John Grisham

raked grass. He notices the Fairlane with the cats on the windshield as we walk in front of it.

"What’s wrong with this?" he asks, under the tree. Across the back fence is a hedgerow so thick it prevents the view of the adjoining lot. In the middle of this unruly growth are four tall pine trees. They’re blocking the morning sun from the east, making this spot under the oak somewhat tolerable, at least for the moment. There’s plenty of light.

"Looks fine to me," I say, though in my hugely limited experience I have never heard of an outdoor deposition. I say a quick prayer of thanks for the presence of Tyrone Kipler.

"Do we have an extension cord?" he asks.

"Yes. I brought one," Deck says, already shuffling through the grass. "It’s a hundred-footer."

The entire lot is less than eighty feet wide and maybe a hundred feet deep. The front yard is larger than the back, so the rear patio is not far away. Neither is the Fairlane. In fact, it’s sitting right there, not far away at all. Claws, the watchcat, is perched majestically on top, watching us warily.

"Let’s get some chairs," Kipler says, very much in control. He rolls up his sleeves. Dot, the judge and myself haul the four chairs from the kitchen while Deck struggles with the extension cord and the equipment. Buddy has disappeared. Dot allows us to use her patio furniture, then she locates three stained and mildewed lawn chairs in the utility room.

Within minutes of carrying and lifting, Kipler and I are both soaked with sweat. And we’ve drawn attention. Some of the neighbors have emerged from under their rocks and are examining us with great curiosity. A black male in jeans hauling chairs to a spot under the Blacks’ oak tree? A strange little creature with an oversized head fighting

electrical cords which he’s managed to wrap around his ankles? What’s going on here?

Two female court reporters arrive a few minutes before nine, and, unfortunately, Buddy answers the door. They almost leave before Dot rescues them and leads them through the house to the backyard. Thankfully, they’ve worn slacks instead of skirts. They chat with Deck about the equipment and the electrical supply.

Drummond and his crew arrive precisely at nine, not a minute early. He brings only two lawyers with him, B. Dewey Clay Hill the Third and Brandon Fuller Grone, and they’re dressed like twins: navy blazers, white cotton shirts, starched khakis, loafers. Only their ties refuse to match. Drummond is tieless.

They find us in the backyard, and seem stunned at the surroundings. By now, Kipler and Deck and myself are hot and wet, and don’t care what they think. "Only three?" I ask, counting the defense team, but they’re not amused.

"You’ll sit here," His Honor says, pointing to three kitchen chairs. "Watch those wires." Deck has strung wires and cords all around the tree, and Grone in particular seems apprehensive about electrocution.

Dot and I assist Donny Ray from his bed, through the house, into the yard. He’s very weak and trying valiantly to walk on his own. As we approach the oak tree, I watch closely as Leo Drummond sees Donny Ray for the first time. His smug face is noncommittal, and I want to snap something like, "Get a good look, Drummond. See what your client’s done." But it’s not Drummond’s fault. The decision to deny the claim was made by a still undetermined person at Great Benefit long before Drummond knew about it. He just happens to be the nearest person to hate.

We seat Donny Ray in a cushioned patio rocker. Dot

fluffs and pats and takes her time making sure he’s as comfortable as possible. His breathing is heavy and his face is wet. He looks worse than usual.

I politely introduce him to the participants: Judge Kipler, both court reporters, Deck, Drummond and the other two from Trent & Brent. He’s too weak to shake their hands, so he just nods, tries his best to smile.

We move the camera directly into his face, the lens about four feet away. Deck tries to focus it. One of the court reporters is a licensed videographer, and she’s trying to get Deck out of the way. The video will show no one but Donny Ray. There will be other voices off-camera, but his will be the only face for the jury to see.

Kipler places me to Donny Ray s right, Drummond on the left. His Honor himself sits next to me. We all take our places and squeeze our chairs toward the witness. Dot stands several feet behind the camera, watching every move her son makes.

The neighbors are overcome with curiosity and lean on the chain-link fence not twenty feet away. A loud radio down the street blares Conway Twitty, but it’s not a distraction, yet. It’s Saturday morning, and the hum of distant lawn mowers and hedge trimmers echoes through the neighborhood.

Donny Ray takes a sip of water, and tries to ignore the four lawyers and one judge straining toward him. The purpose of his deposition is obvious: the jury needs to hear from him because he’llte dead when the trial starts. He’s supposed to arouse sympathy. Not too many years ago, his deposition would have been taken in the normal manner. A court reporter would record the questions and answers, type up a neat deposition and at trial we would read it to the jury. But technology has arrived. Now, many depositions, especially those involving dying witnesses, are recorded on video and played for the jury. This one will

also be taken by a stenographic machine in the standard procedure, pursuant to Kipler’s suggestion. This will give all parties and the judge a quick reference without having to watch an entire video.

The cost of this deposition will vary, depending on its length. Court reporters charge by the page, so Deck told me to be efficient with my questions. It’s our deposition, we have to pay for it, and he estimates the cost at close to four hundred dollars. Litigation is expensive.

Kipler asks Donny Ray if he’s ready to proceed, then instructs the court reporter to swear him. He promises to tell the truth. Since he’s my witness, and this is for evidentiary purposes as opposed to the normal unbridled fishing expedition, my direct examination of him must conform to the rules of evidence. I’m jittery, but comforted mightily by Kipler’s presence.

I ask Donny Ray his name, address, birthdate, some things about his parents and family. Basic stuff, easy for him and me. He answers slowly and into the camera, just as I’ve instructed him. He knows every question I’ll ask, and most that Drummond might come up with. His back is to the trunk of the oak, a nice setting. He occasionally dabs his forehead with a handkerchief, and ignores the curious stares of our little group.

Although I didn’t tell him to act as sick and weak as possible, he certainly appears to be doing it. Or maybe Donny Ray has only a few days left to live.

Across from me, just inches away, Drummond, Grone and Hill balance legal pads on their knees and try to write every word spoken by Donny Ray. I wonder how much they bill for Saturday depositions. Not long into the depo, the navy blazers come off and the ties are loosened.

During a long pause, the back door slams suddenly and Buddy stumbles onto the patio. He’s changed shirts, now wears a familiar red pullover with dark stains, and he car-

ries a sinister-looking paper bag. I try to concentrate on my witness, but out of the corner of my eye I can’t help but watch as Buddy walks across the yard, eyeing us suspiciously. I know exactly where he’s going.

The driver’s door to the Fairlane is open, and he backs into the front seat, cats jumping from every window. Dot’s face tightens, and she gives me a nervous look. I shake my head quickly, as if to say, "Just leave him alone. He’s harmless." She-‘d like to kill him.

Donny Ray and I talk about his education, work experience, the fact that he’s never left home, never registered to vote, never been in trouble with the law. This is not nearly as difficult as I had envisioned last night when I was swinging in the hammock. I’m sounding like a real lawyer.