SLOWLY, OUR OFFICES ARE ACCUMULAT-ing 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.
I WALK THE' MALL for an hour after I arrive. I watch children ice-skate on an indoor rink. I watch groups of teenagers roam in large packs from one end to the other. I buy a platter of warmed-over Chinese food and eat it on the promenade above the ice-skaters.
The jewelry store is one of over a hundred shops under
this roof. I saw her punching a cash register the first time I slinked by.
I enter behind a young couple, and walk slowly to the long glass display counter where Kelly Riker is helping a customer. She glances up, sees me and smiles. I ease away a few steps, lean with my elbows on a counter, study the dazzling array of gold chains as thick as ski ropes. The store is crowded. A half-dozen clerks chatter and remove items from the cases.
"Can I help you, sir?" she says as she stands across from me, just two feet away. I look at her, and melt.
We smile at each other for as long as we dare. "Just looking," I say. No one is watching us, I hope. "How are you?"
"Fine, and you?"
"Great."
"Can I show you something? These are on sale."
She points and we're suddenly looking at chains fit for a pimp. "Nice," I say, just loud enough for her to hear. "Can we talk?"
"Not here," she says, leaning even closer. I get a whiff of her perfume. She unlocks the case, slides the door open and removes a ten-inch gold chain. She holds it for me to see, and says, "There's a cinema down the mall. Buy a ticket for the Eddie Murphy movie. Center section, back row. I'll be there in thirty minutes."
"Eddie Murphy?" I ask, holding and admiring the chain.
"Nice isn't it?"
"My favorite. Really nice. But let me look around some more." She takes it from me, says, "Come back soon," like the perfect salesperson.
My knees are weak as I float down the mall. She knew I'd come, and she had it planned-the cinema, the movie, the seat and the section. I drink coffee near an over-
worked Santa, try to imagine what she'll say, what's on her mind. To avoid a painful movie, I wait until the last minute to buy a ticket.
There are less than fifty people in the place. Some kids, too young for an R-rated movie, sit close to the front, snickering at each obscenity. A few other sad souls are scattered through the darkness. The back row is empty.
She arrives a few minutes late, and sits next to me. She crosses her legs, the skirt inches above her knees. I cannot help but notice.
"You come here often?" she says, and I laugh. She doesn't appear to be nervous. I certainly am.
"Are we safe?" I ask.
"Safe from whom?"
"Your husband."
"Yeah, he's out with the boys tonight."
"Drinking again?"
"Yes."
This has enormous implications.
"But not much," she says as an afterthought.
"So he hasn't-"
"No. Let's talk about something else."
"I'm sorry. I just worry about you, that's all."
"Why do you worry about me?"
"Because I think about you all the time. Do you ever think about me?"
We're staring at the screen but seeing nothing.
"All the time," she says, and my heart stops.
On-screen, a guy and a girl are suddenly ripping each other's clothes off. They're falling onto a bed, pillows and undergarments flying through the air, then they embrace hotly and the bed starts shaking. As the lovers love each other, Kelly slides her arm under mine and inches closer. We don't speak until the scene changes. Then I start breathing again.
"When did you start to work?" I ask.
"Two weeks ago. We need a little extra for Christmas."
She'll probably earn more than me between now and Christmas. "He allows you to work?"
"I'd rather not talk about him."
"What do you want to talk about?"
"How's the lawyer stuff?"
"Busy. Got a big trial in February."
"So you're doing well?"
"It's a struggle, but business is growing. Lawyers starve, and then if they're lucky they make money."
"And if they're not lucky?"
"They keep starving. I'd rather not talk about lawyers."
"Fine. Cliff wants to have a baby."
"What would that accomplish?"
"I don't know."
"Don't do it, Kelly," I say with a passion that surprises me. We look at each other and squeeze hands.
Why am I sitting in a dark theater holding hands with a married woman? That's the question of the day. What if Cliff suddenly appeared and caught me here cuddling with his wife? Who would he kill first?
"He told me to stop taking the pill."
"Did you?"
"No. But I'm worried about what might happen when I don't get pregnant. It's been rather easy in the past, if you'll recall."
"It's your body."
"Yeah, and he wants it all the time. He's becoming obsessed with sex."
"Look, uh, I'd rather talk about something else, okay?"
"Okay. We're running out of topics."
"Yes, we are."
We release each other's hand and watch the movie for a few moments. Kelly slowly turns and leans on her elbow.
Our faces are just inches apart. "I just wanted to see you, Rudy," she says, almost in a whisper.
"Are you happy?" I ask, touching her cheek with the back of my hand. How can she be happy?
She shakes her head. "No, not really."
"What can I do?"
"Nothing." She bites her lip, and I think I see moist eyes.
"You have a decision to make," I say.
"Yeah?"
"Either forget about me, or file for divorce."
"I thought you were my friend."
"I thought I was too. But I'm not. It's more than friendship, and both of us know it."
We watch the movie for a moment.
"I need to go," she says. "My break is almost over. I'm sorry I bothered you."
"You didn't bother me, Kelly. I'm glad to see you. But I'm not going to sneak around like this. You either file for divorce or forget about me."
"I can't forget about you."
"Then let's file for divorce. We can do it tomorrow. I'll help you get rid of this bum, and then we can have some fun."
She leans over, pecks me on the cheek and is gone.
WITHOUT FIRST CONSULTING ME, Deck sneaks his phone from the office and takes it to Butch, then together they take it to an acquaintance who once allegedly worked for some branch of the military. According to the acquaintance, the bugging device still hidden in our phones is quite dissimilar to the bugs typically used by the FBI and other law enforcement agencies. It's manufactured in Czechoslovakia, of medium grade and quality, and feeds a
transmitter located somewhere close by. He's almost certain it wasn't planted by cops or feds.
I get this report over coffee a week before Thanksgiving.
"Somebody else is listening," Deck says nervously.
I'm too stunned to react.
"Who would it be?" asks Butch.
"How the hell am I supposed to know?" I snap angrily at him. This guy has no business asking these questions. As soon as he's gone, I'll take Deck to task for involving him this deep. I glare at my partner, who's looking away, jerking around, waiting for strangers to attack.
"Well, it ain't the feds," Butch says with great authority.
"Thanks."
We pay for the coffee and walk back to our offices. Butch checks the phones once again, just for the hell of it. Same little round gadgets stuck in there.
The question now is, Who's listening?
I go to my office, lock the door, kill time while waiting for Butch to leave and in the process conceive a brilliant plot. Deck eventually knocks on my door, taps just loud enough for me to hear.
We discuss my little scheme. Deck leaves and drives downtown to the courthouse. Thirty minutes later, he calls me with an update of several fictitious clients. Just checking in, he says, do I need anything from downtown?
We chat for a few minutes about this and that, then I say, "Guess who wants to settle now?"
"Who?"
"Dot Black."
"Dot Black?" he asks, incredulous and phony. Deck has few acting skills.
"Yeah, I stopped by this morning to check on her, took her a fruitcake. She said she just doesn't have the will-
power to suffer through the trial, wants to settle right now."
"How much?"
"Said she'd take a hundred and sixty. She's been thinking about it, and since their top offer is one-fifty, she figures she'll win a small victory if they pay more than they want. She thinks she's a real negotiator. I tried to explain things to her, but you know how hardheaded she is."
"Don't do it, Rudy. This case is worth a fortune."
"I know. Kipler thinks we'll get a huge punitive award, but, you know, ethically I'm required to approach Drum-mond and try to settle. It's what the client wants."
"Don't do it. One-sixty is chicken feed." Deck is reasonably convincing with this, though I catch myself grinning. The calculator is rattling away as he figures his cut from one hundred and sixty thousand dollars. "Do you think they'll pay one-sixty?" he asks.
"Don't know. I got the impression one-fifty was max. But I never countered it." If Great Benefit will pay one-fifty to settle this case, they'll throw one-sixty at us.
"Let's talk about it when I get there," he says.
"Sure." We hang up, and thirty minutes later Deck is sitting across my desk.
AT FIVE MINUTES before nine the next morning, the phone rings. Deck grabs it in his office, then runs into mine. "It's Drummond," he says.
Our little firm splurged and purchased a forty-dollar recorder from Radio Shack. It's wired to my phone. We're hoping like hell it doesn't affect the bugging device. Butch said he thought there'd be no problem.
"Hello," I say, trying to conceal my nerves and anxiety.
"Rudy, Leo Drummond here," he says warmly. "How are you?"
Ethically, I should tell him at this point that the recorder is on, and give him the chance to react. For obvious reasons, Deck and I have decided against this. Just wouldn't work. What're ethics between partners?
"Fine, Mr. Drummond. And you?"
"Doing well. Listen, we need to get together on a date for Dr. Kord's deposition. I've talked to his secretary. How does December 12 sound? At his office, of course- 10 A.M."
Kord's deposition will be the last, I think, unless Drummond can think of anyone else remotely interested in the case. Odd, though, that he would bother to call me beforehand and inquire as to what might be convenient.
"That's fine with me," I say. Deck hovers above my desk, nothing but tension.
"Good. It shouldn't take long. I hope not, at five hundred dollars an hour. Obscene, isn't it?"
Aren't we buddies now? Just us lawyers against the doctors.
"Truly obscene."
"Yeah, well, anyway, say, Rudy, you know what my client really wants?"
"What?"
"Well, they don't want to spend a week in Memphis suffering through this trial. These guys are executives, you know, big-money people with big egos and careers to protect. They want to settle, Rudy, and this is what I've been told to pass along. This is just settlement talk, no admission of liability, you understand."
"Yep." I wink at Deck.
"Your expert says the cost of the bone marrow job would've been between a hundred and fifty and two hundred thousand, and we don't argue with these figures. Assuming, and this is just for the sake of assumption, that my client was in fact responsible for the transplant. Let's
say it was covered, just assuming, okay. Then my client should've paid out somewhere around a hundred and seventy-five thousand."
"If you say so."
"Then we'll offer that much to settle right now. One hundred and seventy-five thousand! No more depositions. I'll have a check to you within seven days."
"I don't think so."
"Look, Rudy. A zillion bucks can't bring that boy back. You need to talk some sense into your client. I think she wants to settle. There comes a time when the lawyer has to act like a lawyer and take charge. This poor old gal has no idea what's gonna happen at trial."
"I'll talk to her."
"Call her right now. I'll wait here another hour before I have to leave. Call her." Sleazy bastard's probably got the mike wired to his phone. He'd love for me to call her so he could eavesdrop.
"I'll get back with you, Mr. Drummond. Good day."
I hang up the phone, rewind the tape in the recorder and play it aloud.
Deck eases backward into a chair, his mouth wide open, his four shiny teeth glistening. "They bugged our phones," he says in sheer disbelief when the tape stops. We stare at the recorder, as if it alone can explain this. I'm literally numb and paralyzed by shock for several minutes. Nothing moves. Nothing works. The phone suddenly rings, but neither of us reaches for it. We're terrified of it, for the moment.
"I guess we should tell Kipler," I finally say, my words heavy and slow.
"I don't think so," Deck says, removing his thick glasses and wiping his eyes.
"Why not?"
"Let's think about it. We know, or at least we think we
know that Drummond and/or his client have bugged our phones. Drummond certainly knows about the bugs because we've just caught him. But there's no way to prove it for sure, no way to catch him red-handed."
"He'll deny it until he's dead."
"Right. So what's Kipler gonna do? Accuse him without solid proof? Chew his ass some more?"
"He's used to it by now."
"And it won't have any effect on the trial. The jury can't be told that Mr. Drummond and his client played dirty during discovery."
We stare at the recorder some more, both of us digesting this and trying to feel our way through the fog. In an ethics class just last year we read about a lawyer who got himself severely reprimanded because he secretly taped a phone call with another lawyer. I'm guilty, but my little sin pales in comparison with Drummond's despicable act. Trouble is, I can be nailed if I produce this tape. Drummond will never be convicted because it'll never be pinned on him. At what level is he involved? Was it his idea to tap our lines? Or is he simply using stolen information passed along by his client?
Again, we'll never know. And for some reason it makes no difference. He knows.
"We can use it to our advantage," I say.
"That's exactly what I was thinking."
"But we have to be careful, or they'll get suspicious."
"Yeah, let's save it for trial. Let's wait for the perfect moment when we need to send those clowns on a goose chase."
Both of us slowly start grinning.
I WAIT TWO DAYS, and call Drummond with the sad news that my client does not want his filthy money. She's acting a bit strange, I confide in him. One day she's afraid
of going to trial, trie next day she wants her day in court. Right now she wants to fight.
He's not the least bit suspicious. He retreats into his typical hardball routine, threatening me with the likelihood that the money will be taken off the table forever, that it'll be a nasty trial to the bitter end. I'm sure this sounds good to the eavesdroppers up in Cleveland. Wonder how long it takes for them to hear these conversations.
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.