Arnie moves quickly to a truck wreck on Interstate 55.
“You won?” she asks. She’s not amazed, just unsure.
“I won.”
“Fifty million dollars?”
“Yep. But the money’s not in the bank yet.”
“Rudy!”
I shrug like it’s all in a day’s work. “I got lucky,” I say.
“But you just finished school.”
What can I say? “It’s not that difficult. We had a great jury, and the facts fell into place.”
“Yeah, right, like it happens every day.”
“I wish.”
She takes the remote and mutes the television. She wants to pursue this. “Your modesty is not working. It’s fake.”
“You’re right. Right now I’m the greatest lawyer in the world.”
“That’s better,” she says, trying to smile. I’m almost accustomed to her bruised and battered face. I don’t stare at the wounds the way I did in the car this afternoon. I can’t wait for a week to pass so she’ll be gorgeous again.
I swear I could kill him.
“How much of it do you get?” she asks.
“Get right to the point, don’t you?”
“I’m just curious,” she says in a voice that’s almost childish. In spirit we’re lovers now, and it’s cute to giggle and coo.
“One third, but it’s a very long way off.”
She twists toward me, and is suddenly racked with pain to the point of groaning. I help her lie on her stomach. She’s fighting back tears and her body is tense. She can’t sleep on her back because of the bruises.
I rub her hair and whisper in her ear until the intercom interrupts. It’s Betty Norvelle downstairs. My time is up.
Kelly squeezes my hand tightly as I kiss her bruised cheek and promise to return tomorrow. She begs me not to go.
The advantages in winning such a verdict in my first trial are obvious. The only disadvantage I’ve been able to perceive during these past hours is that there’s no place to go but down. Every client from now on will expect the same magic. I’ll worry about that later.
I’m alone in the office late Saturday morning, waiting for a reporter and his photographer, when the phone rings. “This is Cliff Riker,” a husky voice says, and I immediately punch the record button.
“What do you want?”
“Where’s my wife?”
“You’re lucky she’s not at the morgue.”
“I’m gonna stomp your ass, big shot.”
“Keep talking, old boy. The recorder’s on.”
He hangs up quickly, and I stare at the phone. It’s a different one, a cheap model the firm purchased at a Kmart. During the trial, we substituted it occasionally when we didn’t want Drummond listening.
I call Butch at home, and tell him about my brief chat with Mr. Riker. Butch wants a piece of the kid because of their confrontation yesterday when he served the divorce papers. Cliff called him all sorts of vile names, even insulted his mother. The presence of two of Cliff’s co-workers nearby in the parking lot prevented Butch from drawing blood. Butch told me last night that if there were any threats, he’d like to get involved. He has a sidekick called Rocky, a part-time bouncer, and together they make an imposing pair, Butch assured me. I make him promise he can only scare the kid, not hurt him. Butch tells me he plans to find Cliff alone somewhere, mention the phone call, tell him that they are my bodyguards, and one more threat will be dealt with harshly. I’d love to see this. I am determined not to live in fear.
This is Butch’s idea of a good time.
The reporter from the Memphis Press arrives at eleven. We talk while a photographer shoots a roll of film. He wants to know all about the case and the trial, and I fill his ear. It’s public information now. I say nice things about Drummond, wonderful things about Kipler, glorious things about the jury.
It’ll be a big story in the Sunday paper, he promises.
I piddle around the office, reading the mail and looking at the few phone messages that came in during this past week. It’s impossible to work, and I’m reminded of how few clients and cases I have. Half the time is spent
replaying the trial, the other half is spent dreaming of my future with Kelly. How could I be more fortunate?
I call Max Leuberg and give him the details. A blizzard closed O’Hare and he couldn’t get to Memphis in time for the trial. We talk for an hour.
Our date Saturday night is very similar to the one we had on Friday, except the food and the movie are different. She loves Chinese food and I bring a sackful. We watch a comedy with few laughs while sitting in our same positions on the bed.
It’s anything but boring, however. She’s easing out of her private nightmare. The physical wounds are healing. The laughs are a bit easier, her movements a little quicker. There’s more touching, but not much. Not nearly enough.
She is desperate to get out of the sweatsuit. They wash it for her once a day, but she’s sick of it. She longs to be pretty again, and she wants her clothes. We talk of sneaking into her apartment and rescuing her things.
We still don’t talk about the future.
Fifty-one
Monday morning. Now that I’m a man of wealth and leisure, I sleep until nine, dress casually in khakis, loafers, no tie, and arrive at the office at ten. My partner is busy packing away the Black documents and removing the folding tables which have cramped our front office for months. We’re both grinning and smiling at everything. Pressure’s off. We’re rested and it’s time to gloat. He runs down the street for coffee, and we sit at my desk and relive our finest hour.
Deck’s clipped the story from yesterday’s Memphis Press, just in case I need an extra copy. I say thanks, I might need it, though there are a dozen copies in my apartment. I made the front page of Metro, with a long, well-written story about my triumph, as well as a rather large photo of me at my desk. I couldn’t take my eyes off myself all day yesterday. The paper went into three hundred thousand homes. Money can’t buy this exposure.
There are a few faxes. A couple from classmates with words of congratulations, and jokingly asking for loans. A sweet one from Madeline Skinner at the law school. And two from Max Leuberg. The first is a copy of a short article in a Chicago newspaper about the verdict. The second is a copy of a story dated yesterday from a paper in Cleveland. It describes the Black trial at length, then relates the growing troubles at Great Benefit. At least seven states are now investigating the company, including Ohio. Policyholder suits are being filed around the country, and many more are expected. The Memphis verdict is expected to prompt a flood of litigation.
Ha, ha, ha. We delight in the misery we’ve instigated. We laugh at the image of M. Wilfred Keeley looking at the financial statements again and trying to find more cash. Surely it’s in there somewhere!
The florist arrives with a beautiful arrangement, a congratulatory gift from Booker Kane and the folks at Marvin Shankle’s firm.
I had expected the phone to be ringing like mad with clients looking for solid legal representation. It’s not happening yet. Deck said there were a couple of calls before ten, one of which was a wrong number. I’m not worried.
Kipler calls at eleven, and I switch to the clean phone just in case Drummond is still listening. He has an interesting story, one in which I might be involved. Before the trial started last Monday, while we were all gathered in his office, I told Drummond that we would settle for one point two million. Drummond scoffed at this, and we went to trial. Evidently, he failed to convey this offer to his client, who now claims it would have seriously considered paying just what I wanted. Whether or not the company would have settled at that point is unknown, but in retrospect, one point two million is much more digestible than fifty point two. At any rate, the company is now claiming it would have settled, and it’s claiming its lawyer, the great Leo F. Drummond, committed a grievous error when he failed or refused to pass along my offer.