John Grisham

Kipler makes a big production out of shaking his head and acting disgusted. "Be seated, Mr. Drummond," he says. I have yet to open my mouth.

"Here’s the plan, gentlemen," His Honor says. "One week from next Monday, we will gather here for depositions. The following people will appear on behalf of the defendant: Richard Pellrod, senior claims examiner; Ever-ett Luflan, Vice President of Claims; Kermit Aldy, Vice President of Underwriting; Bradford Barnes, Vice President of Administration and M. Wilfred Keeley, CEO." Kipler told me to make a wish list of the ones I wanted.

I can almost feel the air being sucked from the room into the lungs of the boys across the aisle.

"No excuses, no delays, no continuances. They will of course travel here at their own expense. They will make themselves available for depositions at the pleasure of the plaintiff, and be released only when Mr. Baylor says so. All expenses of the depositions, including stenographer’s fees and copying, will be borne by Great Benefit. Let’s plan on three days for these depositions.

"Furthermore, copies of all documents shall be delivered to the plaintiff no later than Wednesday of next week, five days before the depositions. The documents are to be neatly copied and in chronological order. Failure to do so will result in severe sanctions.

"And, speaking of sanctions, I hereby order the defendant, Great Benefit, to pay to Mr. Baylor, as sanctions, the cost of his wasted trip to Cleveland. Mr. Baylor, how much is a round-trip plane ticket to Cleveland?"

"Seven hundred dollars," I say, answering truthfully.

"Is that first class or coach?"

"Coach."

"Mr. Drummond, you guys sent four lawyers to Cleveland. Did you fly first class or coach?"

Drummond glances at T. Pierce, who cringes like a kid caught stealing, then says, "First class."

"That’s what I thought. How much is a first-class ticket?"

"Thirteen hundred."

"How much did you spend on food and lodging, Mr. Baylor?"

Actually, less than forty dollars. But it would be terribly embarrassing to admit this in open court. I wish I’d stayed in a penthouse suite. "Around sixty bucks," I say, fudging a little but not being greedy. I’m sure their rooms were a hundred and fifty dollars a night.

Kipler is writing this down with great drama, the calculator clicking in his brain, "What’d you spend traveling? A couple hours each way?"

"I guess," I say.

"At two hundred bucks an hour, that’s eight hundred dollars. Any other expenses?"

"Two hundred fifty to the court reporter."

He writes this down, adds it all up, checks his figures and says, "I order the defendant to pay Mr. Baylor the sum of two thousand four hundred and ten dollars, as sanctions, to be paid within five days. If not received by Mr. Baylor within five days, the sum will automatically double each day until the check is received. Do you understand this, Mr. Drummond?"

I can’t help smiling.

Drummond rises slowly, slightly bent at the waist, hands spreading out. "I object to this," he says. He’s burning, but he’s under control.

"Your objection is noted. Your client has five days."

"There’s no proof that Mr. Baylor flew first class."

It’s the nature of a defense lawyer to contest everything. Nitpicking is a native feature. It’s also profitable. But the money is peanuts to his client, and Drummond should realize he’ll get nowhere with this.

"Evidently the trip to Cleveland and back is worth thirteen hundred dollars, Mr. Drummond. That’s what I’m ordering your client to pay."

"Mr. Baylor does not get paid by the hour," he replies.

"Are you saying his time is not valuable?"

"No."

What he wants to say is that I’m just a rookie street lawyer and my time is not nearly as valuable as his or his buddies.

"Then you’ll pay him two hundred per hour. Consider yourself lucky. I was thinking of charging you for every hour he spent in Cleveland."

So close!

Drummond waves his arms in frustration and retakes his seat. Kipler is glaring down. After a few months on the bench, he’s already famous for his dislike of the big firms. He’s been quick with sanctions in other cases, and there’s lots of buzz about it in legal circles. It doesn’t take much.

"Anything else?" he growls in their direction.

"No sir," I say loudly, just to let everyone know I’m still here.

There’s a general, collective shaking of heads among the conspirators across the aisle, and Kipler raps his gavel. I gather my papers quickly and leave the courtroom.

FOR DINNER, I eat a bacon sandwich with Dot. The sun falls slowly behind the trees in their backyard, behind the Fairlane where Buddy sits and refuses to come eat. She says he’s spending more and more time out there because of Donny Ray. It’s a matter of days now before he dies, and Buddy’s way of dealing with it is to hide in the car out there and drink. He sits with his son for a few minutes each morning, usually leaves the room in tears, then tries to avoid everybody for the rest of the day.

Plus, he usually doesn’t come in if there’s company in the house. Fine with me. And fine with Dot. We chat about the lawsuit, about the actions of Great Benefit and the incredible fairness of Judge Tyrone Kipler, but she’s

lost interest. The fiery woman I first met six months ago at Cypress Gardens seems to have given up the fight. Then, she honestly thought a lawyer, any lawyer, even me, could scare Great Benefit into doing right. There was still time for a miracle. Now all hope is gone.

Dot will always blame herself for Donny Ray’s death. She’s told me more than once that she should’ve gone straight to a lawyer when Great Benefit first denied the claim. She chose instead to write the letters herself. I now have a strong suspicion Great Benefit would’ve stepped in quickly, after being threatened with litigation, and provided treatment. I think this for two reasons: First, they’re dead wrong and they know it. And, second, they offered seventy-five thousand dollars to settle shortly after I, a rather green rookie, sued them. They’re scared. Their lawyers are scared. The boys in Cleveland are scared.

Dot serves me a cup of instant decaf, then leaves to check on her husband. I take my coffee to the back of the house, to Donny Ray’s room, where he’s sleeping under the sheets, curled on his right side. A small lamp in the corner gives the only light. I sit close to it with my back to the open window, catching a cool breeze. The neighborhood is quiet, the room is still.

His will is a simple two-paragraph document leaving everything to his mother. I prepared it a week ago. He neither owes nor owns anything, and the will is unnecessary. But it made him feel better. He’s also planned his funeral. Dot’s made the arrangements. He wants me to be a pallbearer.

I pick up the same book I’ve been reading intermittently for two months now, a condensed book with four novels in it. It’s thirty years old, one of the few books in the house. I leave it in the same place and read a few pages on each visit.

He grunts and jerks a bit. I wonder what she’ll do when she eases in one morning and he doesn’t wake up.

She leaves us alone when I’m sitting with Donny Ray. I can hear her washing dishes. Buddy, I think, is in the house now. I read for an hour, glancing at Donny Ray occasionally. If he wakes, then we’ll chat, or perhaps I’ll turn on the TV. Whatever he wants.

I hear a strange voice in the den, then a knock on the door. It opens slowly and it takes a few seconds for me to recognize the young man standing there. It’s Dr. Kord, making a house call. We shake hands and speak softly at the foot of the bed, then walk three steps to the window.