“Fair enough. We’re both going to court tomorrow, so let’s meet early. At Trudy’s. We can’t talk in our office. You sleep on it and tell me in the morning.”
“It’s a deal.”
“How many files do you have?”
I think for a second. I have a thick file on the Black case, a rather thin one on Miss Birdie and a useless workers’ compensation case Bruiser dumped on me last week. “Three.”
“Get them out of your office. Take them home.”
“Now?”
“Now. This afternoon. And anything else you might want from your office, better remove it quickly. But don’t get caught, okay?”
“Is someone watching us?”
He jerks and glances, then carefully nods his head at me, eyes rolling wildly behind the crooked glasses.
“Who?”
“Feds, I think. The office is under surveillance.”
Twenty-three
B
RUISER’S CASUAL LITTLE ASIDE THAT HE might let me handle some of the argument in the Black hearing keeps me awake most of the night. I don’t know if it was simply the usual bluff of the wise mentor, but I worry about it more than I worry about going into business with Deck.
It’s dark when I arrive at Trudy’s. I’m her first customer. The coffee is brewing and the doughnuts are hot. We chat for a moment, but Trudy has things to do.
So do I. I ignore the newspapers and bury myself in my notes. From time to time I glance through the window into the empty parking lot and strain to see agents out there in unmarked vehicles, smoking filterless cigarettes, drinking stale coffee, just like in the movies. At times Deck is perfectly believable, and at times he’s as nutty as he looks.
He’s early too. He gets his coffee at a few minutes after seven, and eases into the chair across from me. The place is half-f now.
“Well?” he says, his first word.
“Let’s try it for a year,” I say. I’ve decided that we’ll sign an agreement which will last for only one year, and it will also include a thirty-day walkout clause in the event either of us becomes dissatisfied.
His shining teeth quickly emerge and he can’t hide his excitement. He sticks his right hand across the table for me to shake. This is a huge moment for Deck. I wish I felt the same way.
I’ve also decided that I’ll try to rein him in, to shame him from racing to every disaster. By working hard and servicing our clients, we can make a nice living and hopefully grow. I’ll encourage Deck to study for the bar, get his license and approach the profession with more respect.
This, of course, will have to be done gradually.
And I’m not naive. Expecting Deck to stay away from hospitals will be as easy as expecting a drunk to steer clear of bars. But at least I’ll try.
“Did you remove your files?” he whispers, looking at the door where two truck drivers have just entered.
“Yes. And you?”
“I’ve been sneaking stuff out for a week.”
I’d rather not hear any more about this. I change the conversation to the Black hearing, and Deck moves it back to our new venture. At eight, we walk down to our offices, Deck eyeing every car in the parking lot as if they’re all loaded with G-men.
Bruiser has not arrived by eight-fifteen. Deck and I are arguing the points made in Drummond’s briefs. Here, where the walls and phones are wired, we discuss nothing but the law.
Eight-thirty, and there’s no sign of Bruiser. He specifically said he’d be here at eight to go over the file. Judge Hale’s courtroom is in the Shelby County Courthouse downtown, twenty minutes away in unpredictable traffic.
Deck reluctantly calls Bruiser’s condo, no answer. Dru said she expected him at eight. She tries his car phone, no answer. Maybe he’ll just meet us in court, she says.
Deck and I stuff the file in my briefcase and leave the office at a quarter to nine. He knows the quickest route, he says, so he drives while I sweat. My hands are clammy and my throat is dry. If Bruiser stiffs me on this hearing, I’ll never forgive him. In fact, I’ll hate him forever.
“Relax,” Deck says, hunched over the wheel, zipping around cars and running red lights. Even Deck can look at me and see the fright. “I’m sure Bruiser’ll be there.” He says this without the slightest trace of conviction. “And if he’s not, then you’ll do fine. It’s just a motion. I mean, there’s no jury in the box, you know.”
“Just shut up and drive, Deck, okay. And try not to get us killed.”
“Touchy, touchy.”
We’re downtown, in traffic, and I glance with horror at my watch. It’s nine, straight up. Deck forces two pedestrians off the street, then zips through a tiny parking lot. “You see that door over there,” he says, pointing at the corner of the Shelby County Courthouse, a massive structure that covers an entire city block.
“Yeah.”
“Take it, go up one flight, courtroom is the third door on your right.”
“You think Bruiser’s there?” I ask, my voice quite frail.
“Sure,” he says, lying. He slams on the brakes, hits the curb, and I jump out scrambling. “I’ll be there after I park,” he yells. I bound up a flight of concrete steps, through the door, up another flight, then suddenly I’m in the halls of justice.
The Shelby County Courthouse is old, stately and wonderfully preserved. The floors and walls are marble, the double doors are polished mahogany. The hallway is wide,
dark, quiet, and lined with wooden benches under portraits of distinguished jurists.
I slow to a jog, then stop at the courtroom of the Honorable Harvey Hale. Circuit Court Division Eight, according to a brass sign beside the doors.
There’s no sign of Bruiser outside the courtroom, and as I slowly push open the door and look inside, the first thing I don’t see is his huge body. He’s not here.
But the courtroom is not empty. I gaze down the red-carpeted aisle, past the rows of polished and cushioned benches, through the low swinging gate, and I see that quite a few people are waiting for me. Up high, in a black robe, in a large burgundy leather chair, and scowling down my way, is an unpleasant man I presume to be Judge Harvey Hale. A clock on the wall behind him gives the time as twelve minutes after nine. One hand holds his chin while the fingers on the other tap impatiently.
To my left, beyond the bar that separates the spectators’ section from the bench, the jury box and the counsel tables, I see a group of men, all of whom are straining to see me. Amazingly, they all possess the same appearance and dress—short hair, dark suits, white shirts, striped ties, stern faces, contemptible smirks.
The room is silent. I feel like a trespasser. Even the court reporter and bailiff seem to have an attitude.
With heavy feet and rubbery knees, I walk with zero confidence to the gate in the bar. My throat is parched. The words are dry and weak. “Excuse me, sir, but I’m here for the Black hearing.”
The judge’s expression doesn’t change. His fingers keep tapping. “And who are you?”
“Well, my name’s Rudy Baylor. I work for Bruiser Stone.”
“Where’s Mr. Stone?” he asks.
“I’m not sure. He was supposed to meet me here.”
There’s a rustling of activity to my left, among the cluster of lawyers, but I don’t look. Judge Hale stops his tapping, raises his chin from his hand and shakes his head in frustration. “Why am I not surprised?” he says into his microphone.
Since Deck and I are bolting, I am determined to flee with the Black case safely in tow. It’s mine! No one else can have it. Judge Hale has no way of knowing at this moment that I’m the lawyer who’ll be prosecuting this case, not Bruiser. As scared as I am, I decide quickly that this is the moment to establish myself.
“I suppose you want a continuance,” he says.
“No sir. I’m prepared to argue the motion,” I say as forcefully as possible. I ease through the gate and place the file on the table to my right.
“Are you a lawyer?” he asks.
“Well, I just passed the bar.”
“But you haven’t received your license?”
I don’t know why this distinction hasn’t hit me until now. I guess I’ve been so proud of myself it just slipped my mind. Plus, Bruiser was going to do the talking today, with me perhaps chiming in for a bit of practice. “No sir. We take the oath next week.”
One of my enemies clears his throat loudly so that the judge will look at him. I turn and see a distinguished gentleman in a navy suit in the process of dramatically rising from his chair. “May it please the court,” he says as if he’s said it a million times. “For the record, my name is Leo F. Drummond of Tinley Britt, counsel for Great Benefit Life.” He says this somberly, up in the direction of his lifelong friend and Yale roommate. The keeper of the record, the court reporter, has returned to her nail filing.
“And we object to this young man’s appearance in this matter.” He sweeps his arms toward me. His words are
slow and heavy. I hate him already. “Why, he doesn’t even have a license.”
I hate him for his patronizing tone, and for his silly hairsplitting. This is only a motion, not a trial.
“Your Honor, I’ll have my license next week,” I say. My anger is greatly assisting my voice.
“That’s not good enough, Your Honor,” Drummond says, arms open wide, like this is such a ridiculous idea. The nerve!
“I’ve passed the bar exam, Your Honor.”
“Big deal,” Drummond snaps at me.
I look directly at him. He’s standing in the midst of four other people, three of whom are sitting at his table with legal pads in front of them. The fourth sits behind them. I’m getting the collective glare.
“It is a big deal, Mr. Drummond. Go ask Shell Boykin,” I say. Drummond’s face tightens and there’s a noticeable flinch. In fact, there’s a collective flinch from the defense table.
This is a real cheap shot, but for some reason I couldn’t resist. Shell Boykin is one of two students from our class privileged enough to be hired by Trent & Brent. We despised each other for three years, and we took the exam together last month. His name was not in the newspaper last Sunday. I’m sure the great firm is slightly embarrassed that one of its bright young recruits flunked the bar.
Drummond’s scowl intensifies, and I smile in return. In the few brief seconds that we stand and watch each other, I learn an enormously valuable lesson. He’s just a man. He might be a legendary trial lawyer with lots of notches in his belt, but he’s just another man. He’s not about to step across the aisle and slap me, because I’d whip his ass. He can’t hurt me, and neither can his little covey of minions.
Courtrooms are level from one side to the other. My table is as large as his.
“Sit down!” His Honor growls into the microphone. “Both of you.” I find a chair and take a seat. “One question, Mr. Baylor. Who will handle this case on behalf of your firm?”
“I will, Your Honor.”
“And what about Mr. Stone?”
“I can’t say. But this is my case, these are my clients. Mr. Stone filed it on my behalf, until I passed the bar.”
“Very well. Let’s proceed. On the record,” he says, looking at the court reporter who’s already working her machine. “This is the defendant’s motion to dismiss, so Mr. Drummond goes first. I’ll allow each side fifteen minutes to argue, then I’ll take it under advisement. I don’t want to be here all morning. Are we in agreement?”
Everybody nods. The defense table resembles wooden ducks wobbling on a carnival firing range, all heads rocking in unison. Leo Drummond strolls to a portable podium in the center of the courtroom, and begins his argument. He’s slow and meticulous, and after a few minutes becomes boring. He’s summarizing the major points already set forth in his lengthy brief, the gist of which is that Great Benefit is being wrongly sued because its policy does not cover bone marrow transplants. Then there’s the issue of whether Donny Ray Black should be covered under the policy since he’s an adult and no longer a member of the household.
Frankly, I expected more. I thought I’d witness something almost magical from the great Leo Drummond. Before yesterday, I had caught myself looking forward to this initial skirmish. I wanted to see a good brawl between Drummond, the polished advocate, and Bruiser, the courtroom brawler.
But if I weren’t so nervous, I’d fall asleep. He goes past
fifteen minutes without a pause. Judge Hale is looking down, reading something, probably a magazine. Twenty minutes. Deck said he’s heard that Drummond bills two-hundred fifty bucks an hour for office work, three-fifty when in court. That’s well below New York and Washington standards, but it’s very high for Memphis. He has good reason to talk slow and repeat himself. It pays to be thorough, even tedious, when billing at that rate.
His three associates scribble furiously on legal pads, evidently trying to write down everything their leader has to say. It’s almost comical, and under better circumstances I might force a laugh out of myself. First they did the research, then they wrote the brief, then they rewrote it several times, then they responded to my brief and now they’re writing down Drummond’s arguments, which are taken directly from the briefs. But they’re getting paid for this. Deck figures Tinley Britt bills its associates out at around one-fifty for office work, probably a bit more for hearings and trials. If Deck is right, then the three of these young clones are scrawling aimlessly for around two hundred bucks an hour each. Six hundred dollars. Plus, three-fifty for Drummond. That’s almost a thousand dollars an hour for what I’m witnessing.
The fourth man, the one sitting behind the associates, is older, about the same age as Drummond. He’s not scratching on a notepad, so he can’t be a lawyer. He’s probably a representative of Great Benefit, maybe one of their in-house lawyers.
I forget about Deck until he taps me on the shoulder with a legal pad. He’s behind me, reaching across the bar. He wants to correspond. On the legal pad, he’s written a note: “This guy’s boring as hell. Just follow your brief. Keep it under ten minutes. No sign of Bruiser?”
I shake my head without turning around. As if Bruiser could be in the courtroom without being seen.
After thirty-one minutes, Drummond finishes his monologue. The reading glasses are perched on the tip of his nose. He’s the professor lecturing the class. He struts back to his table, immensely satisfied with his brilliant logic and amazing powers of summation. His clones tip their heads in unison and whisper quick tributes to his marvelous presentation. What a bunch of asskissers! No wonder his ego is warped.