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 dark
ness, 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.
Twenty-two
T
HE BOARD OF LAW EXAMINERS USES certified mail to send the results of the bar exam. In law school, you hear stories of rookies waiting, then collapsing by the mailbox. Or running wildly down the street, waving the letter like an idiot. Lots of stories, stories that seemed funny then but have lost all humor now.
Thirty days have passed and there’s no letter. I used my home address because I damned sure didn’t want the letter opened by anyone at Bruiser’s.
Day thirty-one falls on a Saturday, a day on which I am allowed to sleep until nine before my taskmaster beats on my door with a paintbrush. The garage under my apartment suddenly needs painting, she has decided, though it looks fine to me. She lures me out of bed with the news that she’s already prepared bacon and eggs, and they’re getting cold, so hurry.
The work goes well. Painting produces immediate results that are quite pleasing. I can see progress. The sun is blocked by high clouds, and my pace is leisurely at best.
She announces at 6 P.M. that it’s time to quit, that I’ve worked enough and that she has wonderful news for dinner—she will make us a vegetarian pizza!
I worked at Yogi’s until one this morning, and I have no desire to go back for a while. So, typically, I have nothing to do on this Saturday night. What’s worse is that I haven’t thought about doing anything. Sadly, the idea of eating a vegetarian pizza with an eighty-year-old woman is appealing.
I shower and put on my khakis and sneakers. An odd smell emanates from the kitchen when I enter the house. Miss Birdie is buzzing around the kitchen. She’s never made a pizza before, she tells me, as if I should be pleased to hear this.
It’s not bad. The zucchini and yellow peppers are a bit crunchy, but she loaded it down with goat cheese and mushrooms. And I’m starving. We eat in the den and watch a Cary Grant-Audrey Hepburn movie. She cries through most of it.
The second movie is Bogart and Bacall, and the aches in my muscles start to set in. I’m getting sleepy. Miss Birdie, however, sits on the edge of the sofa, breathlessly absorbing every line of a movie she’s watched for fifty years.
Suddenly, she jumps to her feet. “I forgot something!” she exclaims, and hurries to the kitchen, where I hear her digging through some papers. She races back to the den with a piece of paper, stops dramatically in front of me and proclaims, “Rudy! You’ve passed the bar!”
She’s holding a single sheet of white paper which I lunge for. It’s from the Tennessee Board of Law Examiners, addressed to me, of course, and in bold letters across the center of the page are the majestic words: “Congratulations. You’ve passed the bar exam.”