The Summons

by Grisham, John

  "What a surprise," Ray mumbled, taking the contract, scanning it, then signing.

  Crawford put it back in the file and returned to his notepad. "For the first week, we'll coordinate your movements. Everything will be planned. Go about your normal routine, just give us notice so we can have people in place."

  I'll have a traffic jam behind me, Ray thought. "It's a pretty dull life," Ray said. "I jog, I go to work, sometimes I go fly an airplane, I go home, alone, no family."

  "Other places

  "Sometimes I do lunch, dinner, not a breakfast guy though."

  "You're putting me to sleep," Crawford said and almost smiled. "Women?"

  "I wish. Maybe a prospect or two, nothing serious. If you find one, give her my name."

  "These bad guys in Mississippi, they're looking for something. What is it?"

  "It's an old family with lots of stuff handed down. Jewelry, rare books, crystal, and silver." It sounded natural and this time Craw-ford bought it.

  "Now we're getting somewhere. And you have possession of the family heirloom?"

  "That's right."

  "It's here?"

  "Tucked away in Chaney's Self-Storage, on Berkshire Road."

  "What's it worth?"

  "Not nearly as much as my relatives think."

  "Gimme a ballpark."

  "Half a million, on the high side."

  "And you have a legitimate claim to it?"

  "Let's say the answer is yes. Otherwise, I'll be forced to give you the family history, which could take the next eight hours and give us both a migraine."

  "Fair enough."

  Crawford finished a lengthy paragraph and was ready to wrap things up. "When can you get a new cell phone?"

  "I'll go now."

  "Great. And when can we check your apartment?"

  "Anytime."

  Three hours later, Crawford and a sidekick he called Booty finished what was known as a sweep. Ray's phones were clear, no taps or bugs. The air vents hid no secret cameras. In the cramped attic they found no receivers or monitors hidden behind boxes.

  "You're clean," Crawford said as he left.

  He didn't feel very clean as he sat on his balcony. You open up your life to complete strangers, albeit some selected and paid by you, and you feel compromised.

  The phone was ringing.

  FORREST SOUNDED sober - strong voice, clear words. As soon as he said "Hello, Bro," Ray listened to see what kind of shape he was in. It was instinctive now, after years of phone calls at all hours, from all places, many of which he, Forrest, never remembered. He said he was fine, which meant he was sober and clean, no booze or drugs, but he did not say for how long. Ray was not about to ask.

  Before either could mention the Judge or his estate or the house or Harry Rex, Forrest blurted out, "I got a new racket."

  "Tell me about it," Ray said, settling into his recliner. The voice on the other end was full of excitement. Ray had plenty of time to listen.

  "Ever heard of Benalatofix?"

  "No."

  "Me neither. The nickname is Skinny Ben. Ring a bell?"

  "No, sorry."

  "It's a diet pill put out by a company called Luray Products, out of California, a big private outfit that no one's ever heard of. For the last five years doctors have been prescribing Skinny Bens like crazy because the drug works. It's not for the woman who needs to drop twenty pounds, but it does wonders for the really obese, talking linebackers, defensive ends. You there?"

  "I'm listening."

  "Trouble is, after a year or two these poor women develop leaky heart valves. Tens of thousands of them have been treated, and Luray is getting sued like crazy in California and Florida. Food and Drug stepped in eight months ago, and last month Luray yanked Skinny Bens off the market."

  "Where, exactly, do you come in, Forrest?"

  "I am now a medical screener."

  "And what does a medical screener do?"

  "Thanks for asking. Today, for example, I was in 'a hotel suite in Dyersburg, Tennessee, helping these hefty darlings on to a treadmill. The doctor, paid by the lawyers who pay me, checks their heart capacity, and if they're not up to snuff, guess what?"

  "You have a new client."

  "Absolutely. Signed up forty today."

  "What's the average case worth?"

  "About ten thousand bucks. The lawyers I'm now working with have eight hundred cases. That's eight million bucks, the lawyers get half, the women get screwed again. Welcome to the world of mass torts."

  "What's in it for you?"

  "A base salary, a bonus for new clients, and a piece of the back end. There could be a half a million cases out there, so we're scrambling to round them up."

  "That's five billion dollars in claims."

  "Luray's got eight in cash. Every plaintiff's lawyer in the country is talking about Skinny Bens."

  "Aren't there some ethical problems?"

  "There are no ethics anymore, Bro. You're in la-la land. Ethics are only for people like you to teach to students who'll never use them. I hate to be the one to break it to you."

  "I've heard it before."

  "Anyway, I'm mining for gold. Just thought you'd want to know."

  "That's good to hear."

  "Is anybody up there doing Skinny Bens?"

  "Not to my knowledge."

  "Keep your eyes open. These lawyers are teaming up with other lawyers around the country. That's how mass tort stuff works, as I'm learning. The more cases you have in a class, the bigger the settlement."

  "I'll put out the word."

  "See you, Bro."

  "Be careful, Forrest."

  THE NEXT call came shortly after 2:30 A.M., and like every call at such an hour the phone seemed to ring forever, both during sleep and afterward. Ray finally managed to grab it and switch on a light.

  "Ray, this is Harry Rex, sorry to call."

  "What is it?" he said, knowing too well that it was not good.

  "Forrest. I've spent the last hour talking to him and some nurse at Baptist Hospital in Memphis. They've got him there, I think with a broken nose."

  "Back up, Harry Rex."

  "He went to a bar, got drunk, got in a fight, the usual. Looks like he picked on the wrong guy, now he's getting his face stitched up. They want to keep him overnight. I had to talk to the staff there and guarantee payment. I also asked them not to give him painkillers and drugs. They have no idea who they've got there."

  "I'm sorry you're in the middle of this, Harry Rex."

  "I've been here before, and I don't mind. But he's crazy, Ray. He started again about the estate and how he's getting screwed out of his rightful share, all that crap. I know he's drunk and all, but he just won't leave it alone."

  "I talked to him five hours ago. He was fine."

  "Well, he must've been headed for the bar. They finally had to sedate him to reset his nose, otherwise it would've been impossible. I'm just worried about all the drugs and stuff. What a mess."

  "I'm sorry, Harry Rex," Ray said again because he could think of nothing else to say. There was a pause as Ray tried to collect his thoughts. "He was fine, just a few hours ago, clean, sober, seemed so anyway."

  "Did he call you?" Harry Rex asked.

  "Yeah, he was excited about a new job."

  "That Skinny Ben crap?"

  "Yeah, is it a real job?"

  "I think so. There are a bunch of lawyers down here chasing those cases. Quantity's crucial. They hire guys like Forrest to go out and round 'em up."

  "They ought to be disbarred."

  "Half of us should. I think you need to come home. The sooner we can open the estate the sooner we can get Forrest calmed down. I hate these accusations."

  "Do you have a court date?"

  "We can do it Wednesday of next week. I think you ought to stay for a few days."

  "I was planning on it. Book it, I'll be there."

  "I'll notify Forrest in a day or so, try to catch him sober."

  "Sor
ry, Harry Rex."

  Not surprisingly, Ray couldn't sleep. He was reading a biography when his new cell phone rang. Had to be a wrong number. "Hello," he said suspiciously.

  "Why are you awake?" asked the deep voice of Corey Crawford.

  "Because my phone keeps ringing. Where are you?"

  "We're watching. You okay?"

  "I'm fine. It's almost four in the morning. You guys ever sleep?"

  "We nap a lot. I'd keep the lights out if I were you."

  "Thank you. Anybody else watching my lights?"

  "Not yet."

  "That's good."

  "Just checking in."

  Ray turned off the lights in the front of his apartment and retreated to his bedroom, where he read with aid of a small lamp. Sleep was made even more difficult with the knowledge that he was being billed a hundred dollars an hour through the night.

  It's a wise investment, he kept telling himself.

  At exactly 5 A.M. he sneaked down his hallway as if someone on the ground down there might see him, and he brewed coffee in the dark. Waiting for the first cup, he called Crawford, who, not surprisingly, sounded groggy. i

  "I'm brewing coffee, you want some?" Ray asked.

  "Not a good idea, but thanks."

  "Look, I'm flying to Atlantic City this afternoon. You got a pen:

  "Yeah, let's have it."

  "I'm leaving from general aviation in a white Beech Bonanza, tail number eight-one-five-romeo, at three P.M., with a flight instructor named Fog Newton. We'll stay tonight at the Canyon Casino, and return around noon tomorrow. I'll leave my car at the airport, locked as usual. Anything else?"

  "You want us in Atlantic City?"

  "No, that's not necessary. I'll move around a lot up there and try to watch my rear."

  CHAPTER 21

  The consortium was put together by one of Dick Docker's flying buddies. It was built around two local ophthalmologists who had clinics in West Virginia. Both had just learned to fly and needed to shuttle back and forth at a faster pace. Docker's pal was a pension consultant who needed the Bonanza for about twelve hours a month. A fourth partner would get the deal off the ground. Each would put up $50,000 for a quarter interest, then sign a bank loan for the balance of the purchase price, which was currently at $390,000 and not likely to move lower. The note was spread over six years and would cost each partner $890 per month.

  That was about eleven hours in a Cessna for Pilot Atlee.

  On the plus side, there was depreciation and potential charter business when the partners were not using the plane. On the negative, there were hangar fees, fuel, maintenance, and a list that seemed to go on too long. Unsaid by the pal of Dick Docker, and also very much on the negative side, was the possibility of getting into business with three strangers, two of whom were doctors.

  But Ray had $50,000, and he could swing $890 a month, and he wanted desperately to own the airplane that he secretly considered to be his.

  Bonanzas held their value, according to a rather persuasive report that was attached to the proposal. Demand had remained high in the used-aircraft market. The Beech safety record was second only to Cessna and practically as strong. Ray carried the consortium deal around with him for two days, reading it at the office, in his apartment, at the lunch counter. The other three partners were in. Just sign his name in four places, and he would own the Bonanza.

  The day before he left for Mississippi, he studied the deal for the last time, said to hell with everything else, and signed the papers.

  IF THE bad guys were watching him, they were doing an excellent job of covering their tracks. After six days of trying to find the surveillance, Corey Crawford was of the opinion that there was nobody back there. Ray paid him thirty-eight hundred in cash and promised to call if he got suspicious again.

  Under the guise of storing more junk, he went to Chaney's Self-Storage every day to check on the money. He hauled in boxes filled with anything he could find around his apartment. Both 14B and 37F were slowly taking on the appearance of an old attic.

  The day before he left town, he went to the front office and asked Mrs. Chaney if someone had vacated 18R. Yes, two days ago.

  "I'd like to rent it," he said.

  "That makes three," she said.

  "I'm going to need the space."

  "Why don't you just rent one of our larger units?"

  "Maybe later. For now, I'll use the three small ones."

  It really didn't matter to her. He rented 18R in the name of Newton Aviation and paid cash for a six-month lease. When he was certain no one was watching, he moved the money out of 37F and into 18R, where new boxes were waiting. They were made of aluminum-coated vinyl and guaranteed to resist fire up to three hundred degrees Fahrenheit. They were also waterproof, and they locked. The money fit into five of them. For good measure, Ray threw some old quilts and blankets and clothes over the boxes so things would look a little more normal. He wasn't sure whom he was trying to impress with the randomness of his little room, but he felt better when it looked disheveled.

  A lot of what he was doing these days was for the benefit of someone else. A different route from his apartment to the law school. A new jogging trail. A different coffee bar. A new downtown bookstore to browse through. And always with an eye for the unusual, an eye in the rearview mirror, a quick turnaround when he walked or jogged, a peek through shelves after he entered a shop. Someone was back there, he could feel it.

  He had decided to have dinner with Kaley before he went South for a while, and before she technically became a former student. Exams were over, what was the harm? She would be around for the summer and he was determined to pursue her, with great caution. Caution because that's what every female got from him. Caution because he thought he saw potential in this one.

  But the first phone call to her number was a disaster. A male voice answered, a younger voice, Ray thought, and whoever he was, he wasn't too pleased that Ray had called. When Kaley got on the phone she was abrupt. Ray asked if he could call at a better time. She said no, she'd ring him back.

  He waited three days then wrote her off, something he could do as easily as flipping the calendar to the next month.

  So he departed Charlottesville with nothing left undone. With Fog in the Bonanza, he flew four hours to Memphis, where he rented a car and went to look for Forrest.

  His FIRST and only visit to the home of Ellie Crum had been for the same purpose as this one. Forrest had cracked up, disappeared, and his family was curious as to whether he might be dead or thrown in jail somewhere. The Judge was still presiding back then, and life was normal, including the hunt for Forrest. Of course the Judge had been too busy to search for his youngest son, and why should he when Ray could do it?

  The house was an old Victorian in midtown Memphis, a hand-me-down from Ellie's father, who'd once been prosperous. Not much else was inherited. Forrest had been attracted to the notion of trust funds and real family money, but after fifteen years he'd given up hope. In the early days of the arrangement he had lived in the main bedroom. Now his quarters were in the basement. Others lived in the house too, all rumored to be struggling artists in need of refuge.

  Ray parked by the curb in the street. The shrubs needed trimming and the roof was old, but the house was aging nicely. Forrest painted it every October, always in a dazzling color scheme he and Ellie would argue over for a year. Now it was a pale blue trimmed with reds and oranges. Forrest said he'd painted it teal one year.

  A young woman with snow-white skin and black hair greeted him at the door with a rude, "Yes?"

  Ray was looking at her through a screen. Behind her the house was dark and eerie, same as last time. "Is Ellie in?" Ray asked, as rudely as possible.

  "She's busy. Who's calling?"

  "I'm Ray Atlee, Forrest's brother."

  "Who?"

  "Forrest, he lives in the basement."

  "Oh, that Forrest." She disappeared and Ray heard voices somewhere in the back of the house.


  Ellie was wearing a bedsheet, white with streaks and spots of clay and water and slits for her head and arms. She was drying her hands on a dirty dish towel and looked frustrated that her work had been interrupted. "Hello, Ray," she said like an old friend and opened the door.

  "Hello, Ellie." He followed her through the foyer and into the living room.

  "Trudy, bring us some tea, will you?" she called out. Wherever Trudy was, she didn't answer. The walls of the room were covered with a collection of the wackiest pots and vases Ray had ever seen. Forrest said she sculpted ten hours a day and couldn't give the stuff away. "I'm sorry about your father," she said. They sat across a small glass table from each other. The table was unevenly mounted on three phallic cylinders, each a different shade of blue. Ray was afraid to touch it.

  "Thank you," he said stiffly. No calls, no cards, no letters, no flowers, not one word of sympathy uttered until now, in this happenstance meeting. An opera could barely be heard in the background.

  "I guess you're looking for Forrest," she said.

  "Yes."

  "I haven't seen him lately. He lives in the basement, you know, comes and goes like an old tomcat. I sent a girl down this morning to have a look - she said she thinks he's been gone for a week or so. The bed hasn't been made in five years."

  "That's more than I wanted to know."

  "And he hasn't called."

  Trudy arrived with the tea tray, another of Ellie's hideous creations. And the cups were mismatched little pots with large handles. "Cream and sugar?" she asked, pouring and stirring.

  'Just sugar."

  She handed him his brew and he took it with both hands. Dropping it would've crushed a foot.

  "How is he?" Ray asked when Trudy was gone.

  "He's drunk, he's sober, he's Forrest."

  "Drugs?"

  "Don't go there. You don't want to know."

  "You're right," Ray said and tried to sip his tea. It was peach-flavored something and one drop was enough. "He was in a fight the other night, did you know about it? I think he broke his nose."

  "It's been broken before. Why do men get drunk and beat up each other?" It was an excellent question and Ray had no answer. She gulped her tea and closed her eyes to savor it. Many years ago, Ellie Crum had been a lovely woman. But now, in her late forties, she had stopped trying.