John Grisham

The house is much larger than I thought. And much lonelier. It’s hard to imagine her living here alone. I feel a sense of profound guilt for not spending more time with her, for not sitting with her through her sitcoms and TV revival services, for not eating more of her turkey sandwiches and drinking more of her instant coffee.

The downstairs appears just as free of burglars as the upstairs, and I lock the patio doors behind me. It’s odd now that she’s gone. I do not remember being comforted by her presence, but it was always nice to know she was

here, in the big house, just in case I needed anything. Now I feel isolated.

In the kitchen, I stare at the telephone. It’s an old rotary model, and I almost dial Kelly’s number. If she answers, I’ll think of something to say. If he answers, I’ll hang up. The call can be traced to this house, but I don’t live here.

I thought about her more today than I did yesterday. More this week than last.

I need to see her.

Chapter Thirty-Four

I’M RIDING TO THE BUS TERMINAL WITH Deck in his minivan. It’s early Sunday morning. The weather is clear and beautiful, the first hint of autumn in the air. Mercifully, the stifling humidity is behind us for a few months. Memphis is a lovely place in October.

A round-trip plane ticket to Cleveland costs just under seven hundred dollars. We figured a room in an inexpensive yet safe motel will be forty dollars a night, food will be minimal since I can get by with little. We’re doing the deposing, so the costs of taking them are on us. The cheapest court reporter I talked to in Cleveland gets a hundred dollars a day for showing up, two dollars a page for taking down and transcribing the testimony. It’s not unusual for these depositions to run for a hundred pages or more. We’d like to video them, but it’s out of the question.

So, it seems, is the idea of air travel. The law firm of Rudy Baylor simply cannot afford to fly me to Cleveland. There’s no way I’d risk the Toyota on the open road. If it

stopped, then I’d be stranded and the depositions postponed. Deck sort of offered his minivan, but I wouldn’t trust it for a thousand miles either.

Greyhound is quite reliable, though awfully slow. The buses eventually get there. It’s not my first choice, but what the hell. I’m in no great hurry. I can see some of the countryside. We’re saving some valuable money. I’ve thought of lots of reasons.

Deck drives and says little. I think he’s somewhat embarrassed because we can’t afford better. And he knows he should be going too. I’m about to confront hostile witnesses and lots of fresh documents which will need instant review. It would be nice to have another mind close by.

We say good-bye in the parking lot by the station. He promises to take care of the office and hustle up some business. I have no doubt that he’ll try. He drives off, in the direction of St. Peter’s.

I’ve never been on a Greyhound before. The terminal is small but clean, bustling with Sunday morning travelers, most of whom are old and black. I find the proper clerk and receive my reserved ticket. It costs my firm $139.

The bus leaves on time at eight, and heads west into Arkansas, then north to St. Louis. Luckily, I manage to avoid the nuisance of someone sitting next to me.

The bus is almost full, only three or four empty seats. We’re scheduled to be in St. Louis in six hours, Indianapolis by seven P.M., Cleveland by eleven tonight. That’s fifteen hours on this bus. The depositions start at nine in the morning.

I’m sure my opponents at Trent & Brent are still sleeping, and will arise to a lovely breakfast, then the Sunday paper on the patio with their wives, perhaps church for a couple of them, then a nice lunch and a round of golf. Around five or so, their wives will drive them to the airport, where they’ll be kissed good-bye properly and sent

off together in the first-class section. An hour later, they’ll land in Cleveland, no doubt be met by a gofer from Great Benefit who’ll chauffeur them to the finest hotel in the city. After a delicious dinner, with drinks and wine, they’ll gather in a plush executive conference room and plot against me until late. About the time I check into a Motel 6 or whatever, they’ll be retiring to bed, refreshed, prepared, ready for war.

THE GREAT BENEFIT BUILDING is in an affluent Cleveland suburb, one created by white flight. I explain to my cabdriver that I want an inexpensive motel in the vicinity, and he knows exactly where to go. He stops in front of the Plaza Inn. Next door is a McDonald’s, across the street, a Blockbuster Video. It’s nothing but sprawl-strip shops, fast food, flashing billboards, shopping centers, cheap motels. A mall can’t be far away. It appears safe.

There are plenty of vacant rooms, and I pay thirty-two dollars, cash, for one night. I ask for a receipt because Deck instructed me to.

At two minutes after midnight, I get into bed, stare at the ceiling and realize, among other things, that, other than the motel clerk, not a single person in this world knows where I am. There’s no one to call and check in with.

Of course, I can’t go to sleep.

EVER SINCE I BEGAN to hate Great Benefit, I’ve had a mental image of their corporate headquarters. I could see a tall, modern building with lots of shiny glass, a fountain by the front entrance, flagpoles, the corporate name and logo emblazoned in bronze. Wealth and corporate prosperity everywhere.

Not exactly. The building is easy enough to find because the address is in bold black letters on a concrete

entrance: 5550 Baker Gap Road. But the name Great Benefit is nowhere to be seen. In fact, the building is unidentifiable from the street. No fountains or flagpoles, just a huge five-story hodgepodge of square block buildings wedged together and seemingly built into one another. It’s all very modern and unbelievably ugly. The exterior is white cement and black-tinted windows.

Thankfully, the front entrance is marked, and I step into a small foyer with a few plastic potted plants along one wall and a cute receptionist against another. She wears a chic headset with a tiny felt-tipped wire curved around her jaw and sticking just inches from her lips. On the wall behind her are the names of three nondescript companies: PinnConn Group, Green Lakes Marine and Great Benefit Life Insurance. Which owns which? Each has a self-conscious logo etched in bronze.

"My name is Rudy Baylor, and I’m supposed to see a Mr. Paul Moyer," I say politely.

"One moment please." She punches a button, waits, then says, "Mr. Moyer, a Mr. Baylor here to see you." She never stops smiling.

His office must be close, because I wait less than a minute before he’s all over me with handshakes and how-are-you’s? I follow him around a corner, down a hallway to an elevator. He’s almost as young as I am, talks incessantly about nothing. We exit on four, and I’m already hopelessly lost in this architectural horror. The floors are carpeted on the fourth floor, the lights are dimmer, the walls have paintings. Moyer rattles away as we walk along a hallway, then pulls open a heavy door, and shows me to my place.

Welcome to the Fortune 500. It’s a boardroom, long and wide with a shiny oblong table in the center and at least fifty chairs around it. Leather chairs. A glistening chandelier hangs just a few feet from the center of the

table. In a corner to my left is a bar. To my right is a coffee tray with biscuits and bagels. Around the food is a cluster of conspirators, at least eight of them, every one in a dark suit, white shirt, striped tie, black shoes. Eight against one. The nervous tremors in my major organs become serious quakes. Where is Tyrone Kipler when I need him? Right now, even Deck’s presence would be comforting.

Four of them are my buddies from Trent & Brent. One is a familiar face from the hearings in Memphis, the other three are strangers, and they all instantly clam up when they realize I’ve arrived. For a second, they stop sipping and chewing and talking, and just gawk at me. I’ve interrupted a very serious conversation.