“You’ll sit here,” His Honor says, pointing to three kitchen chairs. “Watch those wires.” Deck has strung wires and cords all around the tree, and Grone in particular seems apprehensive about electrocution.
Dot and I assist Donny Ray from his bed, through the house, into the yard. He’s very weak and trying valiantly to walk on his own. As we approach the oak tree, I watch closely as Leo Drummond sees Donny Ray for the first time. His smug face is noncommittal, and I want to snap something like, “Get a good look, Drummond. See what your client’s done.” But it’s not Drummond’s fault. The decision to deny the claim was made by a still undetermined person at Great Benefit long before Drummond knew about it. He just happens to be the nearest person to hate.
We seat Donny Ray in a cushioned patio rocker. Dot
fluffs and pats and takes her time making sure he’s as comfortable as possible. His breathing is heavy and his face is wet. He looks worse than usual.
I politely introduce him to the participants: Judge Kipler, both court reporters, Deck, Drummond and the other two from Trent & Brent. He’s too weak to shake their hands, so he just nods, tries his best to smile.
We move the camera directly into his face, the lens about four feet away. Deck tries to focus it. One of the court reporters is a licensed videographer, and she’s trying to get Deck out of the way. The video will show no one but Donny Ray. There will be other voices off-camera, but his will be the only face for the jury to see.
Kipler places me to Donny Ray’s right, Drummond on the left. His Honor himself sits next to me. We all take our places and squeeze our chairs toward the witness. Dot stands several feet behind the camera, watching every move her son makes.
The neighbors are overcome with curiosity and lean on the chain-link fence not twenty feet away. A loud radio down the street blares Conway Twitty, but it’s not a distraction, yet. It’s Saturday morning, and the hum of distant lawn mowers and hedge trimmers echoes through the neighborhood.
Donny Ray takes a sip of water, and tries to ignore the four lawyers and one judge straining toward him. The purpose of his deposition is obvious: the jury needs to hear from him because he’ll be dead when the trial starts. He’s supposed to arouse sympathy. Not too many years ago, his deposition would have been taken in the normal manner. A court reporter would record the questions and answers, type up a neat deposition and at trial we would read it to the jury. But technology has arrived. Now, many depositions, especially those involving dying witnesses, are recorded on video and played for the jury. This one will
also be taken by a stenographic machine in the standard procedure, pursuant to Kipler’s suggestion. This will give all parties and the judge a quick reference without having to watch an entire video.
The cost of this deposition will vary, depending on its length. Court reporters charge by the page, so Deck told me to be efficient with my questions. It’s our deposition, we have to pay for it, and he estimates the cost at close to four hundred dollars. Litigation is expensive.
Kipler asks Donny Ray if he’s ready to proceed, then instructs the court reporter to swear him. He promises to tell the truth. Since he’s my witness, and this is for evidentiary purposes as opposed to the normal unbridled fishing expedition, my direct examination of him must conform to the rules of evidence. I’m jittery, but comforted mightily by Kipler’s presence.
I ask Donny Ray his name, address, birthdate, some things about his parents and family. Basic stuff, easy for him and me. He answers slowly and into the camera, just as I’ve instructed him. He knows every question I’ll ask, and most that Drummond might come up with. His back is to the trunk of the oak, a nice setting. He occasionally dabs his forehead with a handkerchief, and ignores the curious stares of our little group.
Although I didn’t tell him to act as sick and weak as possible, he certainly appears to be doing it. Or maybe Donny Ray has only a few days left to live.
Across from me, just inches away, Drummond, Grone and Hill balance legal pads on their knees and try to write every word spoken by Donny Ray. I wonder how much they bill for Saturday depositions. Not long into the depo, the navy blazers come off and the ties are loosened.
During a long pause, the back door slams suddenly and Buddy stumbles onto the patio. He’s changed shirts, now wears a familiar red pullover with dark stains, and he carries
a sinister-looking paper bag. I try to concentrate on my witness, but out of the corner of my eye I can’t help but watch as Buddy walks across the yard, eyeing us suspiciously. I know exactly where he’s going.
The driver’s door to the Fairlane is open, and he backs into the front seat, cats jumping from every window. Dot’s face tightens, and she gives me a nervous look. I shake my head quickly, as if to say, “Just leave him alone. He’s harmless.” She’d like to kill him.
Donny Ray and I talk about his education, work experience, the fact that he’s never left home, never registered to vote, never been in trouble with the law. This is not nearly as difficult as I had envisioned last night when I was swinging in the hammock. I’m sounding like a real lawyer.
I ask Donny Ray a series of well-rehearsed questions about his illness and the treatment he didn’t receive. I’m careful here, because he can’t repeat anything his doctor told him and he can’t speculate or give medical opinions. It would be hearsay. Other witnesses will cover this at trial, I hope. Drummond’s eyes light up. He absorbs each answer, analyzes it quickly, then waits for the next one. He is completely unruffled.
There’s a limit to how long Donny Ray can last, both mentally and physically, and there’s a limit to how much of this the jury wants to see. I finish in twenty minutes without drawing the first objection from the other side. Deck winks at me, as if I’m the greatest.
Leo Drummond introduces himself, on the record, to Donny Ray, then explains who he represents and how much he regrets being here. He’s not talking to Donny Ray, but rather to the jury. His voice is sweet and condescending, a man of real compassion.
Just a few questions. He gently pokes around the issue of whether Donny Ray has ever left this house, even for a
week or a month, to live elsewhere. Since he’s above the age of eighteen, they’d love to establish that he left home and thus shouldn’t be covered under the policy purchased by his parents.
Donny Ray answers repeatedly with a polite and sickly, “No sir.”
Drummond briefly covers the area of other coverage. Did Donny Ray ever purchase his own medical policy? Ever work for a company where health insurance was provided? A few more questions along this line are all met with a soft “No sir.”
Though the setting is a bit odd, Drummond has been here many times before. He’s probably taken thousands of depositions, and he knows to be careful. The jury will resent any rough treatment of this young man. In fact, it’s a wonderful opportunity for Drummond to curry a little favor with the jury, to show some real compassion for poor little Donny Ray. Plus, he knows that there’s not much hard information to be gathered from this witness. Why drill him?
Drummond finishes in less than ten minutes. I have no redirect examination. The deposition is over. Kipler says so. Dot is quick to wipe her son’s face with a wet cloth. He looks at me for approval, and I give him a thumbs-up. The defense lawyers quietly gather their jackets and briefcases and excuse themselves. They can’t wait to leave. Nor can I.
Judge Kipler begins hauling chairs back to the house, eyeing Buddy as he walks in front of the Fairlane. Claws is perched on the middle of the hood, ready to attack. I hope there’s no bloodshed. Dot and I assist Donny Ray to the house. Just before we step into the door, I look to my left. Deck is working the crowd on the fence, passing out my cards, just a good ole boy.
Twenty-nine
T
HE WOMAN IS ACTUALLY IN MY APARTMENT, standing in the den holding one of my magazines when I open the door. She jumps through her skin and drops the magazine when she sees me. Her mouth flies open. “Who are you!?” she almost screams.
She doesn’t appear to be a criminal. “I live here. Who the hell are you?”
“Oh my gosh,” she says, panting with great exaggeration and clutching her heart.
“What’re you doing here?” I ask again, really angry.
“I’m Delbert’s wife.”
“Who the hell is Delbert? And how’d you get in here?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Rudy. I live here. This is a private residence.” With that, she rolls her eyes quickly around the room, as if to say, “Yeah, some place.”
“Birdie gave me the key, said I could look around.”
“She did not!”
“Did too!” She pulls a key out of her tight shorts and waves it at me. I close my eyes and think of strangling
Miss Birdie. “Name’s Vera, from Florida. Just visiting Birdie for a few days.”
Now I remember. Delbert is Miss Birdie’s youngest son, the one she hasn’t seen in three years, never calls, never writes. I can’t remember if Vera here is the one Miss Birdie refers to as a tramp, but it would certainly fit. She’s around fifty, with the bronze leathered skin of a serious Florida sun worshiper. Orange lips that glow in the center of a narrow copper face. Withered arms. Tight shorts over badly wrinkled but gloriously tanned, spindly legs. Hideous yellow sandals.
“You have no right to be here,” I say, trying to relax.
“Get a grip.” She walks past me, and I get a nose full of a cheap perfume that’s scented with coconut oil. “Birdie wants to see you,” she says as she leaves my apartment. I listen as she flops down the stairs in her sandals.
Miss Birdie is sitting on the sofa, arms crossed, staring at another idiotic sitcom, ignoring the rest of the world. Vera is rummaging through the refrigerator. At the kitchen table is another brown creature, a large man with permed hair, badly dyed, and gray, Elvis lamb chop sideburns. Gold-rimmed glasses. Gold bracelets on both wrists. A regular pimp.
“You must be the lawyer,” he says as I close the door behind me. Before him on the table are some papers he’s been examining.
“I’m Rudy Baylor,” I say, standing at the other end of the table.
“I’m Delbert Birdsong. Birdie’s youngest.” He’s in his late fifties and trying desperately to look forty.
“Nice to meet you.”
“Yeah, a real pleasure.” He waves at a chair. “Have a seat.”
“Why?” I ask. These people have been here for hours. The kitchen and adjacent den are heavy with conflict. I
can see the back of Miss Birdie’s head. I can’t tell if she’s listening to us, or to the television. The volume is low.
“Just trying to be nice,” Delbert says, as if he owns the place.
Vera can’t find anything in the fridge, so she decides to join us. “He yelled at me,” she whimpers to Delbert. “Told me to get out of his apartment. Really rude like.”
“That so?” Delbert asks.
“Hell yes it’s so. I live there, and I’m telling you two to stay out. It’s a private residence.”
He jerks his shoulders backward. This is a man who’s had his share of barroom fights. “It’s owned by my mother,” he says.
“And she happens to be my landlord. I pay rent each month.”
“How much?”
“That’s really none of your business, sir. Your name is not on the deed to this house.”
“I’d say it’s worth four, maybe five hundred dollars a month.”
“Good. Any other opinions?”
“Yeah, you’re a real smartass.”
“Fine. Anything else? Your wife said Miss Birdie wanted to see me.” I say this loud enough for Miss Birdie to hear, but she doesn’t move an inch.
Vera takes a seat and scoots it close to Delbert. They eye each other knowingly. He picks at the corner of a piece of paper. He adjusts his glasses, looks up at me and says, “You been messin’ with Momma’s will?”
“That’s between me and Miss Birdie.” I look on the table, and barely see the top of a document. I recognize it as her will, the most current, I think, the one prepared by her last lawyer. This is terribly disturbing because Miss Birdie has always maintained that neither son, Delbert nor Randolph, knows about her money. But the will
plainly seeks to dispose of something around twenty million dollars. Delbert knows it now. He’s been reading the will for the past few hours. Paragraph number three, as I recall, gives him two million.
Even more disturbing is the issue of how Delbert got his hands on the document. Miss Birdie would never voluntarily give it to him.
“A real smartass,” he says. “You wonder why people hate lawyers. I come home to check on Momma, and, damned, she’s got a stinking lawyer living with her. Wouldn’t that worry you?”
Probably. “I live in the apartment,” I say. “A private residence with a locked door. You go in again, I’ll call the police.”
It hits me that I keep a copy of Miss Birdie’s will in a file under my bed. Surely they didn’t find it there. I suddenly feel ill with the thought that I, not Miss Birdie, breached such a private matter.
No wonder she’s ignoring me.
I have no idea what she put in her previous wills, so there’s no way to know whether Delbert and Vera are thrilled to know they might be millionaires, or whether they’re angry because they’re not getting more. And there’s no way in the world I can tell them the truth. I really don’t want to, to be honest.
Delbert snorts at my threat to call the cops. “I’ll ask you again,” he says, a bad imitation of Brando in
The Godfather
. “Have you prepared a new will for my mother?”
“She’s your mother. Why don’t you ask her?”
“She won’t say a word,” Vera chimes in.
“Good. Then neither will I. It’s strictly confidential.”
Delbert does not fully comprehend this, and he’s not bright enough to attack from different angles. For all he knows, he might be violating the law.
“I hope you’re not meddling, boy,” he says as fiercely as possible.
I’m ready to leave. “Miss Birdie!” I call out. She does not move for a second, then slowly raises the remote control and increases the volume.
Fine with me. I point at Delbert and Vera. “If you get near my apartment again, I’ll call the police. You understand?”