John Grisham

"Good," Deck says before he can grunt or groan. "Rudy here will be back in the morning with some paperwork. Have your wife call us this afternoon. It’s very important that we talk to her." He pats Van Landel on his good leg. It’s time for us to go, before he changes his mind. "We’re gonna get you a bunch of money," Deck assures him.

We say our good-byes as we backtrack and make a quick exit. Once in the hallway, Deck proudly says, "And that’s how it’s done, Rudy. Piece of cake."

We dodge a woman in a wheelchair and we stop for a patient being taken away on a gurney. The hall is crawling with people. "What if the guy had a lawyer?" I ask, beginning to breathe normally again.

"There’s nothing to lose, Rudy. That’s what you must remember. We came here with nothing. If he ran us out of his room, for whatever reason, what have we lost?"

A little dignity, some self-respect. His reasoning is completely logical. I say nothing. My stride is long and quick, and I try not to watch him jerk and shuffle. "You see, Rudy, in law school they don’t teach you what you need to know. It’s all books and theories and these lofty notions of the practice of law as a profession, like between gentleman, you know. It’s an honorable calling, governed by pages of written ethics."

"What’s wrong with ethics?"

"Oh, nothing, I guess. I mean, I believe a lawyer should fight for his client, refrain from stealing money, try not to lie, you know, the basics."

Deck on Ethics. We spent hours probing ethical and moral dilemmas, and, wham, just like that, Deck has reduced the Canons of Ethics to the Big Three: Fight for your client, don’t steal, try not to lie.

We take a sudden left and enter a newer hallway. St. Peter’s is a maze of additions and annexes. Deck is in a lecturing mood. "But what they don’t teach you in law school can get you hurt. Take that guy back there, Van Landel. I get the feeling you were nervous about being in his room."

"I was. Yes."

"You shouldn’t be."

"But it’s unethical to solicit cases. It’s blatant ambulance chasing."

"Right. But who cares? Better us than the next guy. I promise you that within the next twenty-four hours an-

other lawyer will contact Van Landel and try to sign him up. It’s simply the way it’s done, Rudy. It’s competition, the marketplace. There are lots of lawyers out there."

As if I don’t know this. "Will the guy stick?" I ask.

"Probably. We’ve been lucky so far. We hit him at the right time. It’s usually fifty-fifty going in, but once they sign on the dotted line, then it’s eighty-twenty they’ll stick with us. You need to call him in a couple of hours, talk to his wife, offer to come back here tonight and discuss the case with them."

"Me?"

"Sure. It’s easy. I’ve got some files you can go through. Doesn’t take a brain surgeon."

"But I’m not sure-"

"Look, Rudy, take it easy. Don’t be afraid of this place. He’s our client now, okay. You have the right to visit him, and there’s nothing anybody can do. They can’t throw you out. Relax."

WE DRINK COFFEE from plastic cups in a grill on the third floor. Deck prefers this small cafeteria because it’s near the orthopedic wing, and because it’s the result of a recent renovation and few lawyers know about it. The lawyers, he explains in a hushed tone as he examines each patient, are known to hang out in hospital cafeterias, where they prey on injured folks. He says this with a certain scorn for such behavior. Irony is lost on Deck.

Part of my job as a young associate for the law firm of J. Lyman Stone will be to hang out here and graze these pastures. There is also a large cafeteria on the main floor of Cumberland Hospital, two blocks away. And the VA Hospital has three cafeterias. Deck, of course, knows where they are, and he shares this knowledge.

He advises me to start off with St. Peter’s because it has the largest trauma unit. He draws a map on a napkin

showing me the locations of other potential hot spots- the main cafeteria, a grill near maternity on the second floor, a coffee shop near the front lobby. Nighttime is good, he says, still studying the prey, because the patients often get bored in their rooms and, assuming they’re able, like to wheel down for a snack. Not too many years ago, one of Bruiser’s lawyers was trolling in the main cafeteria at one in the morning when he hooked a kid who’d been burned. The case settled a year later for two million. Problem was, the kid had fired Bruiser and hired another lawyer.

"It got away," Deck says like a defeated fisherman.

Chapter Seventeen

MISS BIRDIE RETIRES TO BED AFTER the "MSASSH" reruns go off at eleven. She’s invited me several times to sit with her after dinner and watch television, but so far I’ve been able to find the right excuses.

I sit on the steps outside my apartment and wait for her house to become dark. I can see her silhouette moving from one door to the next, checking locks, pulling shades.

I suppose old people grow accustomed to loneliness, though no one expects to spend his or her last years in solitude, absent from loved ones. When she was younger, I’m sure she looked ahead with the confidence that these years would be spent surrounded by her grandchildren. Her own kids would be nearby, stopping by daily to check on Mom, bringing flowers and cookies and gifts. Miss Birdie did not plan to spend her last years alone, in an old house with fading memories.

She rarely talks about her children or grandchildren. There are a few photographs sitting around, but, judging by the fashions, they are quite dated. I’ve been here for a

few weeks, and I’m not aware of a single contact she’s had with her family.

I feel guilty because I don’t sit with her at night, but I have my reasons. She watches one stupid sitcom after another, and I can’t bear them. I know this because she talks about them constantly. Plus, I need to be studying for the bar exam.

There’s another good reason I’m keeping my distance. Miss Birdie has been hinting rather strongly that the house needs painting, that if she can ever get the mulch finished then she’ll have time for the next project.

I drafted and mailed a letter today to a lawyer in Atlanta, signed my name as a paralegal to J. Lyman Stone, and in it made a few inquiries about the estate of one Anthony L. Murdine, the last husband of Miss Birdie. I’m slowly digging, without much luck.

Her bedroom light goes off, and I ease down the rickety steps and tiptoe barefoot across the wet lawn to a shredded hammock swinging precariously between two small trees. I swung in it for an hour the other night without injury. Through the trees, the hammock has a splendid view of the full moon. I rock gently. The night is warm.

I’ve been in a funk since the Van Landel episode today at the hospital. I started law school less than three years ago with typical noble aspirations of one day using my license to better society in some small way, to engage in an honorable profession governed by ethical canons I thought all lawyers would strive to uphold. I really believed this. I knew I couldn’t change the world, but I dreamed of working in a high-pressure environment filled with sharp-witted people who adhered to a set of lofty standards. I wanted to work hard and grow in my profession, and in doing so attract clients not by slick advertising but by reputation. And along the way, as my skills and fees

increased, I would be able to take on unpopular cases and clients without the burden of getting paid. These dreams are not unusual for beginning law students.

To the credit of the law school, we spent hours studying and debating ethics. Great emphasis was placed on the subject, so much so that we assumed the profession was zealous about enforcing a rigid set of guidelines. Now I’m depressed by the truth. For the past month, I’ve had one real lawyer after another throw darts in my balloon. I’ve been reduced to a poacher in hospital cafeterias, for a thousand bucks a month. I’m sickened and saddened by what I’ve become, and I’m staggered by the speed at which I’ve fallen.