The Rainmaker (62 page)

By three-thirty, I’m convinced I’ve lost. It should’ve been a slam-dunk decision, a simple matter of picking a percentage and calculating the result. Maybe I’ve been too confident. I recall one awful story after another about pathetically low verdicts in this county. I’m about to become a statistic, another example of why a lawyer in Memphis should take any decent offer to settle. Time passes with excruciating delay.

From somewhere far away, I hear my name being called. It’s Deck, outside the courtroom doors, waving desperately for me. “Oh my God,” I say.

“Just be cool,” Booker says, then both of us practically race to the courtroom. I take a deep breath, say a quick prayer and step inside. Drummond and the other four are in their seats. Dot sits alone at our table. Everyone else is in place. The jury is filing into the box as I walk through the gate in the railing and sit next to my client. The faces of the jurors reveal nothing. When they’re seated, His Honor asks, “Has the jury reached a verdict?”

Ben Charnes, the young black college graduate, and foreman of the jury, says, “We have, Your Honor.”

“Is it written on paper according to my instructions?”

“Yes sir.”

“Please stand and read it.”

Charnes rises slowly. He’s holding a sheet of paper that’s visibly shaking. It is not shaking as violently as my hands. My breathing is quite labored. I’m so dizzy I feel faint. Dot, however, is remarkably calm. She’s already won her battle with Great Benefit. They admitted in open court that they were wrong. Nothing else matters to her.

I’m determined to keep a straight face and display no emotion, regardless of the verdict. I do this the way I’ve been trained. I scribble on a legal pad. A quick glance to my left reveals the same strategy being employed by all five defense lawyers.

Charnes clears his throat, and reads, “We, the jury, find for the plaintiff and award actual damages in the amount of two hundred thousand dollars.” There is a pause. All eyes are on the sheet of paper. So far, no surprises. He clears his throat again, says, “And, we, the jury, find for the plaintiff, and award punitive damages in the amount of fifty million dollars.”

There’s a gasp from behind me, and general stiffening around the defense table, but all else is quiet for a few seconds. The bomb lands, explodes and after a delay everyone does a quick search for mortal wounds. Finding none, it’s possible to breathe again.

I actually write these sums on my legal pad, though the chicken scratch is illegible. I refuse to smile, though I’m forced to bite a hole in my bottom lip to achieve this effect. There are lots of things I want to do. I’d love to bound onto the table and gyrate like an idiot football player in the end zone. I’d love to dash to the jury box and start kissing feet. I’d love to strut around the defense table with some obnoxious in-your-face taunting. I’d love to leap onto the bench and hug Tyrone Kipler.

But I maintain my composure, and simply whisper, “Congratulations,” to my client. She says nothing. I look at the bench and His Honor is inspecting the written verdict which the clerk has handed him. I look at the jury, and most of them are looking at me. It’s impossible at this point not to smile. I nod and silently say thanks.

I make a cross on my legal pad and under it write the name—Donny Ray Black. I close my eyes and recall my favorite image of him; I see him sitting in the folding chair
at the softball game, eating popcorn and smiling just because he was there. My throat thickens and my eyes water. He didn’t have to die.

“The verdict appears to be in order,” Kipler says. Very much in order, I’d say. He addresses the jury, thanks them for their civic service, tells them their meager checks will be mailed out next week, asks them not to talk about the case with anyone and says they are free to leave. Under the direction of the bailiff, they file from the courtroom for the last time. I’ll never see them again. Right now, I’d like to give them each a cool million.

Kipler too is struggling to keep a straight face. “We’ll argue post-trial motions in a week or so. My secretary will send you a notice. Anything further?”

I just shake my head. What more could I ask for?

Without standing, Leo says softly, “Nothing, Your Honor.” His team is suddenly busy stuffing papers in briefcases and files in boxes. They can’t wait to get out of here. It is, by far, the largest verdict in the history of Tennessee, and they’ll be forever tagged as the guys who got clobbered with it. If I wasn’t so tired and so stunned, I might walk over and offer to shake their hands. This would be the classy thing to do, but I just don’t feel like it. It’s much easier to sit here close to Dot and stare at Donny Ray’s name on my legal pad.

I’m not exactly rich. The appeal will take a year, maybe two. And the verdict is so enormous that it will face a vicious attack. So, I have my work cut out for me.

Right now, though, I’m sick of work. I want to get on a plane and find a beach.

Kipler raps his gavel, and this trial is officially over. I look at Dot and see the tears. I ask her how she feels. Deck is quickly upon us with congratulations. He’s pale but grinning, his four perfect front teeth shining. My attention is on Dot. She’s a hard woman who cries with
great reluctance, but she’s slowly losing it. I pat her arm, and hand her a tissue.

Booker squeezes the back of my neck, and says he’ll call me next week. Cooper Jackson, Hurley and Grunfeld stop by the table, beaming and full of praise. They need to catch a plane. We’ll talk Monday. The reporter approaches, but I wave him off. I half-ignore these people because I’m worried about my client. She’s collapsing now, the sobbing is getting louder.

I also ignore Drummond and his boys as they load themselves like pack mules and make a speedy exit. Not a word is spoken between us. I’d love to be a fly on the wall at Trent & Brent right now.

The court reporter and bailiff and clerk tidy up their mess and leave. The courtroom is empty except for me, Dot and Deck. I need to go speak to Kipler, to thank him for holding my hand and making it possible. I’ll do it later. Right now I’m holding Dot’s hand as she’s unloading a torrent. Deck sits beside us, saying nothing. I say nothing. My eyes are moist, my heart is aching. She cares nothing for the money. She just wants her boy back.

Someone, probably the bailiff, hits a switch in the narrow hallway near the jury room, and the lights go off. The courtroom is semidark. None of us moves. The crying subsides. She wipes her cheeks with the tissue and sometimes with her fingers.

“I’m sorry,” she says hoarsely. She wants to go now, so we decide to leave. I pat her arm as Deck gathers our junk and packs it in three briefcases.

We exit the unlit courtroom, and step into the marble hallway. It’s almost five, Friday afternoon, and there’s not much activity. There are no cameras, no reporters, no mob waiting for me to capture a few words and images from the lawyer of the moment.

In fact, no one notices us.

Fifty

T
HE LAST PLACE I WANT TO GO IS THE OFFICE. I’m too tired and too stunned to celebrate in a bar, and my only pal for the moment is Deck, a nondrinker. Two stiff drinks would put me in a coma anyway, so I’m not tempted. There should be a wild celebration party somewhere, but these things are hard to plan when dealing with juries.

Maybe tomorrow. I’m sure the trauma will be gone by tomorrow, and I’ll have a delayed reaction to the verdict. Reality will set in by then. I’ll celebrate tomorrow.

I say good-bye to Deck in front of the courthouse, tell him I’m dead, promise to get together later. We’re both still in shock, and we need time to think, alone. I drive to Miss Birdie’s and go through my daily routine of checking every room in her house. It’s just another day. No big deal. I sit on her patio, stare at my little apartment, and for the first time start spending money. How long will it be before I buy or build my first fine home? What new car shall I buy? I try to dismiss these thoughts, but it is impossible. What do you do with sixteen and a half million
bucks? I cannot begin to comprehend. I know a dozen things can go wrong: the case could be reversed and sent back for a new trial; the case could be reversed and rendered, leaving me nothing; the punitive award could be cut dramatically by an appellate court, or it could be eliminated all together. I know these awful things can happen, but for the moment the money is mine.

I dream as the sun sets. The air is clear but very cold. Maybe tomorrow I can begin to realize the magnitude of what I’ve done. For now, I am warmed by the thought that a great deal of venom has been purged from my soul. For almost a year I’ve lived with a burning hatred of the mystical entity that is Great Benefit Life. I’ve carried a bitter poison for the people who work there, the people who set in motion a chain of events which took the life of an innocent victim. I hope Donny Ray’s resting in peace. Surely an angel will tell him what happened today.

They’ve been exposed and proven wrong. I don’t hate them anymore.

KELLY CUTS her thin slice of pizza with a fork and takes tiny bites. Her lips are still swollen and her cheeks and jaws are very sore. We’re sitting on her single bed, our backs against the wall, our legs stretched out, the pizza box shared between us. We’re watching a John Wayne western on an eighteen-inch Sony perched atop the dresser, not far across the small room.

She’s wearing the same gray sweats, no socks or shoes, and I can see a small scar on her right ankle where he broke it last summer. She’s washed her hair and put it in a ponytail. She’s painted her fingernails, a light red. She is trying to be happy and make conversation, but she’s in such physical pain it’s very difficult to have fun. There’s not much talk. I’ve never suffered through a thorough beating, and it’s difficult to imagine the aftershocks. The
aches and soreness are fairly easy to comprehend. The mental horror is not. I wonder at what point he decided to stop it, to call it off and admire his handiwork.

I try not to think about it. We certainly haven’t discussed it, and I have no plans to bring it up. No word from Cliff since he was served with papers.

She’s met one other lady here at this shelter, as it’s referred to, a middle-aged mother of three teenagers who was so scared and traumatized she had trouble finishing a simple sentence. She’s next door. The place is deathly quiet. Kelly left her room only once, to sit on the back porch and breathe fresh air. She’s tried reading but it’s difficult. Her left eye is still virtually closed, and her right one is at times blurred. The doctor said there was no permanent damage.

She’s cried a few times, and I keep promising her this will be the last beating. It’ll never happen again if I have to kill the bastard myself. And I mean this. If he got near her, I truly believe I could blow his brains out.

Arrest me. Indict me. Put me on trial. Give me twelve people in the jury box. I’m on a roll.

I don’t mention the verdict to her. Sitting here with her in this dark little room, watching John Wayne ride his horse, seems like days and miles from Kipler’s courtroom.

And this is exactly where I want to be.

We finish the pizza and snuggle closer together. We’re holding hands like two kids. I have to be careful, though, because she’s literally bruised from her head to her knees.

The movie goes off and the ten o’clock news is on. I’m suddenly anxious to see if the Black case is mentioned. After the obligatory rapes and murders, and after the first commercial break, the anchorman announces, rather grandly, “History was made today in a Memphis courtroom. A jury in a civil case awarded a record fifty million dollars in punitive damages against the Great Benefit Life
Insurance Company of Cleveland, Ohio. Rodney Frate has the story.” I can’t help but smile. We immediately see Rodney Frate standing and shivering live outside the Shelby County Courthouse, which of course has been abandoned for several hours now. “Arnie, I spoke with Pauline MacGregor, the Circuit Clerk, about an hour ago, and she confirmed that around four this afternoon a jury in Division Eight, that’s Judge Tyrone Kipler, returned with a verdict of two hundred thousand dollars in actual damages, and fifty million in punitive. I also spoke with Judge Kipler, who declined to be interviewed on camera, and he said the case involved a bad-faith claim against Great Benefit. That’s all he would say, except that he believes the verdict is by far the largest ever awarded in Tennessee. I spoke with several trial lawyers in the city, and no one has ever heard of a verdict this large. Leo F. Drummond, attorney for the defendant, had no comment. Rudy Baylor, attorney for the plaintiff, was unavailable for comment. Back to you, Arnie.”

Arnie moves quickly to a truck wreck on Interstate 55.

“You won?” she asks. She’s not amazed, just unsure.

“I won.”

“Fifty million dollars?”

“Yep. But the money’s not in the bank yet.”

“Rudy!”

I shrug like it’s all in a day’s work. “I got lucky,” I say.

“But you just finished school.”

What can I say? “It’s not that difficult. We had a great jury, and the facts fell into place.”

“Yeah, right, like it happens every day.”

“I wish.”

She takes the remote and mutes the television. She wants to pursue this. “Your modesty is not working. It’s fake.”

“You’re right. Right now I’m the greatest lawyer in the world.”

“That’s better,” she says, trying to smile. I’m almost accustomed to her bruised and battered face. I don’t stare at the wounds the way I did in the car this afternoon. I can’t wait for a week to pass so she’ll be gorgeous again.

I swear I could kill him.

“How much of it do you get?” she asks.

“Get right to the point, don’t you?”

“I’m just curious,” she says in a voice that’s almost childish. In spirit we’re lovers now, and it’s cute to giggle and coo.

“One third, but it’s a very long way off.”

She twists toward me, and is suddenly racked with pain to the point of groaning. I help her lie on her stomach. She’s fighting back tears and her body is tense. She can’t sleep on her back because of the bruises.