John Grisham
"One week from today," Kipler says, watching them with great suspicion. Drummond finds what he’s looking for in a file, and studies a document.
"I have a trial starting Monday in federal court, Your
Honor. This is the pretrial order, if you’d like to see it. Estimated length is two weeks."
"Where?"
"Here. Memphis."
"Chances of settlement?"
"Slim."
Kipler studies his schedule for a moment. "What about next Saturday?"
"Sounds fine to me," I add again. Everyone ignores me.
"Saturday?"
"Yes, the twenty-ninth."
Drummond looks at T. Pierce, and it’s obvious that the next excuse belongs to him. He rises slowly, holds his black appointment book as if it’s gold, says, "I’m sorry, Your Honor, I’m scheduled to be out of town that weekend."
"What for?"
"A wedding."
"Your wedding?"
"No. My sister’s."
Strategically, it’s to their advantage to postpone the deposition until Donny Ray dies, thus preventing the jury from seeing his withered face and hearing his tortured voice. And there’s little doubt that, between the five of them, these guys can orchestrate enough excuses to stall until I die of old age.
Judge Kipler knows this. "The deposition is set for Saturday, the twenty-ninth," he says. "Sorry if it inconveniences the defense, but God knows there are enough of you guys to handle it. One or two won’t be missed." He closes a book, leans forward on his elbows, grins down at Great Benefit’s lawyers and says, "Now, what else?"
It’s almost cruel the way he sneers at them, but he’s not mean-spirited. He’s just ruled against them on five of six morions, but his reasonings are sound. I think he’s per-
feet. And I know there will be other days in this courtroom, other pretrial motions and hearings, and I’m sure I’ll get my share of drubbings.
Drummond is on his feet, shrugging while examining the spread of paperwork before him on the table. I’m sure he wants to say something like, "Thanks for nothing, Judge." Or, "Why don’t you just go ahead and hand the plaintiff a million bucks?" But, as usual, he’s the consummate barrister. "No, Your Honor, that will be all for now," he says, as if Kipler has in fact helped him immensely.
"Mr. Baylor?" His Honor asks me.
"No sir," I say with a smile. Enough for one day. I’ve slaughtered the big boys in my first legal skirmish, and I’m not pressing my luck. Me and old Tyrone up there have kicked some ass.
"Very well," he says, rapping his gavel quietly. "Court’s adjourned. And, Mr. Morehouse, don’t forget to call me with the name of that case you agreed to fast-track."
T. Pierce grunts in pain.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
THE FIRST MONTH IN BUSINESS WITH Deck has produced dismal results. We collected twelve hundred dollars in fees-four hundred from Jimmy Monk, a shoplifter Deck hustled at City Court, two hundred from a DUI case which Deck raked in by some shady and still unexplained method and five hundred from a workers’ compensation case Deck stole from Bruiser’s office the day we bolted. The remaining hundred bucks was produced when I prepared the wills for a middle-aged couple who stumbled into our office. They were shopping for antiques, took a wrong turn downstairs and happened to catch me napping at my desk. We had a pleasant visit, one thing led to another, and they waited as I typed their wills. They paid me in cash, which I duly reported to Deck, the bookkeeper. My first fee was ethically produced.
We spent five hundred dollars on rent, four hundred on stationery and business cards, about five-fifty on utility hookups and deposits, eight hundred for a leased phone system and the first month’s bill, three hundred for the
first installment for desks and a few other furnishings procured from the landlord downstairs, two hundred on bar dues, three hundred for assorted and hard to pinpoint expenses, seven-fifty for a fax machine, four hundred for the setup and first month’s rent on a cheap computer, and fifty bucks for an ad in a local restaurant guide.
We spent a total of forty-two hundred and fifty dollars, most of it, thankfully, being initial and nonrecurring- expenses. Deck has it figured to the penny. He projects a monthly overhead, after start-up, of around nineteen hundred dollars. He pretends to be thrilled with the way things are going.
It’s hard to ignore his enthusiasm. He lives at the office. He’s single, far away from his children and living in a city that’s not his home. I don’t imagine him spending much time partying around town. The only diversion he’s mentioned is the casinos in Mississippi.
He usually arrives at work an hour or so after me, and spends most mornings in his office, on the phone, calling heaven knows who. I’m sure he’s soliciting someone, or checking on accident reports, or just networking with his contacts. He asks me every morning if I have any typing for him to do. We realized quickly that he’s by far the better typist, and he’s always eager to do my letters and documents. He breaks his neck to answer the phone, runs out for coffee, sweeps the office, takes care of the copying at the printer. Deck has no pride and wants me happy.
He does not study for the bar exam. We’ve discussed this once, and he was quick to change the subject.
By late morning, he’s usually making plans to go to some unspecified place and take care of some mysterious business. I’m certain there’s a hive of legal activity, maybe bankruptcy or municipal court, where he finds folks who need lawyers. We don’t talk about it. He makes his hospital rounds at night.
It was only a matter of days before we sectioned off our little suite of offices and established our turfs. Deck thinks I should spend most of the day patrolling the innumerable halls of justice, trolling for clients. I detect his frustration because I’m not more aggressive. He’s tired of my questions about ethics and tactics. It’s a rough and tumble world out there, lots of hungry lawyers who know how the cutthroat game is played. Sit on your butt around here all day and you’ll starve to death. The good cases don’t have a prayer of getting here.
On the other hand, Deck needs me. I have a license to practice. We may split the money, but this is not an equal partnership. He views himself as expendable, and this is why he volunteers for the grunt work. Deck is perfectly willing to chase ambulances and loiter around federal parlors and hide in hospital emergency rooms because he’s content with an arrangement that allows him fifty percent. He can’t find a better deal anywhere.
It takes just one, he says over and over. You hear that all the time in this business. One big case, and you can retire. That’s one reason lawyers do so many sleazy things, like full-color ads in the yellow pages, and billboards, and placards on city buses, and telephone solicitation. You hold your nose, ignore the stench of what you’re doing, ignore the snubs and snobbery of big-firm lawyers, because it takes only one.
Deck’s determined to find the big one for our little firm.
While he’s out shaking down Memphis, I manage to keep busy. There are five small, incorporated municipalities tucked along the Memphis city limits. Each of these little towns has a municipal court, and each has a system of appointing young lawyers to represent indigent criminal defendants in misdemeanor cases. The judges and prosecutors are young and part-time, most went to Mem-
phis State, most work for less than five hundred dollars a month. They have growing practices in the suburbs, and spend a few hours each week parceling out criminal justice. I’ve visited these folks, smiled and glad-handed them, pled my case about needing some business in their courts, and the results have been mixed. I’ve now been appointed to represent six indigents, charged with a variety of crimes from drug possession to petty larceny to public profanity. I’ll get paid one hundred dollars max for each case, and they should be closed within two months. By the time I meet the clients, discuss their guilty pleas, negotiate with the prosecutors and drive to the suburbs for their court appearances, I’ll spend at least four hours on each case. That’s twenty-five bucks an hour, before overhead and taxes.