John Grisham

Law school is nothing but three years of wasted stress. We spend countless hours digging for information we’ll never need. We are bombarded with lectures that are instantly forgotten. We memorize cases and statutes which will be reversed and amended tomorrow. If I’d spent fifty hours a week for the past three years training under a good lawyer, then I would be a good lawyer. Instead, I’m a nervous third-year student afraid of the simplest of legal problems and terrified of my impending bar exam.

There is movement before me, and I glance up in time to see a chubby old fella with a massive hearing aid shuffling in my direction.

Chapter Two

AN HOUR LATER, THE LANGUID BATTLES over Chinese checkers and gin rummy peter out, and the last of the geezers leaves the building. A janitor waits near the door as Smoot gathers us around him for a postgame summary. We take turns briefly summarizing our new clients’ various problems. We’re tired and anxious to leave this place.

Smoot offers a few suggestions, nothing creative or original, and dismisses us with the promise that we will discuss these real legal problems of the elderly in class next week. I can’t wait.

Booker and I leave in his car, an aged Pontiac too large to be stylish but in much better shape than my crumbling Toyota. Booker has two small children and a wife who teaches school part-time, so he’s hovering somewhere just above the poverty line. He studies hard and makes good grades, and because of this he caught the attention of an affluent black firm downtown, a pretty classy outfit known for its expertise in civil rights litigation. His starting salary is forty thousand a year, which is six more than Brodnax and Speer offered me.

"I hate law school," I say as we leave the parking lot of the Cypress Gardens Senior Citizens Building.

"You’re normal," Booker replies. Booker does not hate anything or anybody, and even at times claims to be challenged by the study of law.

"Why do we want to be lawyers?"

"Serve the public, fight injustice, change society, you know, the usual. Don’t you listen to Professor Smoot?"

"Let’s go get a beer."

"It’s not yet three o’clock, Rudy." Booker drinks little, and I drink even less because it’s an expensive habit and right now I must save to buy food.

"Just kidding," I say. He drives in the general direction of the law school. Today is Thursday, which means tomorrow I will be burdened with Sports Law and the Napoleonic Code, two courses equally as worthless as Geezer Law and requiring even less work. But there is a bar exam looming, and when I think about it my hands tremble slightly. If I flunk the bar exam, those nice but stiff and unsmiling fellas at Brodnax and Speer will most certainly ask me to leave, which means I’ll work for about a month then hit the streets. Flunking the bar exam is unthinkable -it would lead me to unemployment, bankruptcy, disgrace, starvation. So why do I think about it every hour of every day? "Just take me to the library," I say. "I think I’ll work on these cases, then hit the bar review."

"Good idea."

"I hate the library."

"Everyone hates the library, Rudy. It’s designed to be hated. Its primary purpose is to be hated by law students. You’re just normal."

"Thanks."

"That first old lady, Miss Birdie, she got money?"

"How’d you know?"

"I thought I overheard something."

"Yeah. She’s loaded. She needs a new will. She’s neglected by her children and grandchildren, so, of course, she wants to cut them out."

"How much?"

"Twenty million or so."

Booker glances at me with a great deal of suspicion.

"That’s what she says," I add.

"So who gets the money?"

"A sexy TV preacher with his own Learjet."

"No."

"I swear."

Booker chews on this for two blocks of heavy traffic. "Look, Rudy, no offense, you’re a great guy and all, good student, bright, but do you feel comfortable drafting a will for an estate worth that much money?"

"No. Do you?"

"Of course not. So what’ll you do?"

"Maybe she’ll die in her sleep."

"I don’t think so. She’s too feisty. She’ll outlive us."

"I’ll dump it on Smoot. Maybe get one of the tax professors to help me. Or maybe I’ll just tell Miss Birdie that I can’t help her, that she needs to pay a high-powered tax lawyer five grand to draft it. I really don’t care. I’ve got my own problems."

"Texaco?"

"Yeah. They’re coming after me. My landlord too."

"I wish I could help," Booker says, and I know he means it. If he could spare the money, he’d gladly loan it to me.

"I’ll survive until July 1. Then I’ll be a big-shot mouthpiece for Brodnax and Speer and my days of poverty will be over. How in the world, dear Booker, can I possibly spend thirty-four thousand dollars a year?"

"Sounds impossible. You’ll be rich."

"I mean, hell, I’ve lived on tips and nickels for seven years. What will I do with all the money?"

"Buy another suit?"

"Why? I already have two."

"Perhaps some shoes?"

"That’s it. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll buy shoes, Booker. Shoes and ties, and maybe some food that doesn’t come in a can, and perhaps a fresh pack of Jockey shorts."

At least twice a month for three years now, Booker and his wife have invited me to dinner. Her name is Charlene, a Memphis girl, and she does wonders with food on a lean budget. They’re friends, but I’m sure they feel sorry for me. Booker grins, then looks away. He’s tired of this joking about things that are unpleasant.

He pulls into the parking lot across Central Avenue from the Memphis State Law School. "I have to run some errands," he says.

"Sure. Thanks for the ride."

"I’ll be back around six. Let’s study for the bar."

"Sure. I’ll be downstairs."

I slam the door and jog across Central.

IN A DARK and private corner in the basement of the library, behind stacks of cracked and ancient law books and hidden from view, I find my favorite study carrel sitting all alone, just waiting for me as it has for many months now. It’s officially reserved in my name. The corner is windowless and at times damp and cold, and for this reason few people venture near here. I’ve spent hours in this, my private little burrow, briefing cases and studying for exams. And for the past weeks, I’ve sat here for many aching hours wondering what happened to her and asking myself at what point I let her get away. I torment myself here. The flat desktop is surrounded on three sides by panels, and I’ve memorized the contour of the wood grain on each small wall. I can cry without getting caught. I can even curse at a low decibel, and no one will hear.

Many times during the glorious affair, Sara joined me here, and we studied together with our chairs sitting snugly side by side. We could giggle and laugh, and no one cared. We could kiss and touch, and no one saw. At this moment, in the depths of this depression and sorrow, I can almost smell her perfume.

I really should find another place in this sprawling labyrinth to study. Now, when I stare at the panels around me, I see her face and remember the feel of her legs, and I’m immediately overcome with a deadening heartache that paralyzes me. She was here, just weeks ago! And now someone else is touching those legs.

I take the Blacks’ stack of papers and walk upstairs to the insurance section of the library. My movements are slow but my eyes dart quickly in all directions. Sara doesn’t come here much anymore, but I’ve seen her a couple of times.