John Grisham

The pots and pans, sink and faucets, stove and toaster are all at least forty years old. The refrigerator is probably of early sixties’ vintage.

"Thomas died eleven years ago. We raised our two sons in this house, but I’d rather not talk about them." Her cheery face is somber for a second, but she’s quickly smiling again.

"Sure. Of course not."

"Let’s talk about you," she says. It’s a subject I’d rather avoid.

"Sure. Why not?" I’m braced for the questions.

"Where are you from?"

"I was born here, but I grew up in Knoxville."

"How nice. And where did you go to college?"

"Austin Peay."

"Austin who?"

"Austin Peay. It’s a small school in Clarksville. State-supported."

"How nice. Why did you choose Memphis State for law School?"

"It’s really a fine school, plus I like Memphis." There are two other reasons, actually. Memphis State admitted me, and I could afford it.

"How nice. When do you graduate?"

"Just a few weeks."

"Then you’ll be a real lawyer, how nice. Where will you go to work?"

"Well, I’m not sure. I’ve been thinking a lot lately of just hanging out my shingle, you know, running my own office. I’m an independent type, and I’m not sure I can work for anyone else. I’d like to practice law my own way."

She just stares at me. The smile is gone. The eyes are frozen on mine. She’s puzzled. "That’s just wonderful," she finally says, then jumps up to fix the coffee.

If this sweet little lady is worth millions, she’s doing a marvelous job of hiding it. I study the room. The table under my elbows has aluminum legs and a worn Formica top. Every dish and appliance and utensil and furnishing was purchased decades ago. She lives in a somewhat neglected house and drives an old car. Apparently, there are no maids or servants. No fancy little dogs.

"How nice," she says again as she places the two cups on the table. There is no steam rising from them. My cup is slightly warm. The coffee tastes weak, bland and stale.

"Good coffee," I say, smacking my lips.

"Thanks. And so you’re just gonna start your own little law office?"

"I’m thinking about it. It’ll be tough, you know, for a while. But if I work hard, treat people fairly, then I won’t have to worry about attracting clients."

She grins sincerely and slowly shakes her head. "Why, that’s just wonderful, Rudy. How courageous. I think the profession needs more young people like you."

I’m the last thing this profession needs-another hungry young vulture roaming the streets, scavenging for litigation, trying to make something happen so I can squeeze a few bucks out of broke clients.

"You may wonder why I’m here," I say, sipping the coffee.

"I’m so glad you came."

"Yes, well, it’s great to see you again. But I wanted to talk about your will. I had trouble sleeping last night because I was worried about your estate."

Her eyes become moist. She’s touched by this.

"A few things are particularly troublesome," I explain now with my best lawyerly frown. I remove a pen from my pocket and hold it as if I’m ready for action. "First, and please forgive me for saying this, but it really troubles me to see you or any client take such harsh measures against family. I think this is something we should discuss at length." Her lips tighten, but she says nothing. "Second, and again please forgive me, but I couldn’t live with myself as a lawyer if I didn’t mention this, I have a real problem drafting a will or any instrument which conveys the bulk of an estate to a TV personality."

"He’s a man of God," she says emphatically, quickly defending the honor of the Reverend Kenneth Chandler.

"I know. Fine. But why give him everything, Miss Birdie? Why not twenty-five percent, you know, something reasonable?"

"He has a lot of overhead. And his jet is getting old. He told me all about it."

"Okay, but the Lord doesn’t expect you to finance the reverend’s ministry, does he?"

"What the Lord tells me is private, thank you."

"Of course it is. My point is this, and I’m sure you know it, but a lot of these guys have fallen hard, Miss Birdie. They’ve been caught with women other than their wives. They’ve been caught blowing millions on lavish lifestyles -homes, cars, vacations, fancy suits. A lot of them are crooks."

"He’s not a crook."

"Didn’t say he was."

"What are you implying?"

"Nothing," I say, then take a long sip. She’s not angry, but it wouldn’t take much. "I’m here as your lawyer, Miss Birdie, that’s all. You asked me to prepare a will for you, and it’s my duty to be concerned about everything in the will. I take this responsibility seriously."

The mass of wrinkles around her mouth relax and her eyes soften again. "How nice," she says.

I suppose many old rich people like Miss Birdie, especially those who suffered through the Depression and made the money themselves, would guard their fortunes fiercely with accountants and lawyers and unfriendly bankers. But not Miss Birdie. She’s as naive and trusting as a poor widow on a pension. "He needs the money," she says, taking a sip and eyeing me rather suspiciously.

"Can we talk about the money?"

"Why do you lawyers always want to talk about the money?"

"For a very good reason, Miss Birdie. If you’re not careful, the government will get a big chunk of your estate. Certain things can be done with the money now, some careful estate planning, and a lot of the taxes can be avoided."

This frustrates her. "All that legal gobbledygook."

"That’s what I’m here for, Miss Birdie."

"I suppose you want your name in the will somewhere," she says, still burdened with the law.

"Of course not," I say, trying to appear shocked but also trying to hide my surprise at getting caught.

"The lawyers are always trying to put their names in my wills."

"I’m sorry, Miss Birdie. There are a lot of crooked lawyers."

"That’s what Reverend Chandler said."

"I’m sure he did. Look, I don’t wanna know all the specifics, but could you tell me if the money is in real estate, stocks, bonds, cash or other investments? It’s very important for estate planning purposes to know where the money is."

"It’s all in one place."

"Okay. Where?"

"Atlanta."

"Atlanta?"

"Yes. It’s a long story, Rudy."

"Why don’t you tell me?"

Unlike our conference yesterday at Cypress Gardens, Miss Birdie is not pressed for time now. She has no other responsibilities. Bosco is not around. There is no lunch cleanup to supervise, no board games to referee.

So she slowly spins her coffee cup and ponders all of this as she stares at the table. "No one really knows about it," she says very softly, her dentures clicking once or twice. "At least no one in Memphis."

"Why not?" I ask, a bit too anxiously perhaps.

"My children don’t know about it."

"The money?" I ask in disbelief.

"Oh, they know about some of it. Thomas worked hard and we saved a lot. When he died eleven years ago he left me close to a hundred thousand dollars in savings. My sons, and especially their wives, are convinced it’s now worth five times that much. But they don’t know about

Atlanta. Can I get you some more coffee?" She’s already on her feet.