The Rainmaker

Twelve

As I’ve waded through the cases and materials given to me by Max Leuberg, I have continually been astonished at the lengths to which wealthy insurance companies have gone to screw little people. No dollar is too trivial to connive for. No scheme is too challenging to activate. I’ve also been amazed at how few policyholders actually file suit. Most never consult a lawyer. They are shown layers of language in the appendices and addenda and convinced that they only thought they were insured. One study estimates that less than five percent of bad-faith denials are ever seen by a lawyer. The people who buy these policies are not educated. They are often as fearful of the lawyers as they are of the insurance companies. The idea of walking into a courtroom and testifying before a judge and jury is enough to silence them.

Barry Lancaster and I spend the better part of two days plowing through the Black file. He’s handled several bad-faith cases over the years, with varying degrees of success. He says repeatedly that juries are so damned conservative in Memphis that it’s hard to get a just verdict. I’ve heard this for three years. For a Southern city, Memphis is a tough union town. Union towns usually produce good verdicts for plaintiffs. But for some unknown reason, it rarely happens here. Jonathan Lake has had a handful of million-dollar verdicts, but now prefers to try cases in other states.

I have yet to meet Mr. Lake. He’s in a big trial somewhere, and unconcerned about meeting his newest employee.

My temporary office is in a small library on a ledge overlooking the second floor. There are three round tables, eight stacks of books, all relating to medical malpractice. During my first full day on the job, Barry showed me a nice room just down the hall from him and explained this would be mine in a couple of weeks. Needs some paint and there’s something wrong with the electrical wiring. What do you expect from a warehouse? he has asked me more than once.

I haven’t actually met anyone else in the firm, and I’m sure this is because I’m a lowly paralegal, not a lawyer. I’m nothing new or special. Paralegals come and go.

These are very busy people, and there’s not much camaraderie. Barry says little about the other lawyers in the building, and I get the distinct impression that each little trial unit is pretty much on its own. I also get the feeling that handling lawsuits under the supervision of Jonathan Lake is edgy business.

Barry arrives at the office before eight each morning, and I’m determined to meet him at the front door until I get a key to this place. Evidently, Mr. Lake is very particular about who has access to the building. It’s a long story about his phones getting bugged years ago while engaged in a vicious lawsuit with an insurance company. Barry told me the story when I first broached the subject of a key. Might take weeks, he said. And a polygraph.

He parked me on the ledge, gave me my instructions and left for his office. During the first two days, he checked on me every two hours or so. I copied everything in the Black file. Without his knowledge, I also ran a complete copy of the file for my records. I took this copy home at the end of the second day, tucking it away nicely in my sleek new attaché case, a gift from Prince.

Using Barry’s guidelines, I drafted a rather severe letter to Great Benefit, in which I laid out all the relevant facts and pertinent misdeeds on its behalf. When his secretary finished typing it, it ran for four pages. He performed radical surgery on it, and sent me back to my corner. He’s very intense and takes great pride in his ability to concentrate.

During a break on my third day, I finally mustered the courage to ask his secretary about the paperwork relevant to my employment. She was busy, but said she’d look into it.

At the end of the third day, Barry and I left his office just after nine. We had completed the letter to Great Benefit, a three-page masterpiece to be sent by certified mail, return receipt. He never talks about life outside the office. I suggested we go have a beer and a sandwich, but he quickly stiff-armed me.

I drove to Yogi’s for a late snack. The place was packed with drunk frat boys, and Prince himself was tending bar. And not happy about it. I took over and told him to go play bouncer. He was delighted.

He went instead to his favorite table, where his lawyer, Bruiser Stone, was chain-smoking Camels and taking bets on a boxing match. Bruiser was in the paper again this morning, denying any knowledge of anything. The cops found a dead body in a waste Dumpster behind a topless joint two years ago. The deceased was a local thug who owned a piece of the porno business in town, and evidently wanted to branch out into the bouncing boob trade. He stepped onto the wrong turf with the wrong deal, and was decapitated. Bruiser wouldn’t do a thing like that, but the cops seem reasonably confident that he knows precisely who did.

He’s been in here a lot lately, drinking heavily, whispering to Prince.

Thank God I have a real job. I’d almost resigned myself to asking Bruiser for work.

Today is Friday, my fourth day as an employee of the Lake firm. I have told a handful of people that I work for the Lake firm, and it’s very pleasant, the way it rolls off my tongue. It has a satisfying ring to it. The Lake firm. No one has to ask about the firm. Just mention its name, and people see the magnificent old warehouse and they know it’s the home of the great Jonathan Lake and his gang of kick-ass lawyers.

Booker almost cried. He bought steaks and a bottle of nonalcoholic wine. Charlene cooked and we celebrated until midnight.

I hadn’t planned on waking before seven this morning, but there is a loud whacking noise against my apartment door. It’s Miss Birdie, rattling the doorknob now, calling, “Rudy! Rudy!”

I unbolt the door, and she barges in. “Rudy. Are you awake?” She’s looking at me in the small kitchen. I’m wearing gym shorts and a tee shirt, nothing indecent. My eyes are barely open, hair sticking out in all directions. I’m awake, but barely.

The sun is hardly up, but she’s already dirty with soil on her apron and mud on her shoes. “Good morning,” I say, trying hard not to sound irritated.

She grins, yellow and gray. “Did I wake you?” she chirps.

“No, I was just getting up.”

“Good. We have work to do.”

“Work? But—”

“Yes, Rudy. You’ve ignored the mulch long enough, now it’s time to get busy. It’ll rot if we don’t hurry.”

I blink my eyes and try to focus. “Today is Friday,” I mumble with some uncertainty.

“No. It’s Saturday,” she snaps.

We stare at each other for a few seconds, then I glance at my watch, a habit I’ve picked up after only three days on the job. “It’s Friday, Miss Birdie. Friday. I have to work today.”

“It’s Saturday,” she repeats stubbornly.

We stare some more. She glances at my gym shorts. I study her muddy shoes.

“Look, Miss Birdie,” I say warmly, “I know today is Friday, and I’m expected at the office in an hour and a half. We’ll do the mulch this weekend.” Of course I’m trying to placate her. I had planned to man my desk tomorrow morning.

“It’ll rot.”

“Not before tomorrow.” Does mulch really rot in the bag? I don’t think so.

“I wanted to do the roses tomorrow.”

“Well, why don’t you work on the roses today while I’m at the office, then tomorrow we’ll do the mulch.”

She chews on this for a moment, and is suddenly pitiful. Her shoulders sink and her face saddens. It’s hard to tell whether she’s embarrassed. “Do you promise?” she asks meekly.

“I promise.”

“You said you’d do the yard work if I’d lower the rent.”

“Yes, I know.” How could I forget? She’s reminded me of this a dozen times already.

“Well, okay,” she says as if she’s gotten exactly what she came for. Then she waddles out the door and down the steps, mumbling all the way. I quietly close the door, wondering at what hour she’ll come and fetch me in the morning.

I dress and drive to the office, where a half-dozen cars are already parked and the warehouse is partially lit. It’s not yet seven. I wait in my car until another one pulls into the lot, and I time my approach perfectly so that I catch a middle-aged man at the front door. He’s holding a briefcase and balancing a tall paper cup of coffee while fumbling for his keys.

He seems startled by me. This is not a high-crime area, but it’s still midtown Memphis and people are jumpy.

“Good morning,” I say warmly.

“Mornin’,” he grunts. “Can I help you?”

“Yes sir. I’m Barry Lancaster’s new paralegal, just reporting for work.”

“Name?”

“Rudy Baylor.”

His hands become still for a moment and he frowns hard. His bottom lip curls and protrudes and he shakes his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. I’m the business manager. Nobody’s said a word to me.”

“He hired me four days ago, I swear.”

He sticks the key in the door with a fearful glance over his shoulder. The guy thinks I’m a thief or a killer. I’m wearing a coat and tie, and look quite nice.

“Sorry. But Mr. Lake has very strict rules about security. No one gets in before hours unless they’re on the payroll.” He almost jumps inside the door. “Tell Barry to buzz me this morning,” he says, then slams the door in my face.

I’m not going to hang around the front steps like a panhandler waiting for the next payrolled person to come along. I drive a few blocks to a deli, where I buy a morning paper, roll and coffee. I kill an hour breathing cigarette smoke and hearing the gossip, then return to the parking lot, which now has even more cars in it. Nice cars. Elegant German cars and other glossy imports. I carefully select a space next to a Chevrolet.

The front receptionist has seen me come and go a few times, but pretends I’m a complete stranger. I’m not about to inform her that I am now an employee, same as she. She calls Barry, who greenlights my entrance into the maze.

He’s due in court at nine, motions in a product liability case, so he’s moving quickly. I’m determined to discuss the addition of my name to the firm payroll, but the timing is bad. It can wait a day or two. He’s stuffing files into a bulky briefcase, and for a moment I’m taken with the idea of assisting him in court this morning.

He has other plans. “I want you to go see the Blacks, and come back with a signed contract. It needs to be done now.” He really emphasizes the word “now,” so I know precisely where I’m headed.

He hands me a thin file. “Contract’s in there. I prepared it last night. Look it over. It needs to be signed by all three Blacks — Dot, Buddy and Donny Ray, since he’s an adult.”

I nod confidently, but I’d rather be beaten than spend the morning with the Blacks. I’ll finally meet Donny Ray, a meeting I thought I could postpone forever. “And after that?” I ask.

“I’ll be in court all day. Come find me in Judge Anderson’s courtroom.” His phone rings and he sort of waves me away, as if my time is up now.

The idea of me collecting all the Blacks around the kitchen table for a group signing is not appealing. I’d be forced to sit and watch as Dot stalked through the backyard to the wrecked Fairlane, bitching every step of the way then coaxing and cajoling old Buddy away from his cats and gin. She’d probably pull him from the car by his ear. It could be nasty. And I’d have to sit nervously as she disappeared into the rear of the house to prepare Donny Ray, then hold my breath as he came to meet me, his lawyer.

To avoid as much of this as possible, I stop at a pay phone at a Gulf station and call Dot. What a shame. The Lake firm has the finest electronic gadgetry available, and I’m forced to use a pay phone. Thank goodness Dot answers. I cannot imagine a phone chat with Buddy. I doubt if he has a car phone in his Fairlane.

As always, she’s suspicious, but agrees to meet with me for a few moments. I don’t exactly instruct her to assemble the clan, but I stress the need to have everyone’s signature. And, typically, I tell her I’m in a great hurry. Off to court, you know. Judges are waiting.

The same dogs snarl at me from behind the chain-link next door as I park in the Black driveway. Dot is standing on the cluttered porch, cigarette cocked with filter tip just inches from her lips, a bluish fog drifting lazily from above her head across the front lawn. She’s been waiting and smoking for a while.

I force a wide, phony grin and offer all sorts of greetings. The wrinkles around her mouth barely crack. I follow her through the cramped and muggy den, past the torn sofa sitting under a collection of old portraits of the Blacks as a happy lot, over the worn shag carpeting with small throw rugs to hide the holes, into the kitchen, where no one is waiting.

“Coffee?” she asks, pointing to my spot at the kitchen table.

“No, thanks. Just some water.”

She fills a plastic glass with tap water, no ice, and places it before me. Slowly, we both look through the window.

“I can’t get him to come in,” she says without a trace of frustration. I guess some days Buddy will come in, some days he won’t.

“Why not?” I ask, as if his behavior can be rationalized.

She just shrugs. “You need Donny Ray too, right?”

“Yes.”

She eases from the kitchen, leaving me with my warm water and view of Buddy. He’s actually hard to see because the windshield hasn’t been washed in decades and a horde of mangy cats romps around the hood. He’s wearing a cap of some sort, probably with wool earflaps, and he slowly lifts the bottle to his lips. It appears to be in a brown paper bag. He takes a leisurely nip.

I hear Dot speaking softly to her son. They’re shuffling through the den, then they’re in the kitchen. I stand to meet Donny Ray Black.

He’s definitely about to die, whatever the cause. He’s horribly gaunt and emaciated, hollow-cheeked, skin as bleached as chalk. He was small-framed before this affliction struck, and now he’s stooped at the waist and no taller than his mother. His hair and eyebrows are jet black, in graphic contrast to his pasty skin. But he smiles and sticks out a bony hand, which I shake as firmly as I dare.

Dot has been clutching him around the waist, and she gently eases him into a chair. He’s wearing baggy jeans and a plain white tee shirt that drapes and sags loosely over his skeleton.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, trying to avoid his sunken eyes.

“Mom’s said nice things about you,” he replies. His voice is weak and raspy, but his words are clear. I never thought about Dot saying kind things about me. He cups his chin in both hands, as if his head won’t stay up by itself. “She says you’re suing those bastards at Great Benefit, gonna make ’em pay.” His words are more desperate than angry.

“That’s right,” I say. I open the file and produce a copy of the demand letter Barry X. mailed to Great Benefit. I hand it to Dot, who is standing behind Donny Ray. “We filed this,” I explain, very much the efficient lawyer. Filed, as opposed to mailed. Sounds better, like we’re really on the move now. “We don’t expect them to respond in a satisfactory manner, so we’ll be suing in a matter of days. Probably ask for at least a million.”

Dot glances at the letter, then places it on the table. I had expected a barrage of questions about why I haven’t filed suit already. I was afraid it could get contentious. But she gently rubs Donny Ray’s shoulders, and stares forlornly through the window. She’ll watch her words because she doesn’t want to upset him.

Donny Ray is facing the window. “Is Daddy comin’ in?” he asked.

“Said he won’t,” she answers.

I pull the contract from the file, and hand it to Dot. “This must be signed before we can file suit. It’s a contract between you, the clients, and my law firm. A contract for legal representation.”

She holds it warily. It’s only two pages. “What’s in it?”

“Oh, the usual. It’s pretty standard language. You guys hire us as your lawyers, we handle the case, take care of the expenses, and we get a third of any recovery.”

“Then why does it take two pages of small print?” she asks as she pulls a cigarette from a pack on the table.

“Don’t light that!” Donny snaps over his shoulder. He looks at me, and says, “No wonder I’m dying.”

Without hesitation, she sticks the cigarette between her lips and keeps looking at the document. She doesn’t light it. “And all three of us have to sign it?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, he said he ain’t comin’ in,” she said.

“Then take it out there to him,” Donny Ray says angrily. “Just get a pen and go out there and make him sign the damned thing.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” she says.

“We’ve done it before.” Donny Ray lowers his head and scratches his scalp. The sharp words have winded him.

“I guess I could,” she says, still hesitant.

“Just go, dammit!” he says, and Dot scratches around in a drawer until she finds a pen. Donny Ray raises his head and rests it on his hands. His hands are supported by wrists as thin as broom handles.

“Be back in a minute,” Dot says, as though she’s running errands down the street and worried about her boy. She walks slowly across the brick patio and into the weeds. A cat on the hood sees her coming and dives under the car.

“A few months ago,” Donny Ray says, then takes a long pause. His breathing is labored and his head rocks slightly. “A few months ago we had to have his signature notarized, and he wouldn’t leave. She found a notary willing to make a house call for twenty dollars, but when she got here he wouldn’t come in. So Mom and the notary go out there to the car, high-stepping through the weeds. You see that big orange cat on top of the car?”

“Uh-huh.”

“We call her Claws. She’s sort of the watchcat around here. Anyway, when the notary reached in to get the papers from Buddy, who of course was soused and barely conscious, Claws jumped from the car and attacked the notary. Cost us sixty bucks for the doctor’s visit. And a new pair of panty hose. Have you ever seen anybody with acute leukemia?”

“No. Not until now.”

“I weigh a hundred and ten pounds. Eleven months ago I weighed a hundred and sixty. The leukemia was detected in plenty of time to be treated. I’m lucky enough to have an identical twin, and the bone marrow’s an identical match. The transplant would’ve saved my life, but we couldn’t afford it. We had insurance, but you know the rest of the story. I guess you know all this, right?”

“Yes. I’m very familiar with your case, Donny Ray.”

“Good,” he says, relieved. We watch Dot shoo away the cats. Claws, perched on top of the car, pretends to be asleep. Claws wants no part of Dot Black. The doors are open, and Dot sticks the contract inside. We can hear her penetrating voice.

“I know you think they’re crazy,” he says, reading my mind. “But they’re good people who’ve had some bad breaks. Be patient with them.”

“They’re nice folks.”

“I’m eighty percent gone, okay. Eighty percent. If I’d received the transplant, hell even six months ago, then I would’ve had a ninety percent chance of being cured. Ninety percent. Funny how doctors use numbers to tell us we’ll live or die. Now it’s too late.” He suddenly gasps for breath, clenching his fists and shuddering all over. His face turns a light shade of pink as he desperately sucks in air, and for a second I feel as if I need to help. He beats his chest with both fists, and I’m afraid his whole body is about to cave in.

He catches his breath finally, and snorts rapidly through his nose. It is precisely at this moment that I begin to hate Great Benefit Life Insurance Company.

I’m not ashamed to look at him anymore. He’s my client, and he’s counting on me. I’ll take him, warts and all.

His breathing is as normal as possible, and his eyes are red and moist. I can’t tell if he’s crying or just recovering from the seizure. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Claws hisses loud enough for us to hear, and we look just in time to see her flying through the air and landing in the weeds. Evidently, the watchcat was a bit too interested in my contract, and Dot knocked the hell out of her. Dot is saying something ugly to her husband, who’s hunkered even lower behind the wheel. She reaches in, snatches the paperwork, then storms toward us, cats diving for cover in all directions.

“Eighty percent gone, okay?” Donny Ray says hoarsely. “So I won’t be around much longer. Whatever you get out of this case, please take care of them with it. They’ve had a hard life.”

I’m touched by this to the point of being unable to respond.

Dot opens the door and slides the contract across the table. The first page is ripped slightly at the bottom and the second has a smudge on it. I hope it’s not cat poop. “There,” she says. Mission accomplished. Buddy has indeed signed it, a signature that’s absolutely illegible.

I point here and there. Donny Ray and his mother sign, and the deal is sealed. We chat a few minutes as I start glancing at my watch.

When I leave them, Dot is seated next to Donny Ray, gently stroking his arm and telling him that things will get better.