“I’m already tired.”
“It’s a bitch. Drummond snaps his fingers, says, ‘I wanna motion to dismiss,’ and three associates bury themselves in the library, and two paralegals pull up old briefs on their computers. Presto! In no time there’s a fat brief, thoroughly researched. Then Drummond has to read it several times, plow through it at two-fifty an hour, maybe get a partner buddy of his to read it too. Then he has to edit and cut and modify, so the associates go back to the library and the paralegals go back to their computers. It’s a rip-off, but Great Benefit has plenty of money and doesn’t mind paying people like Tinley Britt.”
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?