John Grisham

"I’ll be in court all day. Come find me in Judge Ander-son’s courtroom." His phone rings and he sort of waves me away, as if my time is up now. a   a   a   a

THE IDEA of me collecting all the Blacks around the kitchen table for a group signing is not appealing. I’d be forced to sit and watch as Dot stalked through the backyard to the wrecked Fairlane, bitching every step of the way then coaxing and cajoling old Buddy away from his cats and gin. She’d probably pull him from the car by his ear. It could be nasty. And I’d have to sit nervously as she disappeared into the rear of the house to prepare Donny Ray, then hold my breath as he came to meet me, his lawyer.

To avoid as much of this as possible, I stop at a pay phone at a Gulf station and call Dot. What a shame. The Lake firm has the finest electronic gadgetry available, and I’m forced to use a pay phone. Thank goodness Dot answers. I cannot imagine a phone chat with Buddy. I doubt if he has a car phone in his Fairlane.

As always, she’s suspicious, but agrees to meet with me for a few moments. I don’t exactly instruct her to assemble the clan, but I stress the need to have everyone’s signature. And, typically, I tell her I’m in a great hurry. Off to court, you know. Judges are waiting.

The same dogs snarl at me from behind the chain-link next door as I park in the Black driveway. Dot is standing on the cluttered porch, cigarette cocked with filter tip just inches from her lips, a bluish fog drifting lazily from above her head across the front lawn. She’s been waiting and smoking for a while.

I force a wide, phony grin and offer all sorts of greetings. The wrinkles around her mouth barely crack. I follow her through the cramped and muggy den, past the torn sofa sitting under a collection of old portraits of the Blacks as a happy lot, over the worn shag carpeting with small throw rugs to hide the holes, into the kitchen, where no one is waiting.

"Coffee?" she asks, pointing to my spot at the kitchen table.

"No, thanks. Just some water."

She fills a plastic glass with tap water, no ice, and places it before me. Slowly, we both look through the window.

"I can’t get him to come in," she says without a trace of frustration. I guess some days Buddy will come in, some days he won’t.

"Why not?" I ask, as if his behavior can be rationalized.

She just shrugs. "You need Donny Ray too, right?"

"Yes."

She eases from the kitchen, leaving me with my warm water and view of Buddy. He’s actually hard to see because the windshield hasn’t been washed in decades and a horde of mangy cats romps around the hood. He’s wearing a cap of some sort, probably with wool earflaps, and he slowly lifts the bottle to his lips. It appears to be in a brown paper bag. He takes a leisurely nip.

I hear Dot speaking softly to her son. They’re shuffling through the den, then they’re in the kitchen. I stand to meet Donny Ray Black.

He’s definitely about to die, whatever the cause. He’s horribly gaunt and emaciated, hollow-cheeked, skin as bleached as chalk. He was small-framed before this affliction struck, and now he’s stooped at the waist and no taller than his mother. His hair and eyebrows are jet black, in graphic contrast to his pasty skin. But he smiles and sticks out a bony hand, which I shake as firmly as I dare.

Dot has been clutching him around the waist, and she gently eases him into a chair. He’s wearing baggy jeans and a plain white tee shirt that drapes and sags loosely over his skeleton.

"Nice to meet you," I say, trying to avoid his sunken eyes.

"Mom’s said nice things about you," he replies. His voice is weak and raspy, but his words are clear. I never thought about Dot saying kind things about me. He cups his chin in both hands, as if his head won’t stay up by itself. "She says you’re suing those bastards at Great Benefit, gonna make ’em pay." His words are more desperate than angry.

"That’s right," I say. I open the file and produce a copy of the demand letter Barry X. mailed to Great Benefit. I hand it to Dot, who is standing behind Donny Ray. "We filed this," I explain, very much the efficient lawyer. Filed, as opposed to mailed. Sounds better, like we’re really on the move now. "We don’t expect them to respond in a satisfactory manner, so we’ll be suing in a matter of days. Probably ask for at least a million."

Dot glances at the letter, then places it on the table. I had expected a barrage of questions about why I haven’t filed suit already. I was afraid it could get contentious. But she gently rubs Donny Ray’s shoulders, and stares forlornly through the window. She’ll watch her words because she doesn’t want to upset him.

Donny Ray is facing the window. "Is Daddy comin’ in?" he asked.

"Said he won’t," she answers.

I pull the contract from the file, and hand it to Dot. "This must be signed before we can file suit. It’s a contract between you, the clients, and my law firm. A contract for legal representation."

She holds it warily. It’s only two pages. "What’s in it?"

"Oh, the usual. It’s pretty standard language. You guys hire us as your lawyers, we handle the case, take care of the expenses, and we get a third of any recovery."

"Then why does it take two pages of small print?" she asks as she pulls a cigarette from a pack on the table.

"Don’t light that!" Donny snaps over his shoulder. He looks at me, and says, "No wonder I’m dying."

Without hesitation, she sticks the cigarette between her lips and keeps looking at the document. She doesn’t light it. "And all three of us have to sign it?"

"That’s right."

"Well, he said he ain’t comin’ in," she said.

"Then take it out there to him," Donny Ray says angrily. "Just get a pen and go out there and make him sign the damned thing."

"I hadn’t thought of that," she says.

"We’ve done it before." Donny Ray lowers his head and scratches his scalp. The sharp words have winded him.

"I guess I could," she says, still hesitant.

"Just go, dammit!" he says, and Dot scratches around in a drawer until she finds a pen. Donny Ray raises his head and rests it on his hands. His hands are supported by wrists as thin as broom handles.

"Be back in a minute," Dot says, as though she’s running errands down the street and worried about her boy. She walks slowly across the brick patio and into the weeds. A cat on the hood sees her coming and dives under the car.

"A few months ago," Donny Ray says, then takes a long pause. His breathing is labored and his head rocks slightly. "A few months ago we had to have his signature notarized, and he wouldn’t leave. She found a notary willing to make a house call for twenty dollars, but when she got here he wouldn’t come in. So Mom and the notary go out there to the car, high-stepping through the weeds. You see that big orange cat on top of the car?"

"Uh-huh."

"We call her Claws. She’s sort of the watchcat around here. Anyway, when the notary reached in to get the papers from Buddy, who of course was soused and barely

conscious, Claws jumped from the car and attacked the notary. Cost us sixty bucks for the doctor’s visit. And a new pair of panty hose. Have you ever seen anybody with acute leukemia?"

"No. Not until now."

"I weigh a hundred and ten pounds. Eleven months ago I weighed a hundred and sixty. The leukemia was detected in plenty of time to be treated. I’m lucky enough to have an identical twin, and the bone marrow’s an identical match. The transplant would’ve saved my life, but we couldn’t afford it. We had insurance, but you know the rest of the story. I guess you know all this, right?"