The Rainmaker

Twenty-one

The Shelby County justice center is a twelve-story modern building downtown. The concept is one-stop justice. It has lots of courtrooms and offices for clerks and administrators. It houses the district attorney and the sheriff. It even has a jail.

Criminal Court has ten divisions, ten judges with different dockets in different courtrooms. The middle levels swarm with lawyers and cops and defendants and their families. It’s a forbidding jungle for a novice lawyer, but Deck knows his way around. He’s made a few calls.

He points to the door for Division Four, and says he’ll meet me there in an hour. I enter the double doors and take a seat on the back bench. The floor is carpeted, the furnishings are depressingly modern. Lawyers are as thick as ants in the front of the room. To the right is a holding area where a dozen orange-clad arrestees await their initial appearances before the judge. A prosecutor of some variety handles a stack of files, shuffling through them for the right defendant.

On the second row from the front, I see Cliff Riker.

He’s huddled with his lawyer, looking over some paperwork. His wife is not in the courtroom.

The judge appears from the back, and everyone rises. A few cases are disposed of, bonds reduced or forgotten, future dates agreed upon. The lawyers meet in brief huddles, then nod and whisper to His Honor.

Cliff’s name is called, and he swaggers to a podium in front of the bench. His lawyer is beside him with the papers. The prosecutor announces to the court that the charges against Cliff Riker have been dropped for lack of evidence.

“Where’s the victim?” the judge interrupts.

“She chose not to be here,” the prosecutor answers.

“Why?” the judge asks.

Because she’s in a wheelchair, I want to scream.

The prosecutor shrugs as if she doesn’t know, and, furthermore, doesn’t really care. Cliff’s lawyer shrugs as if he’s surprised the little lady is not here to exhibit her wounds.

The prosecutor is a busy person, with dozens of cases to work before noon. She quickly recites a summary of the facts, the arrest, the lack of evidence because the victim will not testify.

“This is the second time,” the judge says, glaring at Cliff. “Why don’t you divorce her before you kill her?”

“We’re trying to get some help, Your Honor,” Cliff says in a pitifully rehearsed voice.

“Well, get it quick. If I see these charges again, I will not dismiss them. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir,” Cliff answers, as if he’s deeply sorry to be such a bother. The paperwork is handed to the bench. The judge signs it while shaking his head. The charges are dismissed.

The voice of the victim once again has not been heard. She’s at home with a broken ankle, but that’s not what kept her away. She’s hiding because she prefers not to be beaten again. I wonder what price she paid for dropping the charges.

Cliff shakes hands with his lawyer, and struts down the aisle, past my bench, out the door, free to do whatever he pleases, immune from prosecution because there’s no one to help Kelly.

There’s a frustrating logic to this assembly line justice. Not far away, sitting over there in orange jumpsuits and handcuffs, are rapists, murderers, drug dealers. The system barely has enough time to run these thugs through and allocate some measure of justice. How can the system be expected to care for the rights of one beaten wife?

While I was taking the bar last week, Deck was making phone calls. He found the Rikers’ new address and phone number. They just moved to a large apartment complex in southeast Memphis. One bedroom, four hundred a month. Cliff works for a freight company, not far from our office, a nonunion terminal. Deck suspects he makes about seven dollars an hour. His lawyer is just another ham-and-egger, one of a million in this city.

I have told Deck the truth about Kelly. He said he thought it was important for him to know, because when Cliff blows my head off with a shotgun, he, Deck, will be around to tell why it happened.

Deck also told me to forget about her. She’s nothing but trouble.

There’s a note on my desk to immediately see Bruiser. He’s alone behind his oversized desk, on the phone, the one to his right. There’s another phone to his left, and three more scattered around the office. One in his car. One in his briefcase. And the one he gave me so he can reach me around the clock.

He motions for me to sit, rolls his black and red eyes as if he’s conversing with some nut and grunts an affirmative reaction into the receiver. The sharks are either asleep or hidden behind some rocks. The aquarium filter gurgles and hums.

Deck has whispered to me that Bruiser makes between three hundred and five hundred thousand dollars a year from this office. That’s hard to believe, looking around the cluttered room. He keeps four associates out there beating the bushes, rustling up injury cases. (And now he’s got me.) Deck was able to click off five cases last year which earned Bruiser a hundred and fifty thousand. He makes a bundle from drug cases, and has earned the reputation in the narcotics industry as a lawyer who can be trusted. But, according to Deck, Bruiser Stone’s real income is from his investments. He’s involved, to what extent no one knows and the federal government evidently is trying desperately to ascertain, in the topless business in Memphis and Nashville. It’s a cash-rich industry, so there’s no telling what he skims.

He’s been divorced three times, Deck reported over a greasy sandwich at Trudy’s, has three teenaged children who, not surprisingly, live with their assorted mothers, likes the company of young table dancers, drinks and gambles too much, and will never, regardless of how much cash he can clutch with his thick hands, have enough money to satisfy him.

He was arrested seven years ago on federal racketeering charges, but the government didn’t stand a chance. The charges were dismissed after a year. Deck confided that he was worried about the FBI’s current investigation into the Memphis underworld, an investigation that has repeatedly yielded the names of Bruiser Stone and his best friend, Prince Thomas. Deck said that Bruiser has been acting a bit unusual — drinking too much, getting angrier faster, stomping and growling around the office more than normal.

Speaking of phones. Deck is certain that the FBI has bugged every phone in our offices, including mine. And he thinks the walls are wired too. They’ve done it before, he said with grave authority. And be careful at Yogi’s too.

He left me with this comforting thought yesterday afternoon. If I pass the bar exam, get just a little money in my pocket, I’m outta here.

Bruiser finally hangs up and wipes his tired eyes. “Take a look at this,” he says, shoving a thick stack of papers at me.

“What is it?”

“Great Benefit responds. You’re about to learn why it’s painful to sue big corporations. They have lots of money to hire lots of lawyers who produce lots of paper. Leo F. Drummond probably clips Great Benefit for two-fifty per hour.”

It’s a motion to dismiss the Blacks’ lawsuit, with a supporting brief that’s sixty-three pages long. There’s a notice to hear argument on said motion before the Honorable Harvey Hale.

Bruiser watches me calmly. “Welcome to the battlefield.”

I have a nice lump in my throat. Responding in kind to this will take days. “It’s impressive,” I say with a dry throat. I don’t know where to begin.

“Read the rules carefully. Respond to the motion. Write your brief. Do it fast. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“It’s not?”

“No, Rudy. It’s paperwork. You’ll learn. These bastards will file every motion known and many they invent, all with thick supporting briefs. And they’ll want to run to court every time to have a hearing on their beloved little motions. They really don’t care if they win or lose them, they’re making money regardless. Plus, it delays the trial. They’ve got it down to a fine art, and their clients foot the bill. Problem is, they’ll run you ragged in the process.”

“I’m already tired.”

“It’s a bitch. Drummond snaps his fingers, says, ‘I wanna motion to dismiss,’ and three associates bury themselves in the library, and two paralegals pull up old briefs on their computers. Presto! In no time there’s a fat brief, thoroughly researched. Then Drummond has to read it several times, plow through it at two-fifty an hour, maybe get a partner buddy of his to read it too. Then he has to edit and cut and modify, so the associates go back to the library and the paralegals go back to their computers. It’s a rip-off, but Great Benefit has plenty of money and doesn’t mind paying people like Tinley Britt.”

I feel like I’ve challenged an army. Two phones ring at once, and Bruiser grabs the nearest. “Get busy,” he says to me, then says “Yeah” into the receiver.

With both hands, I carry the bundle to my office and close the door. I read the motion to dismiss with its handsomely presented and perfectly typed brief, a brief I quickly find to be filled with persuasive arguments against almost everything I said in the lawsuit. The language is rich and clear, as devoid of dense legalese as any brief can be, remarkably well written. The positions set forth are fortified with a multitude of authorities which appear to be squarely on point. There are fancy footnotes at the bottom of most pages. There’s even a table of contents, an index and a bibliography.

The only thing lacking is a prepared order for the judge to sign granting everything Great Benefit wants.

After the third reading, I collect myself and start taking notes. There might be a hole or two to poke in it. The shock and fright wear off. I summon forth my immense dislike for Great Benefit and what it’s done to my client, and I roll up my sleeves.

Mr. Leo F. Drummond may be a litigating wizard, and he may have countless minions at his beck and call, but I, Rudy Baylor, have nothing else to do. I’m bright and I can work. He wants to start a paper war with me, fine. I’ll smother him.

Deck’s been through the bar exam six times before. He almost passed it on the third try, in California, but missed when his overall score fell two points shy. He’s taken it three times in Tennessee, never really coming close, he told me with remarkable candor. I’m not sure Deck wants to pass the bar. He makes forty thousand a year chasing cases for Bruiser, and he’s not burdened with ethical constraints. (Not that they bother Bruiser.) Deck doesn’t have to pay bar dues, worry about continuing legal education, attend seminars, appear before judges, feel guilty about pro bono work, not to mention overhead.

Deck’s a leech. As long as he has a lawyer with a name he can use and an office for him to work, Deck’s in business.

He knows I’m not too busy, so he’s fallen into the habit of dropping by my office around eleven. We’ll gossip for half an hour, then walk down to Trudy’s for a cheap lunch. I’m used to him now. He’s just Deck, an unpretentious little guy who wants to be my friend.

We’re in a corner, doing lunch among the freight handlers at Trudy’s, and Deck is talking so low I can barely hear him. At times, especially in hospital waiting rooms, he can be so bold it’s uncomfortable, then at times he’s as timid as a mouse. He’s mumbling something he desperately wants me to hear while glancing over both shoulders as if he’s about to be attacked.

“Used to be a guy who worked here in the firm, name’s David Roy, and he got close to Bruiser. They counted their money together, thick as thieves, you know. Roy got himself disbarred for co-mingling funds, so he can’t be a lawyer.” Deck wipes tuna salad from his lips with his fingers. “No big deal. Roy steps outta here, steps across the street and opens a skin club. It burns. He opens another, it burns. Then another. Then war breaks out in the boob business. Bruiser’s too smart to get in the middle of it, but he’s always on the fringes. So’s your pal Prince Thomas. The war goes on for a coupla years. A dead body turns up every so often. More fires. Roy and Bruiser have a bitter falling out of some sort. Last year the feds nail Roy, and it’s rumored that he’s gonna sing. Know what I mean.”

I nod with my face as low as Deck’s. No one can hear, but we get a few stares because of the way we’re hunkered over our food.

“Well, yesterday, David Roy testified before the grand jury. Looks like he’s cut a deal.”

With this, the punch line, Deck straightens stiffly and rolls his eyes down as if I now should be able to figure out everything.

“So,” I snap, still low.

He frowns, glances around warily, then descends. “There’s a good chance he’s singing on Bruiser. Maybe Prince Thomas. I’ve even heard a wild one that there’s a price on his head.”

“A contract!”

“Yes. Quiet.”

“By whom?” Surely not my employer.

“Take a wild guess.”

“Not Bruiser.”

He offers me a tight-lipped, toothless, coy little smile, then says, “It wouldn’t be the first time.” And with this, he takes an enormous bite of his sandwich, chews it slowly while nodding at me. I wait until he swallows.

“So what are you trying to tell me?” I ask.

“Keep your options open.”

“I have no options.”

“You may have to make a move.”

“I just got here.”

“Things might get hot.”

“What about you?” I ask.

“I might be making a move too.”

“What about the other guys?”

“Don’t worry about them, because they’re not worrying about you. I’m your only friend.”

These words stick with me for hours. Deck knows more than he’s telling, but after a few more lunches I’ll have it all. I have a strong suspicion that he is looking for a place to land if disaster strikes. I’ve met the other lawyers in the firm — Nicklass, Toxer and Ridge — but they keep to themselves and have little to say. Their doors are always locked. Deck doesn’t like them, and I can only speculate about their feelings for him. According to Deck, Toxer and Ridge are friends and might be scheming to soon open their own little firm. Nicklass is an alcoholic who’s on the ropes.

The worst scenario would be for Bruiser to get indicted and arrested and put on trial. That process would take at least a year. He’d still be able to work and operate his office. I think. They can’t disbar him until he’s convicted.

Relax, I keep telling myself.

And if I get tossed into the street, it’s happened before. I’ve managed to land on my feet.

I drive in the general direction of Miss Birdie’s, and pass a city park. At least three Softball games are in progress under lights.

I stop at a pay phone next to a car wash, and dial the number. After the third ring, she answers, “Hello.” The voice echoes through my body.

“Is Cliff there?” I say, an octave lower. If she says yes, I’ll simply hang up.

“No. Who’s calling?”

“Rudy,” I say in a normal tone. I hold my breath, expecting to hear a click followed by a dial tone, and also expecting to hear soft, longing words. Hell, I don’t know what to expect.

There’s a pause, but she doesn’t hang up. “I asked you not to call,” she says with no trace of anger or frustration.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. I’m worried about you.”

“We can’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Good-bye.” Now I hear the click, then the dial tone.

It took a lot of guts to make the call, and now I wish I hadn’t. Some people have more guts than brains. I know her husband is a demented hothead, but I don’t know how far he’ll go. If he’s the jealous type, and I’m sure he is because he’s a nineteen-year-old washed-up redneck jock who’s married to a beautiful girl, then I figure he’s suspicious of her every move. But would he go to the extreme of wiring their phones?

It’s a long shot, but it keeps me awake.

I’ve slept for less than an hour when my phone rings. It’s almost 4 a.m., according to the digital clock. I fumble for the phone in the darkness.

It’s Deck, highly excited and talking rapidly on his car phone. He’s racing toward me, less than three blocks away. It’s something big, something urgent, some wonderful disaster. Hurry up! Get dressed! I’m instructed to meet him at the curb in less than a minute.

He’s waiting for me in his ragged minivan. I jump in, and he lays rubber as we race away. I didn’t get a chance to brush my teeth. “What the hell are we doing?” I ask.

“Big wreck on the river,” he announces solemnly, as if he’s deeply saddened by it. Just another day at the office. “Just after eleven last night, an oil barge broke free from its tug, and floated downriver until it struck a paddle wheeler which was being used for a high school prom. Maybe three hundred kids on board. The paddle wheeler goes down near Mud Island, right off the bank.”

“That’s awful, Deck, but what in hell are we supposed to do about it?”

“Check it out. Bruiser gets a call. Bruiser calls me. Here we are. It’s a huge disaster, potentially the biggest ever in Memphis.”

“And this is something to be proud of?”

“You don’t understand. Bruiser is not gonna miss it.”

“Fine. Let him get his fat ass in a scuba suit and dive for bodies.”

“Could be a gold mine.” Deck is driving rapidly across town. We ignore each other as downtown approaches. An ambulance races by us, and my pulse quickens. Another ambulance cuts in front of us.

Riverside Drive is blocked off by dozens of police cars, all with lights streaking through the night. Fire trucks and ambulances are parked bumper to bumper. A helicopter hovers in the air downriver. There are groups of people standing perfectly still, and there are others scurrying about shouting and pointing. The boom of a crane is visible near the bank.

We walk quickly around the yellow caution tape and join the crowd of onlookers near the edge of the water. The scene is now several hours old, and most of the urgency has worn off. They’re waiting now. Many of the people are huddled together in horrified little groups sitting on the cobblestoned banks, watching and crying as the divers and paramedics search for bodies. Ministers kneel and pray with the families. Dozens of stunned kids in wet tuxedoes and torn prom dresses sit together, holding hands, staring at the water. One side of the paddle wheeler sticks ten feet above the surface, and the rescuers, many clad in black and blue wet suits and scuba gear, hang on to it. Others work from three pontoon boats roped together.

A ritual is under way here, but it takes a while to comprehend it. A police lieutenant walks slowly along a gangplank leading from a floating pier, and steps onto the cobblestones. The crowd, already subdued, becomes perfectly still. He steps to the front of a squad car as several reporters gather around him. Most of the people remain seated, clutching their blankets, lowering their heads in fervent prayers. They are the parents, families and friends. The lieutenant says, “I’m sorry, but we have identified the body of Melanie Dobbins.”

His words carry through the stillness, which is broken almost instantly by gasps and groans from the family of the girl. They squeeze and sink together. Friends kneel and hug, then a woman’s voice cries out.

The others turn and watch, but also breathe a collective sigh of relief. Their bad news is inevitable, but at least it’s been postponed. There’s still hope. I would later learn that twenty-one kids survived by being sucked into an air pocket.

The police lieutenant walks away, returns to the pier, where another body is being pulled from the water.

Then a second ritual, one not as tragic but far more disgusting, slowly unfolds. Men with somber faces ease or even try to sneak close to the grieving family. They have small white business cards which they attempt to give to family members or friends of the deceased. In the darkness, they inch closer, eyeing each other warily. They’d kill for the case. They only want a third.

All of this registers on Deck long before I realize what’s happening. He nods to a spot closer to the families, but I refuse to move. He slinks away into the crowd, disappearing quickly into the darkness, off to mine his gold.

I turn my back to the river, and soon I am running through the streets of downtown Memphis.