John Grisham

Then I asked her what church she attends. Abundance Tabernacle in Dallas, she answered. Live via satellite, she worships with the Reverend Kenneth Chandler, and in the privacy of her own home.

I begged off. She appeared to be hurt, but rallied quickly.

When I was a small boy, long before my father succumbed to alcohol and sent me away to a military school, I attended church occasionally with my mother. He went with us a time or two, but did nothing but gripe, so Mother and I preferred that he stay home and read the paper. It was a little Methodist church with a friendly pastor, the Reverend Howie, who told funny stories and made everyone feel loved. I remember how content my mother was whenever we listened to his sermons. There were plenty of kids in Sunday School, and I didn’t object to being scrubbed and starched on Sunday morning and led off to church.

My mother once had minor surgery and was in the hospital for three days. Of course, the ladies in the church knew the most intimate details of the operation, and for three days our house was flooded with casseroles, cakes, pies, breads, pots and dishes filled with more food than my father and I could eat in a year. The ladies organized a sitting for us. They took turns supervising the food, cleaning the kitchen, greeting even more guests who brought

even more casseroles. For the three days my mother was in the hospital, and for three days after she returned home, we had at least one of the ladies living with us, guarding the food, it seemed to me.

My father hated the ordeal. For one, he couldn’t sneak around and drink, not with a houseful of church ladies. I think they knew that he liked to nip at the bottle, and since they had managed to barge into the house, they were determined to catch him. And he was expected to be the gracious host, something my father simply couldn’t do. After the first twenty-four hours, he spent most of his time at the hospital, but not exactly doting over his ailing wife. He stayed in the visitors lounge, where he watched TV and sipped spiked colas.

I have fond memories of it. Our house had never felt such warmth, never seen so much delicious food. The ladies fussed over me as if my mother had died, and I relished the attention. They were the aunts and grandmothers I’d never known.

Shortly after my mother recuperated, Reverend Howie got himself run off for an indiscretion I never fully understood, and the church split wide open. Someone insulted my mother, and that was the end of church for us. I think she and Hank, the new husband, attend sporadically.

I missed the church for a while, then grew into the habit of not attending. My friends there would occasionally invite me back, but before long I was too cool to go to church. A girlfriend in college took me to mass a few times, on Saturday evening of all times, but I’m too much of a Protestant to understand all the rituals.

Miss Birdie timidly mentioned the possibility of yard work this afternoon. I explained that it was the Sabbath, God’s holy day, and I just didn’t believe in labor on Sunday.

She couldn’t think of a thing to say.

Chapter Fourteen

THE RAIN IS INTERMITTENT FOR THREE days, effectively suspending my work as a yard boy. After dark on Tuesday, I am hiding in my apartment, studying for the bar exam, when the phone rings. It’s Dot Black, and I know something is wrong. She wouldn’t call me otherwise.

"I just got a phone call," she says, "from a Mr. Barry Lancaster. Said he was my lawyer."

"That’s true, Dot. He’s a big-shot lawyer with my firm. He works with me." I guess Barry is just checking a few details.

"Well, that ain’t what he said. He called to see if me and Donny Ray can come down to his office tomorrow, said he needed to get some things signed. I asked about you. He said you ain’t working there. I want to know what’s going on."

So do I. I stutter for a second, say something about a misunderstanding. A thick knot hits deep in my stomach. "It’s a big firm, Dot, and I’m new, you know. He probably just forgot about me."

"No. He knows who you are. He said you used to work there, but not anymore. This is pretty confusing, you know?"

I know. I fall into a chair and try to think clearly. It’s almost nine o’clock. "Look, Dot, sit tight. Let me call Mr. Lancaster and find out what he’s up to. I’ll call you back in a minute."

"I want to know what’s going on. Have you sued those bastards yet?"

"I’ll call you back in just a minute, okay? Bye now." I hang up the phone, then quickly punch the number for the Lake firm. I’m hit with the rotten feeling that I’ve been here before.

The late receptionist routes me to Barry X. I decide to be cordial, play along, see what he says.

"Barry, it’s me, Rudy. Did you see my research?"

"Yeah, looks great." He sounds tired. "Listen, Rudy, we may have a slight problem with your position."

The knot claws its way into my throat. My heart freezes. My lungs skip a breath. "Oh yeah?" I manage to say.

"Yeah. Looks bad. I met with Jonathan Lake late this afternoon, and he’s not going to approve you."

"Why not?"

"He doesn’t like the idea of a lawyer filling the position of a paralegal. And now that I think about it, it’s not such a good idea after all. You see, Mr. Lake thinks, and I concur, that the natural tendency for a lawyer in that position would be to try and force his way into the next associate’s slot. And we don’t operate that way. It’s bad business."

I close my eyes and want to cry. "I don’t understand," I say.

"I’m sorry. I tried my best, but he simply wouldn’t give. He runs this place with an iron fist, and he has a certain

way of doing things. To be honest, he really chewed my ass good for even thinking about hiring you."

"I want to talk to Jonathan Lake," I say as firmly as possible.

"No way. He’s too busy, plus he just wouldn’t do it. And he’s not going to change his mind."

"You son of a bitch."

"Look, Rudy, we-"

"You son of a bitch!" I’m shouting into the phone, and it feels good.

"Take it easy, Rudy."

"Is Lake in the office now?" I demand.

"Probably. But he won’t-"

"I’ll be there in five minutes," I yell, and slam the phone down.

Ten minutes later, I squeal tires and slam on brakes and come to a stop in front of the warehouse. There are three cars in the lot, lights are on in the building. Barry is not waiting for me.

I pound on the front door but nobody appears. I know they can hear me in there, but they’re too cowardly to come out. They’ll probably call the cops if I don’t quit.

But I can’t quit. I walk to the north side and pound on another door, then the same for an emergency exit around back. I stand under Barry’s office window and yell at him. His lights are on, but he ignores me. I go back to the front door and beat on it some more.

A uniformed security guard steps from the shadows and grabs my shoulder. My knees buckle with fright. I look up at him. He’s at least six-six, black with a black cap.

"You need to leave, son," he says gently in a deep voice. "Go on now, before I call the police."

I shake his hand off my shoulder and walk away. n   a    n    n

I SIT FOR A LONG TIME in the darkness on the battered sofa Miss Birdie loaned me, and try to put things into some perspective. I’m largely unsuccessful in doing so. I drink two warm beers. I curse and I cry. I plot revenge. I even think of killing Jonathan Lake and Barry X. Sleazy bastards conspired to steal my case. What do I tell the Blacks now? How do I explain this to them?

I walk the floor, waiting for sunrise. I actually laughed last night when I thought of retrieving my list of firms and knocking on doors again. I cringed with the prospect of calling Madeline Skinner. "It’s me again, Madeline. I’m back."