“Don’t sign it, Miss Birdie.”
“And another thing. Yesterday, Delbert, oops... somebody’s coming. Gotta go.” The phone slams on the other end. I can see June with a leather strap beating Miss Birdie for an unauthorized phone call.
The phone call does not register as a significant event. It’s almost comical. If Miss Birdie wants to come home, then I’ll get her home.
I manage to fall asleep.
Thirty-six
I Dial the number at the Penal Farm, and ask for the same lady I spoke with the first time I visited Ott. Regulations require all visits to be cleared with her. I want to visit him again before we take his deposition.
I can hear her pecking away at a keyboard. “Bobby Ott is no longer here,” she says.
“What?”
“He was released three days ago.”
“He told me he had eighteen days left. And that was a week ago.”
“That’s too bad. He’s gone.”
“Where’d he go?” I ask in disbelief.
“You must be kidding,” she says, and hangs up.
Ott is loose. He lied to me. We got lucky the first time we found him, and now he’s in hiding again.
The phone call I’ve been dreading finally comes on a Sunday morning. I’m sitting on Miss Birdie’s patio like I own the place, reading the Sunday paper, sipping coffee and enjoying a beautiful day. It’s Dot, and she tells me she found him about an hour ago. He went to sleep last night, and never woke up.
Her voice wavers a little, but her emotions are under control. We talk for a moment, and I realize that my throat is getting dry and my eyes are wet. There’s a trace of relief in her words. “He’s better off now,” she says more than once. I tell her I’m sorry, and I promise to come over this afternoon.
I walk across the backyard to the hammock, where I lean against an oak tree and wipe tears from my cheeks. I sit on the edge of the hammock, my feet on the ground, my head hung low, and say the last of my many prayers for Donny Ray.
I call judge Kipler at home with the news of the death. The funeral will be tomorrow afternoon at two, which presents a problem. The home office depositions are scheduled to begin at nine in the morning, and run for most of the week. I’m sure the suits from Cleveland are already in town, probably sitting in Drummond’s office right now doing rehearsals before video cameras. That’s how thorough he is.
Kipler asks me to be in court at nine anyway, and he’ll handle things from there. I tell him I’m ready. I certainly should be. I’ve typed every possible question for each of the witnesses, and His Honor himself has made suggestions. Deck has reviewed them too.
Kipler hints that he might postpone the depositions because he has two important hearings tomorrow.
Whatever. I really don’t care right now.
By the time I get to the Blacks’, the whole neighborhood has come to mourn. The street and driveway are bumper to bumper with parked cars. Old men loiter in the front yard and sit on the porch. I smile and nod and work my way inside through the crowd, where I find Dot in the kitchen, standing by the refrigerator. The house is packed with people. The kitchen table and countertops are covered with pies and casseroles and Tupperware filled with fried chicken.
Dot and I hug each other gently. I express my sympathy by simply saying that I’m sorry, and she thanks me for coming. Her eyes are red but I sense that she’s tired of crying. She waves at all the food and tells me to help myself. I leave her with a group of ladies from the neighborhood.
I’m suddenly hungry. I fill a large paper plate with chicken and baked beans and coleslaw, and go to the tiny patio, where I eat in solitude. Buddy, bless his heart, is not in his car. She’s probably locked him in the bedroom, where he can’t embarrass her. I eat slowly, and listen to the quiet chatter emanating from the open windows of the kitchen and den. When my plate is empty, I fill it for the second time and again hide on the patio.
I’m soon joined by a young man who looks oddly familiar. “I’m Ron Black,” he says, sitting in the chair next to mine. “The twin.”
He’s lean and fit, not very tall. “Nice to meet you,” I say.
“So you’re the lawyer.” He’s holding a canned soft drink.
“That’s me. Rudy Baylor. I’m sorry about your brother.”
“Thanks.”
I’m very aware of how little Dot and Donny Ray talked about Ron. He left home shortly after high school, went far away and has kept his distance. I can understand this to a certain degree.
He’s not in a talkative mood. His sentences are short and forced, but we eventually get around to the bone marrow transplant. He confirms what I already believe to be true, that he was ready and willing to donate his marrow to save his brother, and that he’d been told by Dr. Kord that he was a perfect match. I explain to him that it’ll be necessary for him to explain this to a jury in a few short months, and he says he’d love to. He has a few questions about the lawsuit, but never indicates any curiosity about how much money he might get from it.
I’m sure he’s sad, but he handles his grief well. I open the door to their childhood and hope to hear a few warm stories all twins must share about pranks and jokes they played on others. Nothing. He grew up here, in this house and this neighborhood, and it’s obvious he has no use for his past.
The funeral is tomorrow at two, and I’ll bet Ron Black is on a plane back to Houston by five.
The crowd thins then swells, but the food remains. I eat two pieces of chocolate cake while Ron sips a warm soda. After two hours of sitting, I’m exhausted. I excuse myself and leave.
On Monday, there’s a regular throng of stern-faced and darkly dressed men sitting around Leo F. Drummond on the far side of the courtroom.
I’m ready. Scared and shaking and weary, but the questions are written and waiting. If I completely choke, I’ll still be able to read the questions and make them answer.
It is amusing to see these corporate honchos cowering in fear. I can only imagine the harsh words they had for Drummond and me and Kipler and lawyers in general and this case in particular when they were informed that they had to appear en masse here today, and not only appear and give testimony, but sit and wait for hours and days until I finish with them.
Kipler takes the bench and calls our case first. We’re taking the depositions next door, in a courtroom that’s vacant this week, close by so His Honor can stick his head in at random and keep Drummond in line. He calls us forth because he has something to say.
I take my seat on the right. Four boys from Trent & Brent take theirs to the left.
“We don’t need a record for this,” Kipler tells the court reporter. This is not a scheduled hearing. “Mr. Drummond, are you aware that Donny Ray Black died yesterday morning?”
“No sir,” Drummond answers gravely. “I’m very sorry.”
“The funeral is this afternoon, and that poses a problem. Mr. Baylor here is a pallbearer. In fact, he should be with the family right now.”
Drummond is standing, looking at me, then at Kipler.
“We’re going to postpone these depositions. Have your people here next Monday, same time, same place.” Kipler is glaring at Drummond, waiting for the wrong response.
The five important men from Great Benefit will be forced to rearrange and rejuggle their busy lives and travel to Memphis next week.
“Why not start tomorrow?” Drummond asks, stunned. It’s a perfectly legitimate question.
“I run this court, Mr. Drummond. I control discovery, and I certainly plan to control the trial.”
“But, Your Honor, if you please, and I’m not being argumentative, your presence is not necessary to the depositions. These five gentlemen have gone to great hardship to be here today. It might not be possible next week.”