by John Grisham
“Well, I need to see some proof. Financials, tax returns, the like. Not sure I can trust them because I damned sure don’t trust your appraisal. What’s your gross gonna be this year?”
The indignity was overwhelming. Suffering at the whim of another banker who wanted to poke through his books. “You know how it is, Herb, in this business. You can’t predict what’ll walk in the door. I’ll probably do a hundred and fifty.”
Half of that would be a bonanza at the current rate.
“Well, I don’t know. Put together some financials and I’ll take a look. What’s in the pipeline now?”
“What do you mean?”
“Look, Jake, I deal with lawyers all the time. What’s the best case in your office?”
“The Smallwood wrongful deaths, against the railroad.”
“Oh really? I heard that one blew up in your face.”
“Not at all. Judge Noose will give us a new trial date later in the fall. We’re on track, so to speak.”
“Ha, ha. What’s the next-best case?”
There wasn’t one. Jesse Turnipseed’s mother slipped on some pickle juice on the floor at the grocery store and broke her arm. It healed perfectly. The insurance company was offering $7,000. Jake couldn’t threaten it with a trial because she had a habit of falling in well-insured stores when no one was around. “The usual assortment of car wrecks and such,” he said with a discernible lack of conviction.
“Junk. Anything of value?”
“Not really. Not now anyway.”
“What about other assets. I mean, anything worth a shit?”
Oh, how he hated bankers. His paltry savings account had been demolished to pay Stan. “Some savings, couple of cars, you know?”
“I know, I know. What about other debts? You in hock up to your ears like most lawyers around here?”
Credit cards, the monthly note on Carla’s vehicle. He wouldn’t dare mention the litigation loan because Herb would blow a gasket. The very idea of borrowing that much money to fund a lawsuit. At that moment, it did indeed seem foolish. “The usual, nothing serious, nothing I’m not taking care of.”
“Look, let’s cut to the chase here, Jake. Get some numbers together and I’ll take a look, but I gotta tell you, three hundred won’t work. Hell, I’m not sure two-fifty ain’t too much.”
“Will do. Thanks, Herb. See you around.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Jake bolted from the office, his hatred of banks refortified. He left thoroughly defeated and slinked back to his office.
* * *
—
THE NEXT MEETING would be even more painful. Three hours later, Harry Rex stomped up his stairs, cracked the door, and said, “Let’s go.”
They made the same walk Jake had made earlier in the day, but stopped at the Sullivan law firm. A pretty secretary led them to a large, majestic conference room with people waiting. On one side of the table, Walter Sullivan sat with Sean Gilder and one of his many associates. The two railroad lawyers were with them. The handshaking took a while and everybody was polite. A court reporter sat at one end, next to the chair reserved for the witness.
On cue, Mr. Neal Nickel walked in and said hello. The court reporter swore him to tell the truth and he took his seat. It was Gilder’s deposition and he quickly took charge with instructions for the witness and a long list of preliminary questions. Since he worked by the hour, he was slow and meticulous.
Jake studied Nickel’s face and felt as though he knew him well. He had seen him so many times in the photos at the accident scene. He was still wearing a dark suit and was articulate, educated, and not the least bit intimidated.
The ugly truth came out soon enough. On the night of the crash, he was following an old pickup truck that was barely staying on the road. Swerving from one shoulder to the other. Nickel gave it plenty of room. As he topped a hill, he saw the red crossing lights flashing at the bottom. A train was passing. The headlights from the pickup and the car in front of it reflected off the bright yellow warning strips attached to each boxcar. Suddenly there was an explosion. The pickup hit the brakes, as did Nickel. He got out and raced to the crossing and saw the small car had flipped 180 degrees and was facing him, its front crumpled into an ugly mess. The train was still passing, clicking along at a reasonable speed as if nothing had happened. The driver of the truck, a Mr. Grayson, was yelling and flailing his arms as he ran around the car. Inside there was a mess. The driver—a man—and his woman passenger were crushed, mangled, bleeding. A little boy and little girl were crushed in the rear seat and apparently dead. Nickel walked to some weeds and vomited as the train finally cleared. Another car stopped, then another, and as they crowded around the wreck they realized they could do nothing. The train stopped and began to slowly come back, in reverse. “They’re dead, they’re all dead,” Grayson kept saying as he circled the wreck. The other drivers were as horrified as Nickel. Then there were sirens, and plenty of them. The responders quickly realized there was no urgency—all four were dead. Nickel wanted to leave but the highway was blocked. He wasn’t from the area and didn’t know the back roads, so he waited and watched with the crowd. For three hours he stood off to the side and watched as the firemen cut and sawed and removed the bodies. It was a horrible scene, one he would never forget. He’d had nightmares.
With this beautiful gift in hand, Sean Gilder slowly and meticulously walked Nickel through his testimony again, nailing down every detail. He handed him large photos of the crossing lights, but Nickel said he didn’t think to observe them in the chaos. They were flashing away at the time of the collision and that was all that mattered.
Sadly, at least for the plaintiffs, Nickel was far more credible than Hank Grayson, who still maintained that the lights were not flashing and he himself didn’t see the train until he almost crashed into the Smallwood vehicle.
Having far too much fun, Gilder then moved to events that took place months after the accident. In particular, the meeting with a private investigator at Nickel’s office in Nashville. Nickel had been surprised that someone had found him. The investigator said he was working for a lawyer in Clanton but did not give his name. Nickel cooperated fully and told the investigator the same story he had just testified to under oath, leaving out no details. The investigator thanked him and went away, never to be heard from again. Back in February, he had been traveling near Clanton and decided to stop by the courthouse. He asked about the lawsuit and was told that the file was a public record. He spent two hours with it and realized that Hank Grayson was sticking to his original story. Nickel was bothered by this but still did not want to get involved because he had sympathy for the Smallwoods. However, over time he felt compelled to come forward.
In the deposition game, some lawyers played all their cards and flushed out every detail. Their goal was to win the deposition. Gilder was in that camp. Better lawyers held back and didn’t reveal their strategies. They saved their best shots for trial. Great lawyers often skipped the depositions altogether and plotted brutal cross-examinations.
Jake had no questions for the witness. He could have asked Nickel why, as an eyewitness, he said nothing to the police. The scene was crawling with deputies and there were two state troopers working the crowd, but Nickel had offered nothing. He stood silently by and kept his mouth shut. His name appeared in none of the reports.
Jake could have asked him a question that was so obvious, yet had so far been missed by Gilder and his team. The train cleared the crossing, stopped, and backed up because the engineer had heard a thud. On the track, trains ran both ways. Why, then, did the lights not work when the train approached from the other direction, in reverse? Jake had statements from a dozen witnesses who swore the lights were not flashing while the train sat nearby and the rescue was underway. Gilder, either overconfident or just lazy, had not spoken to these witnesses.
Jake could have asked
him about his past. Nickel was forty-seven years old. At the age of twenty-two he had been involved in a terrible auto accident in which three teenagers were killed. They were drinking beer, joyriding, racing down a county road on a Friday night when they ran head-on into a car driven by Nickel. As it turned out, everybody was drunk. Nickel registered .10 and was arrested for drunk driving. There was talk of an indictment for manslaughter, but the authorities eventually decided the accident was not his fault. The three families sued anyway and the case dragged on for four years before his insurance company negotiated a nuisance settlement. Thus, his reluctance to get involved.
This valuable background had been discovered by a private investigator who charged Jake $3,500, another ding to the old Tort Sport loan sitting in Stan’s office. Jake had the dirt. Sean Gilder probably did not because he didn’t mention it during the deposition. Jake relished the moment when he sprung it on Nickel before the jury and slaughtered him with it. His credibility would be tarnished, but his past would not change the facts of the Smallwood accident.
Jake and Harry Rex had argued over strategy. Harry Rex wanted a full-frontal assault in the deposition to spook the defense and soften up Gilder for, just maybe, some settlement talk. They were desperate for cash, but Jake still dreamed of a big verdict in his courtroom. And he would not push for a trial. A year needed to pass for things to settle down. The Gamble trial needed to come and go and take the baggage with it.
Harry Rex thought this was a foolish dream. Hanging on for a year seemed impossible.
32
Jake worked late on Monday and left the office after dark. Preoccupied, he was almost home when he remembered Carla wanted milk, eggs, two cans of tomato sauce, and coffee from the grocery store. He turned around and went to a Kroger east of town. He parked his red Saab in the lot that was almost empty, went in, filled his basket, checked out, sacked his own items, and was almost to his car when things took a sudden turn for the worse. An unfriendly voice behind him said, “Hey Brigance.” Jake turned and for a split second saw a face that was vaguely familiar. Holding the grocery bag, he couldn’t duck in time to miss the sucker punch. It landed flush on his nose, cracked it, and knocked him to the asphalt beside his car. For a second he could see nothing. A heavy boot landed on his right ear as he scrambled around. He felt a can of tomato sauce and quickly hurled it at the man, hitting him in the face. The man yelled, “You son of a bitch!” and kicked him again. Jake was almost to his feet when a second man tackled him from behind. He landed hard on the asphalt again and managed to grab the hair of his tackler. The same heavy boot landed again on his forehead, and Jake was too stunned to fight back. He released his grip on the hair and tried to get up, but he was pinned on his back. The second assailant, a thick heavy guy, pounded away at his face, cursing and growling, while the first one kicked his ribs and gut and anywhere else he could land a boot. When he kicked him in the testicles Jake screamed and blacked out.
Two loud gunshots cracked through the air and someone yelled, “Stop it!”
The two thugs were startled and bolted from the scene. They were last seen sprinting around the corner of the store. Mr. William Bradley ran over with his pistol and said, “Oh my God.”
Jake was unconscious and his face was a bloody mess.
* * *
—
WHEN CARLA ARRIVED at the ER, Jake was being X-rayed. A nurse told her, “He’s breathing on his own and somewhat alert. That’s all I know right now.” His parents arrived half an hour later and she met them in the waiting room. Mr. William Bradley was in a corner talking to a Clanton city policeman, giving his story.
A doctor, Mays McKee, a friend from church, stopped by for the second time and gave them the latest. “It’s a pretty nasty beating,” he said gravely. “But Jake is awake and stable and in no danger. Some cuts and bruises, a broken nose. We’re still doing X-rays and giving him morphine. A lot of pain. I’ll be back in a minute.” He eased away and Carla sat with Jake’s parents.
A county deputy, Parnell Johnson, arrived and spent a moment with them. He huddled with Mr. Bradley and the city policeman, then sat on a coffee table in front of Carla and said, “Looks like there were two of them. They jumped Jake as he was about to get into his car outside Kroger. Mr. Bradley over there had just parked and saw the beating and grabbed his .38. He fired twice, ran them off. He saw a green GMC pickup race away on a side street behind the store. No idea of who it was, not now anyway.”
“Thank you,” Carla said.
A long hour passed before Dr. McKee returned. He told them Jake had been moved to a private room and wanted to see Carla. His parents would not be allowed in at the moment but could visit tomorrow. Dr. McKee and Carla went to the third floor and stopped outside a closed door. The doctor whispered, “He looks terrible and he’s pretty groggy. Broken nose, two broken ribs, two missing teeth, three cuts on his face that required forty-one stitches, but I got Dr. Pendergrast to sew him up. He’s the best and he doesn’t expect significant scarring.”
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. At least he was alive. “Can I stay here tonight?”
“Sure. They’ll send in a foldaway bed.”
He pushed the door open and they eased inside. Carla almost fainted when she saw her husband. From his eyebrows up, everything was wrapped in heavy gauze. Another bandage covered most of his chin. A line of small black stitches ran across his nose. His eyes were hideous, swollen shut with bulging masses as large as boiled eggs. His lips were thick, puffy, and red. A tube snaked its way into his mouth while two IVs hung from above. She swallowed hard and took his hand. “Jake, honey, I’m here.” She kissed him softly on the cheek, on a small patch of open skin.
He grunted and tried to smile. “Hey, babe. You okay?”
She had to smile too, although he could see nothing. “Let’s not worry about me right now. I’m here and you’re going to be okay.”
He mumbled something incomprehensible, then moved a leg and groaned.
Dr. McKee said, “He took a nasty shot to the crotch and his testicles are quite swollen. And the swelling will continue.”
Jake heard them and said, with remarkable clarity, “Hey, babe, you wanna fool around?”
“No I don’t. We’ll have to wait a couple of days.”
“Dammit.”
A long moment passed as she squeezed his hand and stared at his bandages. The tears began and were soon running down her cheeks. Jake appeared to doze off, and Dr. McKee nodded at the door. In the hallway he said, “He has a concussion I want to monitor, so he’ll be here for a couple of days. I don’t think it’s serious but we need to watch it. Stay if you like, but there’s really no need. There’s nothing you can do and I think he’ll soon drift off and go to sleep.”
“I’m staying. His parents will keep Hanna.”
“As you wish. I’m really sorry about this, Carla.”
“Thank you, Dr. McKee.”
“He’s gonna be okay. Really sore for the next week or so, but he’s in one piece.”
“Thank you.”
* * *
—
HARRY REX SHOWED up and cursed a nurse when she turned him away. On the way out the door he threatened to sue her.
* * *
—
BY MIDNIGHT, JAKE had not made a sound in over an hour. Carla, barefoot and still in jeans, sat propped up on pillows in her flimsy foldaway and flipped through magazines under a dim table lamp. She tried not to think about who the thugs were, but she knew the beating was related to Kofer. Five years earlier, the Klan had burned their home and taken a shot at Jake outside the courthouse during the Hailey affair. For three years they had lived with guns and extra security because the threats continued. She could not believe the violence was back.
What kind of life were they living? No other lawyer faced such intimidation. Why them? Why did her husband get involv
ed with dangerous cases that paid nothing? For twelve years they had worked hard and tried to save and dreamed of building something for the future. Jake had an enormous capacity for work and was determined to succeed as a noted trial lawyer. He was ambitious to a fault and dreamed of wowing juries and winning big verdicts. The money would come by the truckload, one day, he was certain of it.
And look at them now. Her husband beaten to a pulp. His law practice drying up, their debts mounting by the week.
At the beach last month, her father had once again, quietly and when Jake wasn’t around, mentioned that he could find a place for Jake in money management. He had several friends who were investors, most of them semiretired, but they were contemplating putting together a fund to invest in hospitals and medical device startups. She wasn’t sure what that meant and she had not said a word to Jake about it. But it meant a move to the Wilmington area and a complete change of his career. Her father even mentioned a loan to make things easier. If he only knew how deep their debts were.
Things would certainly be safer at the beach.
At times they had talked about the drudgery of small-town living. The same routines, same friends, the lack of a meaningful social life. For arts and athletics they had to drive an hour to either Tupelo or Oxford. She enjoyed her friends but there was the constant game of who had the bigger house, the nicer cars, the sexier vacations. In a small town everyone was eager to help, but then everyone also knew your business. Two years ago they had paid too much for the Hocutt House, and she had noticed a definite coolness from a couple of her girlfriends. It was as if the Brigances were moving up too quickly and leaving the others behind. If they only knew.
The nurses came and went, making sleep impossible. The monitors glowed and blinked. The opioids seemed to be working fine.
Could this be the pivotal moment in their lives? The final straw that freed Jake from the grind of a ham-and-eggs lawyer struggling to pay the bills each month? They were not yet forty. There was plenty of time and it was the perfect moment to change course and move on to something better, to get out of Mississippi and find an easier place. She could always get a job as a schoolteacher.
