John Grisham

There’s a knock on the door, and, much to my surprise, Mr. M. Wilfred Keeley steps in. We haven’t seen each other since I grilled him for eight hours on Monday. He acts like he’s delighted to see me again. We shake hands, say hello like old buddies. He goes to the bar and mixes himself a drink.

They sip their whiskey as we sit around a small, round table in a corner. For Keeley to return here so soon means only one thing. They want to settle this case. I’m all ears.

I cleared six hundred dollars last month from my struggling practice, Drummond makes at least a million a year. Keeley runs a company with a billion in sales, and probably gets paid more than his lawyer. And they want to talk business with me.

"Judge Kipler concerns me a great deal," Drummond says abruptly.

"I’ve never seen anything like it," Keeley is quick to add.

Drummond is famous for his immaculate preparation, and I’m sure this little duet has been well rehearsed.

"To be honest, Rudy, I’m afraid of what he might do at trial," Drummond says.

"We’re being railroaded," Keeley says, shaking his head in disbelief.

Kipler is a legitimate cause for their concern, but they’re swearing blood because they’ve been caught red-handed. They’ve killed a young man, and their murderous deed is about to be exposed. I decide to be nice, let them say what they want.

They sip in unison, then Drummond says, "We’d like to settle this thing, Rudy. We feel good about our defense, and I mean that sincerely. Given an even playing field, we’re ready to tee it up tomorrow. I haven’t lost in eleven years. I love a good courtroom brawl. But this judge is so biased it’s frightening."

"How much?" I ask, cutting off the drivel.

They squirm in perfect hemorrhoidal harmony. A moment of pain, then Drummond says, "We’ll double it. A hundred and fifty thousand. You get fifty or so, your client gets a-"

"I can do the math," I say. It’s none of his business how much my fee will be. He knows I’m broke, and fifty thousand will make me rich.

Fifty thousand dollars!

"What am I supposed to do with this offer?" I ask.

They exchange puzzled looks.

"My client is dead. His mother buried him last week, and now you expect me to tell her there’s some more money on the table."

"Ethically, you’re obligated to tell her-"

"Don’t lecture me about ethics, Leo. I’ll tell her. I’ll convey the offer, and I’ll bet she says no."

"We’re very sorry about his death," Keeley says sadly.

"I can tell you’re really broken up, Mr. Keeley. I’ll pass along your condolences to the family."

"Look, Rudy, we’re making a good-faith effort to settle here," Drummond says.

"Your timing is terrible."

There’s a pause as we all take a drink. Drummond starts smiling first. "What does the lady want? Tell us, Rudy, what will it take to make her happy?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"There’s nothing you can do. He’s dead, and there’s nothing you can do about it."

"So why are we going to trial?"

"To expose what you’ve done."

More squirming. More pained expressions. More whiskey being gulped.

"She wants to expose you, then she wants to break you," I say.

"We’re too big," Keeley says smugly.

"We’ll see." I stand and pick up my briefcase. "I’ll find my way out," I say, and leave them sitting there.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

SLOWLY, OUR OFFICES ARE ACCUMULAT-ing the evidence of commercial activity, however humble and nonlucrative it may be. Thin files are stacked here and there, always in plain view so that the occasional visiting client can see them. I have almost a dozen court-appointed criminal cases, all serious misdemeanors or lightweight felonies. Deck claims to have thirty active files, though this number seems a bit high.

The phone rings even more now. It takes great discipline to talk on a phone with a bug in it, and it’s something I fight every day. I keep telling myself that before the phones were tapped a court order was signed allowing such an invasion. A judge had to approve it, so there must be an element of legitimacy in it.

The front room is still crowded with the rented tables, which are covered with documents for the Black case, and their presence gives the appearance of a truly monumental work in progress.

At least the office is looking busier. After several months in business, our overhead is averaging a miserly

seventeen hundred dollars a month. Our gross income is averaging thirty-two hundred, so Deck and I are splitting, on paper, fifteen hundred dollars before taxes and withholding.

We’re surviving. Our best client is Derrick Dogan, and if we can settle his case for twenty-five thousand, the policy limits, then we can breathe easier. We’re hoping it’ll hit in time for Christmas, though I’m not sure why. Neither Deck nor I have anyone we’d like to spend money on.

I’ll get through the holidays by working on the Black case. February is not far away.

THE MAIL TODAY is routine, with two exceptions. There is not a single piece from Trent & Brent. This is so rare it’s actually a thrill. The second surprise shocks me to the point of having to walk around the office to collect my wits.

The envelope is large and square, with my name and address handwritten. Inside is a printed invitation to attend a dazzling pre-Christmas sale of gold chains and bracelets and necklaces at a jewelry store in a local mall. It’s junk mail, the type I’d normally throw away if it had a preprinted address label.

At the bottom, below the store’s hours, in a rather lovely handwriting is the name: Kelly Riker. No message. Nothing. Just the name.

I WALK THE’ MALL for an hour after I arrive. I watch children ice-skate on an indoor rink. I watch groups of teenagers roam in large packs from one end to the other. I buy a platter of warmed-over Chinese food and eat it on the promenade above the ice-skaters.

The jewelry store is one of over a hundred shops under

this roof. I saw her punching a cash register the first time I slinked by.

I enter behind a young couple, and walk slowly to the long glass display counter where Kelly Riker is helping a customer. She glances up, sees me and smiles. I ease away a few steps, lean with my elbows on a counter, study the dazzling array of gold chains as thick as ski ropes. The store is crowded. A half-dozen clerks chatter and remove items from the cases.

"Can I help you, sir?" she says as she stands across from me, just two feet away. I look at her, and melt.

We smile at each other for as long as we dare. "Just looking," I say. No one is watching us, I hope. "How are you?"

"Fine, and you?"

"Great."

"Can I show you something? These are on sale."

She points and we’re suddenly looking at chains fit for a pimp. "Nice," I say, just loud enough for her to hear. "Can we talk?"

"Not here," she says, leaning even closer. I get a whiff of her perfume. She unlocks the case, slides the door open and removes a ten-inch gold chain. She holds it for me to see, and says, "There’s a cinema down the mall. Buy a ticket for the Eddie Murphy movie. Center section, back row. I’ll be there in thirty minutes."

"Eddie Murphy?" I ask, holding and admiring the chain.

"Nice isn’t it?"

"My favorite. Really nice. But let me look around some more." She takes it from me, says, "Come back soon," like the perfect salesperson.

My knees are weak as I float down the mall. She knew I’d come, and she had it planned-the cinema, the movie, the seat and the section. I drink coffee near an over-