John Grisham

I explain my recent bankruptcy. Tomorrow, I’m scheduled to be in court for my first meeting with my creditors. It’s called a Debtor’s Examination, and the lawyers for the folks I’ve stiffed are entitled to poke around in my dirty laundry. They can ask virtually any question they want

about my finances, and about my life in general. It will be a low-key affair. In fact, there’s a good chance there will be no one there to grill me.

Because of the hearing, it’s to my advantage to remain unemployed for a few days. I ask Bruiser to hold the forms there, and to postpone the first month’s salary until after the hearing. This has a fraudulent ring to it, and Bruiser likes it. No. problem.

He takes me on a quick tour of the place. It’s just as, I figured-a little sweatshop of rooms stuck here and there as the firm expanded from one bay to the next, walls being knocked out as things progressed. We fade deeper and deeper into the maze. He introduces me to two harried women in a small room crowded with computer’s and printers. I doubt if they ever danced on tables. "I think we have six girls now," he says as we move on. A secretary is simply a girl.

He introduces me to a couple of the lawyers, nice enough guys, badly dressed and working in cramped offices. "We’re down to five lawyers," he explains as we enter the library. "Used to have seven, but that’s too many headaches. I prefer four or five. The more I hire, the more I referee. Same with the girls."

The library is a long, narrow room with books from floor to ceiling, in no apparent order. A long table in the center is covered with open volumes and wadded-up legal paper. "Some of these guys are pigs," he mumbles to himself. "So what do you think of my little spread?"

"It’s fine," I say. And I’m not lying. I’m relieved to see that law is actually practiced here. Bruiser may be a well-connected thug with shady deals and crooked investments, but he is still a lawyer. His offices hum with the busy noise of legitimate commerce.

"Not as fancy as the big boys downtown," he says, not apologizing. "But it’s all paid for. Bought it fifteen years

ago. Your office is over here." He points and we leave the library. Two doors down, next to a soft-drink machine, is a well-used room with a desk, some chairs, file cabinets and pictures of horses on the walls. On the desk is a phone, a dictating machine, a stack of legal pads. Everything is neat. The smell of disinfectant lingers as if it’s been cleaned in the past hour.

He hands me a ring with two keys on it. "This is for the front door, this is for your office. You’re free to come and go at all hours. Just be careful at night. This is not the best part of town."

"We need to talk," I say, taking the keys.

He glances at his watch. "For how long?"

"Give me thirty minutes. It’s urgent."

He shrugs, and I follow him back to his office, where he settles his wide rear into his leather chair. "What’s up?" he asks, all business, taking a designer pen from his pocket and addressing the obligatory legal pad. He starts scribbling before I start talking.

I give him a rapid, fact-filled summary of the Black case that takes ten minutes. In doing so, I fill in the gaps of my termination from the Lake firm. I explain how Barry Lancaster used me so he could steal the case, and this leads to my strong-arm maneuver with Bruiser. "We have to file suit today," I tell him gravely. "Because Lancaster technically owns the case. I think he’ll file soon."

Bruiser glares at me with his black eyes. I think I’ve caught his attention. The idea of beating the Lake firm to the courthouse appeals to him. "What about the clients?" he asks. "They’ve signed up with Lake."

"Yeah. But I’m on my way to see them. They’ll listen to me." I pull from my briefcase a rough draft of a lawsuit against Great Benefit, one that Barry and I had spent hours on. Bruiser reads it carefully.

I then hand him a termination letter I’ve typed to

Barry X. Lancaster, to be signed by all three Blacks. He reads it slowly.

"This is good work, Rudy," he says, and I feel like an accomplished shyster. "Lemme guess. You file the lawsuit this afternoon, then take a copy of it to the Blacks. Show it to them, then get them to sign the letter of termination."

"Right. I just need your name and signature on the lawsuit. I’ll do all the work and keep you posted."

"That’ll effectively screw the Lake firm, won’t it?" he says, pondering and tugging at a wayward whisker. "I like it. What’s the lawsuit worth?"

"Probably whatever the jury says. I doubt if it’ll be settled out of court."

"And you’re gonna try it?"

"I might need a little help. I figure it’s a year or two away."

"I’ll introduce you to Deck Shifflet, one of my associates. He used to work for a big insurance company and reviews a lot of policies for me."

"Great."

"His office is just down the hall from yours. Get this thing redrafted, put my name on it and we’ll get it filed today. Just be damned sure the clients go along with us."

"The clients are with us," I assure him with images of Buddy stroking his cats and swatting horseflies in the Fairlane, of Dot sitting on the front porch smoking and watching the mailbox as if a check from Great Benefit will arrive at any moment, of Donny Ray holding his head up with his hands.

"Changing the subject a bit," I say, clearing my throat. "Any word from the cops?"

"Nothing to it," he says smugly, as if the master fixer has once again performed his magic. "I talked to some people I know, and they’re not even sure it’s arson. Could take days."

"So they won’t be arresting me in the middle of the night."

"Nope. They promised me they’d call me if they want you. I assured them you’d turn yourself in, post bond, etcetera. But it won’t get that far. Relax."

I do in fact relax. I trust Bruiser Stone to be able to squeeze promises out of the police.

"Thanks," I say.

FIVE MINUTES before closing, I walk into the office of the Circuit Clerk and file my four-page lawsuit against Great Benefit Life Insurance Company and Bobby Ott, the missing agent who sold the policy. My clients, the Blacks, seek actual damages of two hundred thousand dollars, and punitive damages of ten million. I have no idea of the net worth of Great Benefit, and it will be a long time before I find out. I pulled the ten million from the air because it has a nice ring to it. Trial lawyers do this all the time.

Of course, my name is nowhere to be seen. Plaintiffs counsel of record is J. Lyman Stone, and his garish signature adorns the last page, giving the entire pleading the weight of authority. I hand the deputy clerk a firm check for the filing fee, and we’re in business.

Great Benefit has been officially sued!

I race across town to North Memphis into the Granger section, where I find my clients much as I had left them a few days ago. Buddy’s outside. Dot fetches Donny Ray from his room. The three of us sit around the table while they admire their copy of the lawsuit. They’re very impressed with the big numbers. Dot keeps repeating the sum of ten million, as if she holds the winning lottery number.

I am eventually forced to explain what happened with those awful folks at the Lake firm. A conflict of strategy.

They weren’t moving fast enough to suit me. They didn’t like my hard-charging approach to the case. And on and on.

They really don’t care. The lawsuit has been filed, and they have proof. They can read it all they want. They want to know what will happen next, how soon might they know something? What are the chances of a quick settlement? These questions knock the wind out of me. I know it will take much too long, and I feel cruel concealing this.