“What about Dr. Kord?”
“He’ll testify at trial.”
This is a surprise. He studies me carefully, no doubt wondering how I can afford to have the doc do it live for the jury.
“What’s he gonna say?”
“Ron Black was a perfect match for his twin. Bone marrow is routine treatment. The boy could’ve been saved. Your client killed him.”
He takes this well, and it’s obvious it’s not a surprise.
“We’ll probably depose him,” he says.
“Five hundred an hour.”
“Yeah, I know. Look, Rudy, could we have a drink? There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”
“What?” I can’t think of anything worse at this moment than having a drink with Drummond.
“Business. Settlement possibilities. Could you run by my office, say, fifteen minutes from now? We’re just around the corner, you know.”
The word “settlement” has a nice ring to it. Plus, I’ve always wanted to see their offices. “It’ll have to be quick,” I say, as if there are beautiful and important women waiting for me.
“Sure. Let’s go now.”
I tell Deck to wait at the corner, and Drummond and I walk three blocks to the tallest building in Memphis. We chat about the weather as we ride to the fortieth floor. The suite is all brass and marble, filled with people as if it were the middle of the day. It’s a tastefully appointed factory. I look for my old pal Loyd Beck, the thug from Broadnax and Speer, and hope I don’t see him.
Drummond’s office is smartly decorated but not exceptionally large. This building has the highest rent in town, and the space is used efficiently. “What would you like to drink?” he asks, tossing his briefcase and jacket on his desk.
I don’t care for hard liquor, and I’m so tired I’m afraid one drink might knock me out. “Just a Coke,” I say, and this disappoints him for a second. He mixes himself a drink at a small wet bar in the corner, scotch and water.
There’s a knock on the door, and, much to my surprise, Mr. M. Wilfred Keeley steps in. We haven’t seen each other since I grilled him for eight hours on Monday. He acts like he’s delighted to see me again. We shake hands, say hello like old buddies. He goes to the bar and mixes himself a drink.
They sip their whiskey as we sit around a small, round table in a corner. For Keeley to return here so soon means only one thing. They want to settle this case. I’m all ears.
I cleared six hundred dollars last month from my struggling practice. Drummond makes at least a million a year. Keeley runs a company with a billion in sales, and probably gets paid more than his lawyer. And they want to talk business with me.
“Judge Kipler concerns me a great deal,” Drummond says abruptly.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Keeley is quick to add.
Drummond is famous for his immaculate preparation, and I’m sure this little duet has been well rehearsed.
“To be honest, Rudy, I’m afraid of what he might do at trial,” Drummond says.
“We’re being railroaded,” Keeley says, shaking his head in disbelief.
Kipler is a legitimate cause for their concern, but they’re sweating blood because they’ve been caught red-handed. They’ve killed a young man, and their murderous deed is about to be exposed. I decide to be nice, let them say what they want.
They sip in unison, then Drummond says, “We’d like to settle this thing, Rudy. We feel good about our defense, and I mean that sincerely. Given an even playing field, we’re ready to tee it up tomorrow. I haven’t lost in eleven years. I love a good courtroom brawl. But this judge is so biased it’s frightening.”
“How much?” I ask, cutting off the drivel.
They squirm in perfect hemorrhoidal harmony. A moment of pain, then Drummond says, “We’ll double it. A hundred and fifty thousand. You get fifty or so, your client gets a—”
“I can do the math,” I say. It’s none of his business how much my fee will be. He knows I’m broke, and fifty thousand will make me rich.
Fifty thousand dollars!
“What am I supposed to do with this offer?” I ask. They exchange puzzled looks.
“My client is dead. His mother buried him last week, and now you expect me to tell her there’s some more money on the table.”
“Ethically, you’re obligated to tell her—”
“Don’t lecture me about ethics, Leo. I’ll tell her. I’ll convey the offer, and I’ll bet she says no.”
“We’re very sorry about his death,” Keeley says sadly.
“I can tell you’re really broken up, Mr. Keeley. I’ll pass along your condolences to the family.”
“Look, Rudy, we’re making a good-faith effort to settle here,” Drummond says.
“Your timing is terrible.”
There’s a pause as we all take a drink. Drummond starts smiling first. “What does the lady want? Tell us, Rudy, what will it take to make her happy?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“There’s nothing you can do. He’s dead, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“So why are we going to trial?”
“To expose what you’ve done.”
More squirming. More pained expressions. More whiskey being gulped.
“She wants to expose you, then she wants to break you,” I say.
“We’re too big,” Keeley says smugly.
“We’ll see.” I stand and pick up my briefcase. “I’ll find my way out,” I say, and leave them sitting there.
Thirty-eight
Slowly, our offices are accumulating the evidence of commercial activity, however humble and nonlucrative it may be. Thin files are stacked here and there, always in plain view so that the occasional visiting client can see them. I have almost a dozen court-appointed criminal cases, all serious misdemeanors or lightweight felonies. Deck claims to have thirty active files, though this number seems a bit high.
The phone rings even more now. It takes great discipline to talk on a phone with a bug in it, and it’s something I fight every day. I keep telling myself that before the phones were tapped a court order was signed allowing such an invasion. A judge had to approve it, so there must be an element of legitimacy in it.
The front room is still crowded with the rented tables, which are covered with documents for the Black case, and their presence gives the appearance of a truly monumental work in progress.
At least the office is looking busier. After several months in business, our overhead is averaging a miserly seventeen hundred dollars a month. Our gross income is averaging thirty-two hundred, so Deck and I are splitting, on paper, fifteen hundred dollars before taxes and withholding.
We’re surviving. Our best client is Derrick Dogan, and if we can settle his case for twenty-five thousand, the policy limits, then we can breathe easier. We’re hoping it’ll hit in time for Christmas, though I’m not sure why. Neither Deck nor I have anyone we’d like to spend money on.
I’ll get through the holidays by working on the Black case. February is not far away.
The mail today is routine, with two exceptions. There is not a single piece from Trent & Brent. This is so rare it’s actually a thrill. The second surprise shocks me to the point of having to walk around the office to collect my wits.
The envelope is large and square, with my name and address handwritten. Inside is a printed invitation to attend a dazzling pre-Christmas sale of gold chains and bracelets and necklaces at a jewelry store in a local mall. It’s junk mail, the type I’d normally throw away if it had a preprinted address label.
At the bottom, below the store’s hours, in a rather lovely handwriting is the name: Kelly Riker. No message. Nothing. Just the name.