John Grisham

ing suspected, accused, indicted, arrested, tried and, always, found innocent. He loves to see himself in print.

He’s in a foul mood, as usual. I’ve learned over the years to avoid him until he’s had his third drink, usually about 6 P.M. So I’m six hours early. He motions for me to come in, and I close the door behind me.

"What’s wrong?" he grunts. His eyes are bloodshot. He’s always reminded me of Wolfman Jack with his long dark hair, flowing beard, open shirt, hairy neck.

"I’m in a bit of a bind," I say.

"What else is new?"

I tell him about last night-the loss of job, the fire, the cops. Everything. I place particular emphasis on the fact that there’s a dead body and that the cops are very concerned about it. Rightfully so. I can’t imagine being the favorite suspect, but the cops sure seem to think so.

"So Lake got torched," he reflects aloud. He seems pleased. A good arson job is just the sort of thing that would amuse Prince and brighten his morning. "I never particularly liked him."

"He’s not dead. He’s just temporarily out of business. He’ll be back." And this is a major cause of my concern. Jonathan Lake spends a lot of money on a lot of politicians. He cultivates relationships so he can call in favors. If he’s convinced I was involved in the fire, or if he simply wants a temporary scapegoat, then the cops will come after me with a vengeance.

"You swear you didn’t do it?"

"Come on, Prince."

He ponders this, strokes his beard, and I can immediately tell he’s delighted to suddenly be in the middle of it. It’s crime, death, intrigue, politics, a regular slice of life in the gutter. If it only had some topless dancers and a few payoffs to the police, then Prince would be yanking out the good booze to celebrate.

"You better talk to a lawyer," he says, still stroking his whiskers. This, sadly, is the real reason I’m here. I thought about calling Booker, but I’ve troubled him enough. And he’s currently laboring with the same disability that afflicts me, to wit, we haven’t passed the bar and we’re really not lawyers.

"I can’t afford a lawyer," I say, then wait for the next line in this script. If there were an alternative at the moment, I would happily lunge for it.

"Lemme handle it," he says. "I’ll call Bruiser."

I nod and say, "Thanks. Do you think he’ll help?"

Prince grins and spreads his arms expansively. "Bruiser will do anything I ask him, okay?"

"Sure," I say meekly. He picks up a phone and punches the number. I listen as he growls his way past a couple of people, then gets Bruiser on the line. He speaks in the rapid, clipped phrases of a man who knows his phones are wired. Prince spits out the following: "Bruiser, Prince here. Yeah, yeah. Need to see you pretty quick. … A little matter regarding one of my employees. . . . Yeah, yeah. No, at your place. Thirty minutes. Sure." And he hangs up.

I pity the poor FBI technician trying to extract incriminating data from that conversation.

Firestone pulls the Cadillac to the rear door, and Prince and I jump in the backseat. The car is black and the windows are deeply tinted. He lives in darkness. In three years I’ve never known him to engage in any outdoor activities. He vacations in Las Vegas, never leaving the casinos.

I listen to what quickly becomes a tedious recitation of Bruiser’s greatest legal triumphs, almost all of which involve Prince. Oddly, I begin to relax. I’m in good hands.

Bruiser went to law school at night, and finished when he was twenty-two, still a record, Prince believes. They

were best of friends as children, and in high school they gambled a little, drank a lot, chased girls, fought boys. Tough Memphis neighborhood on the south side. They could write a book. Bruiser went to college, Prince got himself a beer truck. One thing led to another.

The law offices are in a short, red-bricked strip shopping center with a cleaner’s at one end and a video rental at the other. Bruiser invests wisely, Prince explains, and owns the entire unit. Across the street is an all-night pancake house and next to it is Club Amber, a gawdy topless joint with Vegas-style neon. This is an industrial section of town, near the airport.

Except for the words LAW OFFICE painted in black on a glass door in the center of the strip, there is nothing to indicate which profession is practiced here. A secretary with tight jeans and sticky red lips greets us with a toothy grin, but we do not slow. I follow Prince through the front area. "She used to work across the street," he mumbles. I hope it was the pancake house but I doubt it.

Bruiser’s office is remarkably similar to Prince’s-no windows, no chance of sunlight, large and square and gawdy, photos of important but unknown people clutching Bruiser and grinning at us. One wall is reserved for firearms, all sorts of rifles and muskets and awards for sharpshooting. Behind Bruiser’s massive leather swivel chair is a large, elevated aquarium with what appear to be miniature sharks gliding through the murky waters.

He’s on the phone, and so he waves at us to take our seats across from his long and wide desk. We sit, and Prince can’t wait to inform me. "Those are real sharks in there," he says, pointing to the wall above Bruiser’s head. Live sharks in a lawyer’s office. Get it. It’s a joke. Prince snickers.

I glance at Bruiser and try to avoid eye contact. The phone looks tiny next to his enormous head. His long,

half-gray hair falls in shaggy layers to his shoulders. His goatee, completely gray, is thick and long and the phone is almost lost in it. His eyes are dark and quick, surrounded by rolls of swarthy skin. I’ve often thought he must be of Mediterranean extraction.

Although I’ve served Bruiser a thousand drinks, I’ve never actually engaged in conversation with him. I’ve never wanted to. And I don’t want to now, but, obviously, my options are limited.

He snarls a few brief remarks, and hangs up the phone. Prince makes quick introductions, and Bruiser assures us that he knows me well. "Sure, I’ve known Rudy for a long time," he says. "What’s the problem?"

Prince looks at me, and I go through the routine.

"Saw it on the news this morning," Bruiser injects when my narrative reaches the part about the fire. "Already had five calls about it. Doesn’t take much to get the lawyers gossiping."

I smile and nod because I feel I’m supposed to, then, get to the part about the cops. I finish without further interruption, and wait for words of counsel and advice from my lawyer.

"A paralegal?" he says, obviously perplexed.

"I was desperate."

"So where do you work now?"

"I don’t know. I’m much more concerned about being arrested at the moment."

This makes Bruiser smile. "I’ll take care of that," he says smugly. Prince has assured me repeatedly that Bruiser knows more cops than the mayor himself. "Just let me make some phone calls."

"He needs to lay low, doesn’t he?" Prince asks, as if I’m an escaped felon.

"Yeah. Keep low." For some reason, I’m struck with the certainty that this advice has been uttered many times in

this office. "How much do you know about arson?" he asks me.

"Nothing. They didn’t teach it in law school."

"Well, I’ve handled a few arson cases. It can take days before they know whether or not it’s arson. Old building like that, anything could’ve happened. If it’s arson, they won’t make any arrests for a. few days."

"I really don’t want to be arrested, you know. Especially since I’m innocent. I don’t need the press." I say this with a glance at the wall plastered with his newspaper stories.