John Grisham

"Yes sir. Two months."

"And these are trials?"

"Trials, depositions, motions, appellate arguments. I’ll be happy to show you my calendar."

"At the moment, I can’t think of anything worse, Mr. Drummond," Kipler says.

"Here’s what we’re gonna do, Mr. Drummond, and please listen carefully because I’m going to put this in writing, in the form of an order. I remind you, sir, that this case is on the fast-track, and in my court this means no delays. These six depositions will commence first thing Monday morning in Cleveland." Drummond sinks into his seat and starts scribbling. "And if you can’t make it, I’m sorry. But at last count, you have four other lawyers tending to this case-Morehouse, Plunk, Hill and Grone, all of whom, I might add, have much more experience than Mr. Baylor who, I believe, got his license this past summer. Now, I realize you guys can’t send just one lawyer to Cleveland, realize it must be done with no less than two, but I’m sure you can arrange to have enough lawyers present to adequately represent your client."

These words singe the air. The lawyers behind me are incredibly still and quiet. Many, I sense, have been waiting for this for years.

"Furthermore, the six employees listed in the notice will be available Monday morning, and they shall remain available until Mr. Baylor releases them. This corporation has qualified to do business in Tennessee. I have jurisdiction over it in this matter, and I’m ordering these six individuals to cooperate fully."

Drummond and company sink lower and write faster.

"Furthermore, the plaintiff has requested files and doc-

uments." Kipler pauses for a second, glares down at the defense table. "Listen to me, Mr. Drummond, no hanky-panky with the documents. I insist on full disclosure, full cooperation. I will be close to my phone Monday and Tuesday, and if Mr. Baylor calls and says he’s not getting the documents to which he’s entitled, then I’ll get on the phone and make sure he does. Do you understand me?"

"Yes sir," Drummond says.

"Can you make your client understand this?"

"I think so."

Kipler relaxes a bit, takes a breath. The courtroom is still perfectly quiet. "On second thought, Mr. Drummond, I’d like to see your trial calendar. That is, if you don’t mind."

Drummond offered it just minutes ago, so there’s no way he can decline now. It’s a thick, black, leather-bound chronicle of the life and times of a very busy man. It’s also very personal, and I suspect Drummond didn’t really mean to offer it.

He carries it proudly to the bench, gives it to His Honor and waits. Kipler flips rapidly through the months without reading the specifics. He’s looking for empty days. Drummond hangs around the podium in the center of the courtroom.

"I notice here you have nothing scheduled for the week of February 8."

Drummond walks to the bench and looks at his book while Kipler holds it over the edge. He nods affirmatively without saying anything. Kipler hands him the book, and Drummond returns to his seat.

"The trial of this case is hereby set for Monday, February 8," His Honor declares. I swallow hard, take a deep breath, try to look confident. Four months sounds like plenty of time, a nice distance away, but for one who’s never tried even a simple fender-bender it’s terribly

frightening. I’ve memorized the file a dozen times. I’ve memorized the rules of procedure and the rules of evidence. I’ve read countless books on how to handle discovery and how to pick juries and how to cross-examine witnesses and how to win trials, but I don’t know beans about how things will unfold in this courtroom on February 8.

Kipler dismisses us, and I quickly gather my mess and leave. As I exit, I notice quite a few stares from the gallery of lawyers waiting their turn.

Who is this guy?

THOUGH HE’S NEVER actually confessed it, I now know that Deck’s closest acquaintances are a couple of two-bit private dicks he met while working for Bruiser. One, Butch, is an ex-cop who shares Deck’s affinity for casinos. They travel to Tunica once or twice a week for poker and blackjack.

Butch somehow located Bobby Ott, the debit agent who sold the policy to the Blacks. He found him in the Shelby County Penal Farm serving ten months for bad checks. Further investigation revealed Ott is freshly divorced and bankrupt.

Deck expressed dismay at having missed this fish. Ott has world-class legal problems. So many fees to be earned.

A JUNIOR ADMINISTRATOR of some variety at the penal farm collects me after a thorough search of my briefcase and my body by a bulky guard with thick hands. I’m led to a room near the front of the main building. It’s square with cameras mounted high in each corner. A partition down the center keeps the convicts away from their guests. We’ll talk through a screen, which is fine with me. I hope this visit is extremely brief. After five minutes, Ott is brought in from the other side. He’s around forty, wire-

rimmed glasses, Marine haircut, slight build, and wearing navy prison overalls. He studies me carefully as he takes his seat across the partition. The guard leaves and we are alone.

I slide a business card through an opening at the bottom of the screen. "My name’s Rudy Baylor. I’m an attorney." Why does this sound so ominous?

He takes it well, tries to smile. This guy once made his living knocking on doors and selling cheap insurance to poor folks, so, in spite of his obvious bad luck, he’s at heart a friendly sort, the type who could talk his way into homes.

"Nice to meet you," he says out of habit. "What brings you here?"

"This," I say, pulling a copy of the lawsuit from my briefcase. I slide it through the opening. "It’s a lawsuit I’ve filed on behalf of some of your former customers."

"Which ones?" he asks, taking the lawsuit, looking at the cover sheet, which is a summons.

"Dot and Buddy Black, and their son Donny Ray."

"Great Benefit huh?" he says. Deck has explained to me that many of these street agents represent more than one company. "Mind if I read this?"

"Sure. You’re named as a defendant. Go ahead."

His voice and movements are very deliberate. No wasted energy here. He reads very slowly, flipping pages with great reluctance. Poor guy. He’s been through a divorce, lost everything else in a bankruptcy, now sits in jail on felony convictions, and I’ve just trotted my cocky ass in here and sued him for another ten million.

But he seems unfazed. He finishes and places it on the counter in front of him. "You know I’m protected by the bankruptcy court," he says.

"Yes, I know." Not really. According to court records, he filed for bankruptcy in March, actually two months

before I did, and has now been discharged. An old BK filing will not always prevent future lawsuits, but the point is moot. This guy’s as broke as a refugee. He’s immune. "We were forced to include you as a defendant because you sold the policy."

-"Oh, I know. You’re just doing your job."

"That’s it. When do you get out?"

"Eighteen days. Why?"

"We might want to take your deposition."

"In here?"

"Maybe."

"What’s the rush? Lemme get out, and I’ll give you a deposition."

"I’ll think about it."

This little visit is a brief vacation for him, and he’s in no hurry to see me go. We chat about prison life for a few minutes, and I start looking for the door.

I’VE NEVER BEEN UPSTAIRS in Miss Birdie’s house, and it’s just as dusty and mildewed as the downstairs. I open the door to each room, flip on the light switch, look around hurriedly, then turn off the light and close the door. The floor in the hallway creaks as I walk on it. There’s a narrow stairway to a third level, but I’m skittish about going up there.