John Grisham

I’ve also decided that I’ll try to rein him in, to shame him from racing to every disaster. By working hard and servicing our clients, we can make a nice living and hopefully grow. I’ll encourage Deck to study for the bar, get his license and approach the profession with more respect.

This, of course, will have to be done gradually.

And I’m not naive. Expecting Deck to stay away from hospitals will be as easy as expecting a drunk to steer clear of bars. But at least I’ll try.

"Did you remove your files?" he whispers, looking at the door where two truck drivers have just entered.

"Yes. And you?"

"I’ve been sneaking stuff out for a week."

I’d rather not hear any more about this. I change the conversation to the Black hearing, and Deck moves it back to our new venture. At eight, we walk down to our offices, Deck eyeing every car in the parking lot as if they’re all loaded with G-men.

Bruiser has not arrived by eight-fifteen. Deck and I are arguing the points made in Drummond’s briefs. Here, where the walls and phones are wired, we discuss nothing but the law.

Eight-thirty, and there’s no sign of Bruiser. He specifically said he’d be here at eight to go over the file. Judge Hale’s courtroom is in the Shelby County Courthouse downtown, twenty minutes away in unpredictable traffic.

syrup and burns like straight vodka. She smacks her lips. "We’d better sit down," she says.

After a few sips, Miss Birdie is snoring on the sofa. I mute the movie, and pour another cup. It’s a potent liquor, and after the initial searing the taste buds are not as offended. I drink it on the patio, under the moon, still smiling upward in glorious thanks for this divine news.

THE EFFECTS of the melon brandy linger until well after sunrise. I shower and ease from my apartment, sneak to my car, then race down the driveway in reverse until I hit the street.

I go to a yuppie coffee bar with bagels and blends of the day. I pay for a thick Sunday paper and spread it on a table in the rear. Several items hit close to home.

For the fourth day in a row, the front page is filled with stories about the paddle wheel disaster. Forty-one kids were killed. The lawyers have already started filing suits.

The second item, this one in the Metro section, is the latest installment of an investigative series about police corruption, and more specifically the relationship between the topless business and law enforcement. Bruiser’s name is mentioned several times as the lawyer for Willie Mc-Swane, a local kingpin. And Bruiser’s name is mentioned as the lawyer for Bennie Thomas, also known as Prince, a local tavern owner and former federal indictee. And Bruiser’s name is mentioned as a likely federal target in his own right.

I can feel the train coming. The federal grand jury has been meeting nonstop for a month. This newspaper runs stories almost daily. Deck is increasingly nervous.

The third item is a complete surprise. On the last page of the business section is a small story with the caption 161 PASS BAR EXAM. It’s a three-sentence press release from the

dark, quiet, and lined w|th wooden benches under portraits of distinguished jurists.

I slow to a jog, then stop at the courtroom of the Honorable Harvey Hale. Circuit Court Division Eight, according to a brass sign beside the doors.

There’s no sign of Bruiser outside the courtroom, and as I slowly push open the door and look inside, the first thing I don’t see is his huge body. He’s not here.

But the courtroom is not empty. I gaze down the red-carpeted aisle, past the rows of polished and cushioned benches, through the low swinging gate, and I see that quite a few people are waiting for me. Up high, in a black robe, in a large burgundy leather chair, and scowling down my way, is an unpleasant man I presume to be Judge Harvey Hale. A clock on the wall behind him gives the time as twelve minutes after nine. One hand holds his chin while the fingers on the other tap impatiently.

To my left, beyond the bar that separates the spectators’ section from the bench, the jury box and the counsel tables, I see a group of men, all of whom are straining to see me. Amazingly, they all possess the same appearance and dress-short hair, dark suits, white shirts, striped ties, stern faces, contemptible smirks.

The room is silent. I feel like a trespasser. Even the court reporter and bailiff seem to have an attitude.

With heavy feet and rubbery knees, I walk with zero confidence to the gate in the bar. My throat is parched. The words are dry and weak. "Excuse me, sir, but I’m here for the Black hearing."

The judge’s expression doesn’t change. His fingers keep tapping. "And who are you?"

"Well, my name’s Rudy Baylor. I work for Bruiser Stone."

"Where’s Mr. Stone?" he asks.

"I’m not sure. He was supposed to meet me here."

There’s a rustling of activity to my left, among the cluster of lawyers, but I don’t look. Judge Hale stops his tapping, raises his chin from his hand and shakes his head in frustration. "Why am I not surprised?" he says into his micro-. phone.

Since Deck and I are bolting, I am determined to flee with the Black case safely in tow. It’s mine! No one else can have it. Judge Hale has no way of knowing at this moment that I’m the lawyer who’ll be prosecuting this case, not Bruiser. As scared as I am, I decide quickly that this is the moment to establish myself.

"I suppose you want a continuance," he says.

"No sir. I’m prepared to argue the motion," I say as forcefully as possible. I ease through the gate and place the file on the table to my right.

"Are you a lawyer?" he asks.

"Well, I just passed the bar."

"But you haven’t received your license?"

I don’t know why this distinction hasn’t hit me until now. I guess I’ve been so proud of myself it just slipped my mind. Plus, Bruiser was going to do the talking today, with me perhaps chiming in for a bit of practice. "No sir. We take the oath next week."

One of my enemies clears his throat loudly so that the judge will look at him. I turn and see a distinguished gentleman in a navy suit in the process of dramatically rising from his chair. "May it please the court," he says as if he’s said it a million times. "For the record, my name is Leo F. Drummond of Tinley Britt, counsel for Great Benefit Life." He says this somberly, up in the direction of his lifelong friend and Yale roommate. The keeper of the record, the court reporter, has returned to her nail filing.

"And we object to this young man’s appearance in this matter." He sweeps his arms toward me. His words are

slow and heavy. I hate him already. "Why, he doesn’t even have a license."

I hate him for his patronizing tone, and for his silly hairsplitting. This is only a motion, not a trial.

‘Tour Honor, I’ll have my license next week," I say. My anger is greatly assisting my voice.

"That’s not good enough, Your Honor," Drummond says, arms open wide, like this is such a ridiculous idea. The nerve?

"I’ve passed the bar exam, Your Honor."

"Big deal," Drummond snaps at me.

I look directly at him. He’s standing in the midst of four other people, three of whom are sitting at his table with legal pads in front of them. The fourth sits behind them. I’m getting the collective glare.

"It is a big deal, Mr. Drummond. Go ask Shell Boykin," I say. Drummond’s face tightens and there’s a noticeable flinch. In fact, there’s a collective flinch from the defense table.

This is a real cheap shot, but for some reason I couldn’t resist. Shell Boykin is one of two students from our class privileged enough to be hired by Trent & Brent. We despised each other for three years, and we took the exam together last month. His name was not in the newspaper last Sunday. I’m sure the great firm is slightly embarrassed that one of its bright young recruits flunked the bar.