charged with assault, taken away. She was transported by ambulance to the hospital. She gave a brief statement to the police, to the effect that he came home drunk after a softball game, some silly argument erupted, they fought,
he won. She said he struck her twice on the ankle with the bat, and twice in the face with his fist.”

I lost sleep last night thinking about Kelly Riker and her brown eyes and tanned legs, and the thought of her being attacked in such a manner makes me sick. Deck’s watching my reaction, so I try to keep a poker face. “Her wrists are bandaged,” I say, and Deck proudly flips the page. He has another report from another source, this one buried deep in the files of Rescue, Memphis Fire Department. “Kind of sketchy on the wrists. At some point during the assault, he pinned her wrists to the floor and tried to force intercourse. Evidently, he was not in the mood he thought he was, probably too much beer. She was nude when the cops found her, covered only with a blanket. She couldn’t run because her ankle was splintered.”

“What happened to him?”

“Spent the night in jail. Bailed out by his family. Due in court in a week, but nothing will happen.”

“Why not?”

“Odds are she’ll drop the charges, they’ll kiss and make up, and she’ll hold her breath until he does it again.”

“How do you know—”

“Because it’s happened before. Eight months ago, cops get the same call, same fight, same everything except she was luckier. Just a few bruises. Evidently, the bat was not handy. Cops separate them, do a little on-the-spot counseling, they’re just kids, right, newlyweds, and they kiss and make up. Then, three months ago the bat is introduced into battle, and she spends a week at St. Peter’s with broken ribs. The matter gets turned over to the Domestic Abuse Section of Memphis P.D., and they push hard for a severe punishment. But she loves the old boy, and refuses to testify against him. Everything’s dropped. Happens all the time.”

It takes a moment for this to sink in. I suspected trouble
at home, but nothing this horrible. How can a man take an aluminum bat and beat his wife with it? How can Cliff Riker punch such a beautiful face?

“Happens all the time,” Deck repeats himself, perfectly reading my mind.

“Anything else?” I ask.

“No. Just don’t get too close.”

“Thanks,” I say, feeling dizzy and weak. “Thanks.”

He eases to his feet. “Don’t mention it.”

IT’S NO SURPRISE that Booker has been studying for the bar exam much more than I. And, typically, he’s worried about me. He’s scheduled a marathon review for this afternoon in a conference room at the Shankle firm.

I arrive, as instructed by Booker, promptly at noon. The offices are modern and busy, and the oddest thing about the place is that everyone is black. I’ve seen my share of law offices in the past month, and I can recall only one black secretary and no black lawyers. Here, there’s not a white face to be seen.

Booker gives me a quick tour. Even though it’s lunch, the place is hopping. Word processors, copiers, faxes, phones, voices—there’s a veritable racket in the hallways. The secretaries eat hurriedly at their desks, desks invariably covered with tall stacks of pending work. The lawyers and paralegals are nice enough, but need to be on their way. And there’s a strict dress code for everyone—dark suits, white shirts for the men, plain dresses for the women—no bright colors, no pants.

Comparisons with the firm of J. Lyman Stone race before my eyes, and I cut them off.

Booker explains that Marvin Shankle runs a tight ship. He dresses sharp, is thoroughly professional in all aspects, and maintains a wicked work schedule. He expects nothing less from his partners and staff.

The conference room is in a quiet corner. I’m in charge of lunch, and I unpack some sandwiches I picked up at Yogi’s. Free sandwiches. We chat for five minutes at the most about family and law school friends. He asks a few questions about my job, but he knows to keep his distance. I’ve already told him everything. Almost everything. I prefer that he doesn’t know about my new outpost at St. Peter’s or my activities there.

Booker’s become such a damned lawyer! He glances at his watch after the allotted time for small talk, then launches into the splendid afternoon he has planned for us. We’ll work nonstop for six hours, taking coffee and rest room breaks only, and at 6 P.M. sharp we’re outta here because someone else has reserved the room.

From twelve-fifteen to one-thirty we review federal income taxation. Booker does most of the talking because he’s always had a better grasp for tax. We’re working from bar review materials, and tax is as dense now as it was in the fall of last year.

At one-thirty he lets me use the rest room and get some coffee, and from then until two-thirty I take the ball and run with the federal rules of evidence. Thrilling stuff. Booker’s high-octane vigor is contagious, and we blitz through some tedious material.

Flunking the bar exam is a nightmare for any young associate, but I sense that it would be especially disastrous for Booker. Frankly, it wouldn’t be the end of the world for me. It would crush my ego, but I’d rally. I’d study harder and take it again in six months. Bruiser wouldn’t care as long as I snare a few clients each month. One good burn case and Bruiser wouldn’t expect me to take the exam again.

But Booker might be in trouble. I suspect Mr. Marvin Shankle would make his life miserable if he flunks it the first time. If he flunks it twice, he’s probably history.

At precisely two-thirty, Marvin Shankle enters the conference room and Booker introduces me. He’s in his early fifties, very fit and trim. His hair is slightly gray around the ears. His voice is soft but his eyes are intense. I think Marvin Shankle can see around corners. He’s a legend in Southern legal circles, and it’s an honor to meet him.

Booker has arranged a lecture. For almost an hour we listen intently as Shankle covers the basics of civil rights litigation and employment discrimination. We take notes, ask a few questions, but mainly we just listen.

Then he’s off to a meeting, and we spend the next half hour by ourselves, blitzing through antitrust law and monopolies. At four, another lecture.

Our next speaker is Tyrone Kipler, a Harvard-educated partner whose speciality is the Constitution. He starts slow, and picks up some steam only after Booker jumps in and peppers him with questions. I catch myself lurking in the shrubbery at night, jumping out like a madman with a Ruthian-sized baseball bat and beating the hell out of Cliff Riker. To stay awake, I walk around the table, gulping coffee, trying to concentrate.

By the end of the hour, Kipler is animated and feisty, and we’re drilling him with questions. He stops in mid-sentence, looks wildly at his watch and says he has to go. A judge is waiting somewhere. We thank him for his time, and he races away.