The Rainmaker

Thirty-one

Pursuant to judge Kipler’s advice, and with his blessing, we gather in his courtroom for Dot’s deposition. After Drummond had scheduled it for my office without consulting me, I refused to agree on either the date or place. Kipler stepped in, called Drummond, and the matter was settled within a matter of seconds.

When we deposed Donny Ray, everyone got an eyeful of Buddy sitting in the Fairlane. I’ve explained to Kipler, and also to Drummond, that I don’t think we should depose Buddy. He ain’t right, as Dot put it. Poor guy is harmless, and he knows nothing about the insurance mess. Throughout the entire file, there is nothing to indicate Buddy has been remotely involved. I’ve never heard him utter a complete sentence. I can’t imagine him surviving the strain of an extended deposition. Buddy might erupt and maul a few lawyers.

Dot leaves him at home. I spent two hours with her yesterday preparing for Drummond’s questions. She’ll be around to testify at trial, so this will be a discovery depo, not an evidentiary one. Drummond will go first, ask virtually all the questions, and for the most part have free rein to explore. It will take hours.

Kipler wants to sit through this one too. We gather around one of the counsel tables in front of his bench. He orchestrates the video operator and the court reporter. This is his turf, and he wants it done just so.

I honestly believe he’s afraid Drummond will run over me if I’m left alone. The friction between these two is so profound they can barely look at each other. I think it’s wonderful.

Poor Dot’s hands are shaking as she sits alone at the end of the table. I’m close by, and that probably makes her even more nervous. She’s wearing her best cotton blouse, and her best jeans. I explained to her that she did not have to dress up because the video will not be shown to the jury. At trial, however, it will be important for her to wear a dress. God knows what we’ll do with Buddy.

Kipler sits on my side of the table, but as far away as possible, next to the video camera. Across is Drummond and only three assistants — B. Dewey Clay Hill the Third, M. Alec Plunk Junior, and Brandon Fuller Grone.

Deck’s in the building, down the hallway somewhere, stalking unsuspecting clients. He said he might drop by later.

So there are five lawyers and a judge staring at Dot Black as she raises her right hand and swears to tell the truth. My hands would be trembling too. Drummond flashes a toothy grin, introduces himself to Dot, for the record, and spends the first five minutes in a warm explanation of the purpose of a deposition. We’re looking for truth. He won’t try to mislead or confuse her. She’s free to counsel with her fine lawyer, and on and on. He’s in no hurry. The clock is ticking.

The first hour is spent on family history. Drummond, typically, is impeccably prepared. He moves slowly from one subject to the next — education, employment, homes, hobbies — and asks questions I could never dream of. Most of this is mindless drivel, but it’s what good lawyers do in discovery depositions. Ask, dig, peck away, dig some more and who knows what you’ll find. And if he found something incredibly juicy, say, a teenage pregnancy, it would be of absolutely no benefit. He couldn’t use it at trial. Totally irrelevant. But the rules allow such nonsense, and his client is paying him a truckload of money to plunder in the darkness.

Kipler announces a recess, and Dot makes a mad dash for the hallway. The cigarette is between her lips before she gets through the doors. We huddle near a water fountain.

“You’re doing fine,” I tell her, and she really is handling it well.

“Sumbitch gonna ask me about my sex life?” she growls.

“Probably.” An image of Dot and her husband in bed doing it flashes before me, and I almost have to excuse myself.

She’s puffing rapidly as if this one might be the last.

“Can’t you stop him?”

“If he gets out of line, I will. But he has the right to ask almost anything.”

“Nosy bastard.”

The second hour is as slow as the first. Drummond gets into the Blacks’ finances, and we learn about the purchase of their home and the purchases of their cars, including the Fairlane, and the purchases of the major appliances. Kipler has had enough at this point, and tells Drummond to move on. We learn a lot about Buddy, his war injuries and his jobs and his pension. And his hobbies, and how he spends his days.

Kipler acidly tells Drummond to try and find something relevant.

Dot informs us she has to go to the rest room. I told her to do this whenever she was tired. She chain-smokes three cigarettes in the hall as I chat with her and dodge the fumes.

Halfway through the third hour, we finally get around to the claim. I have prepared a complete copy of every document relating to the file, including Donny Ray’s medicals, and these are in a neat stack on the table. Kipler has reviewed these. We are in the rare and enviable position of having no bad documents. There is nothing we’d like to hide. Drummond can see it all.

According to Kipler, and also to Deck, it’s not unusual in these cases for the insurance companies to hide things from their own lawyers. In fact, it’s quite common, especially when the company has really dirty laundry and would like to bury it.

During a trial procedure class last year, we studied, in disbelief, case after case where corporate wrongdoers got nailed because they tried to hide documents from their own lawyers.

As we move to the paperwork, I’m terribly excited. So is Kipler. Drummond has already asked for these documents when he filed his written discovery, but I have another week before they’re due. I want to watch his face when he sees the Stupid Letter. So does Kipler.

We’re assuming he’s already seen most, if not all, of what’s on the table in front of Dot. He got his documents from his client, I took mine from the Blacks. But many are the same, we think. In fact, I’ve filed a written request for production of documents identical to his request. When he answers my request, he’ll send me copies of documents I’ve had for three months. The paper trail.

Later, if things go as planned, I’ll be introduced to a fresh batch of documents at the home office in Cleveland.

We start with the application and the policy. Dot hands it to Drummond, who reviews it quickly, then hands it to Hill; then it gets passed to Plunk, then, finally, to Grone. This takes time as these clowns flip through each page. They’ve had the damned policy and application for months. But time is money. Then the stenographer makes it an exhibit to Dot’s deposition.

The next document is the first letter of denial, and it gets passed along the table. The same procedure is repeated for the other letters of denial. I’m trying desperately to stay awake.

The Stupid Letter is next. I’ve instructed Dot to simply hand this to Drummond without commenting on its contents. I don’t want to tip him off in case he’s never seen it. It’s difficult for her because the letter is so inflammatory. Drummond takes it, reads it:

Having spent the last thirty years in courtrooms, Drummond is a superb actor. I know instantly that he’s never seen this letter. His client didn’t include it in the file. It hits him hard. His mouth falls slightly open. Three large wrinkles across his forehead instantly fold together. His eyes squint fiercely. He reads it a second time.

Then he does something that he later wishes he could have avoided. He raises his eyes above the letter and looks at me. I, of course, am staring at him, a rather sneering type of glare that says, “Caught you, big boy.”

Then he worsens his agony by looking at Kipler. His Honor is watching every facial move, every blink and twitch, and he catches the obvious. Drummond is stunned by what he’s holding.

He recovers nicely, but the damage is done. He passes the letter to Hill, who’s half asleep and unaware that his boss is handing him a bomb. We watch Hill for a few seconds, then it hits.

“Let’s go off the record,” Kipler says. The stenographer stops and the video camera operator clicks off the machine. “Mr. Drummond, it’s obvious to me that you’ve never seen this letter before. And I have a hunch it won’t be the first or last document your client tries to conceal. I’ve sued insurance companies enough to know that documents have a way of getting lost.” Kipler leans forward and begins pointing at Drummond. “If I catch you or your client hiding documents from the plaintiff, I’ll sanction both of you. I’ll impose severe penalties which will include costs and attorney fees at an hourly rate equal to what you bill your client. Do you understand me?”

The sanction route is the only way I’ll ever earn two hundred and fifty bucks an hour.

Drummond and crew are still reeling. I can only imagine how the letter will be received by a jury, and I’m sure they’re thinking the same.

“Are you accusing me of hiding documents, Your Honor?”

“Not yet.” Kipler is still pointing. “Right now, I’m just warning.”

“I think you should recuse yourself from this case, Your Honor.”

“Is that a motion?”

“Yes sir.”

“Denied. Anything else?”

Drummond shuffles papers and kills a few seconds. The tension subsides. Poor Dot is petrified, probably thinks she did something to set off these sparks. I’m a bit stiff myself.

“Back on the record,” Kipler says, never taking his eyes off Drummond.

A few questions are asked and answered. A few more documents are passed along the assembly line. We break for lunch at twelve-thirty, and an hour later we’re back for the afternoon. Dot is exhausted.

Kipler instructs Drummond, rather severely, to speed things up. He tries, but it’s difficult. He’s done this for so long, and made so much money in the process, that he could literally ask questions forever.

My client adopts a strategy which I adore. She explains to the group, off the record, that she has a bladder problem, nothing serious, you know, but, hell, she’s almost sixty. And anyway, as the day progresses, she needs to visit the ladies’ room more often. Drummond, typically, has a dozen questions about her bladder, but Kipler finally cuts him off. So every fifteen minutes, Dot excuses herself and leaves the courtroom. She takes her time.

I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with her bladder, and I’m sure she’s hiding in a stall smoking like a chimney. The strategy allows her to pace herself, and it eventually wears down Drummond.

At three-thirty, six and a half hours after we started, Kipler declares the depo to be over.

For the first time in over two weeks, all the rental cars are gone. Miss Birdie’s Cadillac sits alone. I park behind it, in my old space, and walk around the house. No one.

They’ve finally left. I haven’t talked to Miss Birdie since the day Delbert arrived, and we have things to discuss. I’m not angry, I just want to have a chat.

I get to the steps leading to my apartment when I hear a voice. It’s not Miss Birdie.

“Rudy, got a minute?” It’s Randolph, rising from a rocker on the patio.

I place my briefcase and jacket on the steps and walk over.

“Have a seat,” he says. “We need to talk.” He seems to be in a wonderful mood.

“Where’s Miss Birdie?” I ask. The lights are off in the house.

“She’s, uh, well she’s gone for a while. Wants to spend some time with us in Florida. She flew out this morning.”

“When’s she coming back?” I ask. It’s really none of my business, but I can’t help but ask.

“Don’t know. She might not. Look, me and Delbert will be looking after her business from now on. Guess we sorta dropped the ball lately, but she wants us to take care of things.

“And we want you to stay right here. In fact, we gotta deal for you. You stay here, look after the house, tend to the place, and there’s no rent.”

“What do you mean by tending to the place?”

“General upkeep, nothing heavy. Momma says you’ve been a good yard boy this summer, just keep doing what you’ve been doing. We’re having the mail forwarded, so that won’t be a problem. Anything major comes up, call me. It’s a sweet deal, Rudy.”

It is indeed. “I’ll take it,” I say.

“Good. Momma really likes you, you know, says you’re a fine young man who can be trusted. Even though you are a lawyer. Ha, ha, ha.”

“What about her car?”

“I’m driving it to Florida tomorrow.” He hands me a large envelope. “Here are the keys to the house, phone numbers for the insurance agent, alarm company, stuff like that. Plus my address and phone number.”

“Where is she staying?”

“With us, near Tampa. We have a nice little house with a guest room. She’ll be well taken care of. A couple of my kids are nearby, so she’ll have lots of company.”

I can see them now, falling all over themselves to be of service to Granny. They’ll be happy to smother her for a while, they’re just hoping she doesn’t live too long. They can’t wait for her to die so they’ll all be rich. It’s very hard to suppress a grin.

“That’s good,” I say. “She’s been a lonely old woman.”

“She really likes you, Rudy. You’ve been good to her.” His voice is soft and sincere, and I’m touched with sadness.

We shake hands and say good-bye.

I sway in the hammock, swat mosquitoes, stare at the moon. I seriously doubt if I’ll ever see Miss Birdie again, and I feel the odd loneliness of losing a friend. These people will keep her under their thumb until she’s dead, making damned sure she doesn’t get a chance to monkey around with her will. I feel a twinge of guilt for knowing the truth about her wealth, but it’s a secret I cannot share.

At the same time, I can’t help but smile at her fate. She’s out of this lonely old house and now surrounded by her family. Miss Birdie is suddenly the center of attention, a position she craves. I think of her at the Cypress Gardens Senior Citizens Building, the way she worked the crowd, led the songs, made the speeches, fussed over Bosco and the other geezers. She has a heart of gold, but she also hungers for attention.

I hope the sunshine’s good for her. I pray she’s happy. I wonder who’ll take her place at Cypress Gardens.