The money should be taken. Dot and Buddy would clear well over a hundred thousand, more money than they could ever spend. Their lawyer would get almost sixty thousand, a veritable mint. Money, however, means nothing to the Blacks. They’ve never had it, and they’re not dreaming of getting rich now. Dot simply wants an official record somewhere of what Great Benefit did to her son. She wants a final judgment declaring that she was right, that Donny Ray died because Great Benefit killed him.
As for me, I’m surprised at my ability to ignore the money. It’s tempting, to be sure, but I’m not consumed with it. I’m not starving. I’m young and there will be other cases.
And I’m convinced of this: if Great Benefit is scared enough to bug my phones, then they are indeed hiding dark secrets. Worried though I am, I catch myself dreaming of the trial.
Booker and Charlene invite me to Thanksgiving dinner with the Kanes. His grandmother lives in a small house in South Memphis, and evidently she’s been cooking for a week. The weather is cold and wet, so we’re forced to remain inside throughout the afternoon. There are at least fifty people, ranging in age from six months to eighty, the only white face belonging to me. We eat for hours, the men crowded around the television in the den, watching one game after the other. Booker and I have our pecan pie and coffee on the hood of a car, in the garage, shivering as we catch up on the gossip. He’s curious about my love life, and I assure him it’s nonexistent, for the moment. Business is good, I tell him. He’s working around the clock. Charlene wants another kid, but getting pregnant might be a problem. He’s never at home.
The life of a busy lawyer.
Thirty-nine
We knew it was in the mail, but I can tell by the heavy footsteps that it’s here. Deck bounds through my door, waving the envelope. “It’s here! It’s here! We’re rich!”
He rips open the envelope, delicately removes the check and places it gently on my desk. We admire it. Twenty-five thousand dollars from State Farm! It’s Christmas.
Since Derrick Dogan is still on crutches, we rush to his house with the paperwork. He signs where’s he’s told to sign. We disburse the money. He gets exactly $16,667, and we get exactly $8,333. Deck wanted to stick him for a few expenses — copying, postage, phone charges, nitpicking stuff most lawyers try to squeeze from the clients at settlement time — but I said no.
We say good-bye to him, wish him well, try and act a bit despondent over this entire sad little episode. It’s difficult.
We’ve decided to take three thousand each, and leave the rest in the firm, for the inevitable lean months ahead. The firm buys us a nice lunch at a fashionable restaurant in East Memphis. The firm now has a gold credit card, issued by some desperate bank obviously impressed with my status as a lawyer. I danced around the questions on the application dealing with prior bankruptcies. Deck and I shook hands on our agreement that the card will never be used unless we both consent.
I take my three thousand, and buy a car. It’s certainly not new, but it’s one I’ve been dreaming about ever since the Dogan settlement became a certainty. It’s a 1984 Volvo DL, blue in color, four speed with overdrive, in great condition with only a hundred and twenty thousand miles. That’s not much for a Volvo. The car’s first and only owner is a banker who enjoyed servicing the car himself.
I toyed with the idea of buying something new, but I can’t stand the thought of going into debt.
It’s my first lawyer car. The Toyota fetches three hundred dollars, and with this money I purchase a car phone. Rudy Baylor is slowly arriving.
I made the decision weeks ago that I would not spend Christmas in this city. The memories from last year are still too painful. I’ll be alone, and it’ll be easier if I simply leave. Deck has mentioned maybe getting together, but it was a blurry suggestion with no details. Told him I’d probably go to my mother’s.
When my mother and Hank are not traveling in their Winnebago, they park the damned thing behind his small house in Toledo. I’ve never seen the house, nor the Winnebago, and I’m not spending Christmas with Hank. Mother called after Thanksgiving with a rather weak invitation to come share the holidays with them. I declined, told her I was much too busy. I’ll send a card.
I don’t dislike my mother. We’ve simply stopped talking. The rift has been gradual, as opposed to a particular nasty incident with harsh words that take years to forget.
According to Deck, the legal system shuts down from December 15 until after the new year. Judges don’t schedule trials and hearings. Lawyers and their firms are busy with office parties and employee lunches. It’s a wonderful time for me to leave town.
I pack the Black case in the trunk of my shiny Utile Volvo, along with a few clothes, and hit the road. I wander aimlessly on slow two-lane roads, in the general directions of north and west, until I hit snow in Kansas and Nebraska. I sleep in inexpensive motels, eat fast food, see whatever sights there are to see. A winter storm has swept across the northern plains. Steep snowdrifts line the roads. The prairies are as white and still as fallen cumulus.
I’m invigorated by the loneliness of the road.
It’s December 23 when I finally arrive in Madison, Wisconsin. I find a small hotel, a cozy diner with hot food, and I walk the streets of downtown just like a regular person scurrying from one store to the next. There are some things about a normal Christmas that I don’t miss.
I sit on a frozen park bench, snow under my feet, and listen to a hearty chorus belt out carols. No one in the world knows where I am right now, not the city, not the state. I love this freedom.
After dinner and a few drinks in the hotel bar, I call Max Leuberg. He has returned to his tenured position of professor of law at the university here, and I’ve called him about once a month for advice. He invited me to visit. I’ve shipped to him copies of most of the relevant documents, along with copies of the pleadings, written discovery and most of the depositions. The FedEx box weighed fourteen pounds and cost almost thirty bucks. Deck approved.
Max sounds genuinely happy that I’m in Madison. Because he’s Jewish, he doesn’t get too involved with Christmas, and he said on the phone the other day that it’s a wonderful time to work. He gives me directions.
At nine the next morning, the temperature is eleven degrees as I walk into the law school. It’s open, but deserted. Leuberg is waiting in his office with hot coffee. We talk for an hour about things he misses in Memphis, law school not being one of them. His office here is much like his office there — cluttered, disheveled, with politically provocative posters and bumper stickers stuck to the walls. He looks the same — wild bushy hair, jeans, white sneakers. He’s wearing socks, but only because there’s a foot of snow on the ground. He’s hyper and energetic.
I follow him down the hall to a small seminar room with a long table in the center of it. He has the key. The file I shipped him is arranged on the table. We sit in chairs opposite one another, and he pours more coffee from a thermos. He knows the trial is six weeks away.
“Any offers to settle?”
“Yeah. Several. They’re up to a hundred and seventy-five thousand, but my client says no.”
“That’s unusual, but I’m not surprised.”
“Why aren’t you surprised?”
“Because you got ’em nailed. They have great exposure here, Rudy. It’s one of the best bad-faith cases I’ve ever seen, and I’ve looked at thousands.”
“There’s more,” I say, then I tell him about our phone lines being tapped and the strong evidence that Drummond is listening in.
“I’ve actually heard of it before,” he says. “Case down in Florida, but the plaintiff’s lawyer didn’t check his phones until after the trial. He got suspicious because the defense seemed to know what he was thinking of doing. But, wow, this is different.”