Three Classic Thrillers

by John Grisham

  “Poor guy. Kay said the funerals will probably be Monday, if they can get the bodies back in time.”

  “Let’s talk about something else. I don’t like funerals, any funeral, even when I’m there out of respect and don’t know the deceased. I’ve had some bad experiences with funerals.”

  The ribs arrived. They were served on paper plates with aluminum foil to catch the grease. A small dish of slaw and one of baked beans sat around a foot-long slab of dry ribs sprinkled heavily with the secret sauce. They dug in with fingers.

  “What would you like to talk about?” she asked.

  “Getting pregnant.”

  “I thought we were going to wait a few years.”

  “We are. But I think we should practice diligently until then.”

  “We’ve practiced in every roadside motel between here and Boston.”

  “I know, but not in our new home.” Mitch ripped two ribs apart, slinging sauce into his eyebrows.

  “We just moved in this morning.”

  “I know. What’re we waiting for?”

  “Mitch, you act as though you’ve been neglected.”

  “I have, since this morning. I suggest we do it tonight, as soon as we get home, to sort of christen our new house.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Is it a date? Look, did you see that guy over there? He’s about to break his neck trying to see some leg. I oughta go over and whip his ass.”

  “Yes. It’s a date. Don’t worry about those guys. They’re staring at you. They think you’re cute.”

  “Very funny.”

  Mitch stripped his ribs clean and ate half of hers. When the beer was gone, he paid the check and they climbed into the alley. He drove carefully across town and found the name of a street he recognized from one of his many road trips of the day. After two wrong turns, he found Meadowbrook, and then the home of Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell Y. McDeere.

  The mattress and box springs were stacked on the floor of the master bedroom, surrounded by boxes. Hearsay hid under a lamp on the floor and watched as they practiced.

  Four days later, on what should have been his first day behind his new desk, Mitch and his lovely wife joined the remaining thirty-nine members of the firm, and their lovely wives, as they paid their last respects to Martin S. Kozinski. The cathedral was full. Oliver Lambert offered a eulogy so eloquent and touching not even Mitchell McDeere, who had buried a father and a brother, could resist chill bumps. Abby’s eyes watered at the sight of the widow and the children.

  That afternoon, they met again in the Presbyterian church in East Memphis to say farewell to Joseph M. Hodge.

  5

  The small lobby outside Royce McKnight’s office was empty when Mitch arrived precisely at eight-thirty, on schedule. He hummed and coughed and began to wait anxiously. From behind two file cabinets an ancient blue-haired secretary appeared and scowled in his general direction. When it was apparent he was not welcome, he introduced himself and explained he was to meet Mr. McKnight at this appointed hour. She smiled and introduced herself as Louise, Mr. McKnight’s personal secretary, for thirty-one years now. Coffee? Yes, he said, black. She disappeared and returned with a cup and saucer. She notified her boss through the intercom and instructed Mitch to have a seat. She recognized him now. One of the other secretaries had pointed him out during the funerals yesterday.

  She apologized for the somber atmosphere around the place. No one felt like working, she explained, and it would be days before things were normal. They were such nice young men. The phone rang and she explained that Mr. McKnight was in an important meeting and could not be disturbed. It rang again, she listened, and escorted him into the managing partner’s office.

  Oliver Lambert and Royce McKnight greeted Mitch and introduced him to two other partners, Victor Milligan and Avery Tolar. They sat around a small conference table. Louise was sent for more coffee. Milligan was head of tax, and Tolar, at forty-one, was one of the younger partners.

  “Mitch, we apologize for such a depressing beginning,” McKnight said. “We appreciate your presence at the funerals yesterday, and we’re sorry your first day as a member of our firm was one of such sadness.”

  “I felt I belonged at the funerals,” Mitch said.

  “We’re very proud of you, and we have great plans for you. We’ve just lost two of our finest lawyers, both of whom did nothing but tax, so we’ll be asking more of you. All of us will have to work a little harder.”

  Louise arrived with a tray of coffee. Silver coffee server, fine china.

  “We are quite saddened,” said Oliver Lambert. “So please bear with us.”

  They all nodded and frowned at the table. Royce McKnight looked at some notes on a legal pad.

  “Mitch, I think we’ve covered this before. At this firm, we assign each associate to a partner, who acts as a supervisor and mentor. These relationships are very important. We try to match you with a partner with whom you will be compatible and able to work closely, and we’re usually right. We have made mistakes. Wrong chemistry, or whatever, but when that happens we simply reassign the associate. Avery Tolar will be your partner.”

  Mitch smiled awkwardly at his new partner.

  “You will be under his direction, and the cases and files you work on will be his. Virtually all of it will be tax work.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Before I forget it, I’d like to have lunch today,” Tolar said.

  “Certainly,” Mitch said.

  “Take my limo,” Mr. Lambert said.

  “I had planned to,” said Tolar.

  “When do I get a limo?” Mitch asked.

  They smiled, and seemed to appreciate the relief. “In about twenty years,” said Mr. Lambert.

  “I can wait.”

  “How’s the BMW?” asked Victor Milligan.

  “Great. It’s ready for the five-thousand-mile service.”

  “Did you get moved in okay?”

  “Yes, everything’s fine. I appreciate the firm’s assistance in everything. You’ve made us feel very welcome, and Abby and I are extremely grateful.”

  McKnight quit smiling and returned to the legal pad. “As I’ve told you, Mitch, the bar exam has priority. You’ve got six weeks to study for it and we assist in every way possible. We have our own review courses directed by our members. All areas of the exam will be covered and your progress will be closely watched by all of us, especially Avery. At least half of each day will be spent on bar review, and most of your spare time as well. No associate in this firm has ever failed the exam.”

  “I won’t be the first.”

  “If you flunk it, we take away the BMW,” Tolar said with a slight grin.

  “Your secretary will be a lady named Nina Huff. She’s been with the firm more than eight years. Sort of temperamental, not much to look at, but very capable. She knows a lot of law and has a tendency to give advice, especially to the newer attorneys. It’ll be up to you to keep her in place. If you can’t get along with her, we’ll move her.”

  “Where’s my office?”

  “Second floor, down the hall from Avery. The interior woman will be here this afternoon to pick out the desk and furnishings. As much as possible, follow her advice.”

  Lamar was also on the second floor, and at the moment that thought was comforting. He thought of him sitting by the pool, soaking wet, crying and mumbling incoherently.

  McKnight spoke. “Mitch, I’m afraid I neglected to cover something that should’ve been discussed during the first visit here.”

  He waited, and finally said, “Okay, what is it?”

  The partners watched McKnight intently. “We’ve never allowed an associate to begin his career burdened with student loans. We prefer that you find other things to worry about, and other ways to spend your money. How much do you owe?”

  Mitch sipped his coffee and thought rapidly. “Almost twenty-three thousand.”

  “Have the documents on Louise’s desk first thing in the m
orning.”

  “You, uh, mean the firm satisfies the loans?”

  “That’s our policy. Unless you object.”

  “No objection. I don’t quite know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. We’ve done it for every associate for the past fifteen years. Just get the paperwork to Louise.”

  “That’s very generous, Mr. McKnight.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  _____________

  Avery Tolar talked incessantly as the limo moved slowly through the noontime traffic. Mitch reminded him of himself, he said. A poor kid from a broken home, raised by foster families throughout southwest Texas, then put on the streets after high school. He worked the night shift in a shoe factory to finance junior college. An academic scholarship to UTEP opened the door. He graduated with honors, applied to eleven law schools and chose Stanford. He finished number two in his class and turned down offers from every big firm on the West Coast. He wanted to do tax work, nothing but tax work. Oliver Lambert had recruited him sixteen years ago, back when the firm had fewer than thirty lawyers.

  He had a wife and two kids, but said little about the family. He talked about money. His passion, he called it. The first million was in the bank. The second was two years away. At four hundred thousand a year gross, it wouldn’t take long. His specialty was forming partnerships to purchase supertankers. He was the premier specialist in his field and worked at three hundred an hour, sixty, sometimes seventy hours a week.

  Mitch would start at a hundred bucks an hour, at least five hours a day until he passed the bar and got his license. Then eight hours a day would be expected, at one-fifty an hour. Billing was the lifeblood of the firm. Everything revolved around it. Promotions, raises, bonuses, survival, success, everything revolved around how well one was billing. Especially the new guys. The quickest route to a reprimand was to neglect the daily billing records. Avery could not remember such a reprimand. It was simply unheard of for a member of the firm to ignore his billing.

  The average for associates was one-seventy-five per hour. For partners, three hundred. Milligan got four hundred an hour from a couple of his clients, and Nathan Locke once got five hundred an hour for some tax work that involved swapping assets in several foreign countries. Five hundred bucks an hour! Avery relished the thought, and computed five hundred per hour by fifty hours per week at fifty weeks per year. One million two hundred fifty thousand a year! That’s how you make money in this business. You get a bunch of lawyers working by the hour and you build a dynasty. The more lawyers you get, the more money the partners make.

  Don’t ignore the billing, he warned. That’s the first rule of survival. If there were no files to bill on, immediately report to his office. He had plenty. On the tenth day of each month the partners review the prior month’s billing during one of their exclusive luncheons. It’s a big ceremony. Royce McKnight reads out each lawyer’s name, then the total of his monthly billing. The competition among the partners is intense, but good-spirited. They’re all getting rich, right? It’s very motivational. As for the associates, nothing is said to the low man unless it’s his second straight month. Oliver Lambert will say something in passing. No one has ever finished low for three straight months. Bonuses can be earned by associates for exorbitant billing. Partnerships are based on one’s track record for generating fees. So don’t ignore it, he warned again. It must always have priority—after the bar exam, of course.

  The bar exam was a nuisance, an ordeal that must be endured, a rite of passage, and nothing any Harvard man should fear. Just concentrate on the review courses, he said, and try to remember everything he had just learned in law school.

  The limo wheeled into a side street between two tall buildings and stopped in front of a small canopy that extended from the curb to a black metal door. Avery looked at his watch and said to the driver, “Be back at two.”

  Two hours for lunch, thought Mitch. That’s over six hundred dollars in billable time. What a waste.

  The Manhattan Club occupied the top floor of a ten-story office building which had last been fully occupied in the early fifties. Avery referred to the structure as a dump, but was quick to point out that the club was the most exclusive lunch and dinner refuge in the city. It offered excellent food in an all-white, rich-male, plush environment. Powerful lunches for powerful people. Bankers, lawyers, executives, entrepreneurs, a few politicians and a few aristocrats. A gold-plated elevator ran nonstop past the deserted offices and stopped on the elegant tenth floor. The maitre d’ called Mr. Tolar by name and asked about his good friends Oliver Lambert and Nathan Locke. He expressed sympathies for the loss of Mr. Kozinski and Mr. Hodge. Avery thanked him and introduced the newest member of the firm. The favorite table was waiting in the corner. A courtly black man named Ellis delivered the menus.

  “The firm does not allow drinking at lunch,” Avery said as he opened his menu.

  “I don’t drink during lunch.”

  “That’s good. What’ll you have?”

  “Tea, with ice.”

  “Iced tea, for him,” Avery said to the waiter. “Bring me a Bombay martini on the rocks with three olives.”

  Mitch bit his tongue and grinned behind the menu.

  “We have too many rules,” Avery mumbled.

  The first martini led to a second, but he quit after two. He ordered for both of them. Broiled fish of some sort. The special of the day. He watched his weight carefully, he said. He also worked out daily at a health club, his own health club. He invited Mitch to come sweat with him. Maybe after the bar exam. There were the usual questions about football in college and the standard denials of any greatness.

  Mitch asked about the children. He said they lived with their mother.

  The fish was raw and the baked potato was hard. Mitch picked at his plate, ate his salad slowly and listened as his partner talked about most of the other people present for lunch. The mayor was seated at a large table with some Japanese. One of the firm’s bankers was at the next table. There were some other big-shot lawyers and corporate types, all eating furiously and importantly, powerfully. The atmosphere was stuffy. According to Avery, every member of the club was a compelling figure, a potent force both in his field and in the city. Avery was at home.

  They both declined dessert and ordered coffee. He would be expected to be in the office by nine each morning, Avery explained as he lit a Montesino. The secretaries would be there at eight-thirty. Nine to five, but no one worked eight hours a day. Personally, he was in the office by eight, and seldom left before six. He could bill twelve hours each day, every day, regardless of how many hours he actually worked. Twelve a day, five days a week, at three hundred an hour, for fifty weeks. Nine hundred thousand dollars! In billable time! That was his goal. Last year he had billed seven hundred thousand, but there had been some personal problems. The firm didn’t care if Mitch came in at 6 a.m. or 9 a.m., as long as the work was done.

  “What time are the doors unlocked?” Mitch asked.

  Everyone has a key, he explained, so he could come and go as he pleased. Security was tight, but the guards were accustomed to workaholics. Some of the work habits were legendary. Victor Milligan, in his younger days, worked sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, until he made partner. Then he quit working on Sundays. He had a heart attack and gave up Saturdays. His doctor put him on ten-hour days, five days a week, and he hasn’t been happy since. Marty Kozinski knew all the janitors by first name. He was a 9 a.m. man who wanted to have breakfast with the kids. He would come in at nine and leave at midnight. Nathan Locke claims he can’t work well after the secretaries arrive, so he comes in at six. It would be a disgrace to start later. Here’s a man sixty-one years old, worth ten million, and works from six in the morning until eight at night five days a week and then a half day on Saturday. If he retired, he’d die.

  Nobody punched a clock, the partner explained. Come and go as you please. Just get the work done.

  Mitch said he got
the message. Sixteen hours a day would be nothing new.

  Avery complimented him on the new suit. There was an unwritten dress code, and it was apparent Mitch had caught on. He had a tailor, an old Korean in South Memphis, he would recommend when Mitch could afford it. Fifteen hundred a suit. Mitch said he would wait a year or two.

  An attorney from one of the bigger firms interrupted and spoke to Avery. He offered his sympathies and asked about the families. He and Joe Hodge had worked together on a case last year, and he couldn’t believe it. Avery introduced him to Mitch. He was at the funeral, he said. They waited for him to leave, but he rambled on and on about how sorry he was. It was obvious he wanted details. Avery offered none, and he finally left.

  By two, the power lunches were losing steam, and the crowd thinned. Avery signed the check, and the maitre d’ led them to the door. The chauffeur stood patiently by the rear of the limo. Mitch crawled into the back and sank into the heavy leather seat. He watched the buildings and the traffic. He looked at the pedestrians scurrying along the hot sidewalks and wondered how many of them had seen the inside of a limo or the inside of the Manhattan Club. How many of them would be rich in ten years? He smiled, and felt good. Harvard was a million miles away. Harvard with no student loans. Kentucky was in another world. His past was forgotten. He had arrived.

  The decorator was waiting in his office. Avery excused himself and asked Mitch to be in his office in an hour to begin work. She had books full of office furniture and samples of everything. He asked for suggestions, listened with as much interest as he could muster, then told her he trusted her judgment and she could pick out whatever she felt was appropriate. She liked the solid-cherry work desk, no drawers, burgundy leather wing chairs and a very expensive oriental rug. Mitch said it was marvelous.

  She left and he sat behind the old desk, one that looked fine and would have suited him except that it was considered used and therefore not good enough for a new lawyer at Bendini, Lambert & Locke. The office was fifteen by fifteen, with two six-foot windows facing north and staring directly into the second floor of the old building next door. Not much of a view. With a strain, he could see a glimpse of the river to the northwest. The walls were Sheetrock and bare. She had picked out some artwork. He determined that the Ego Wall would face the desk, behind the wing chairs. The diplomas, etc., would have to be mounted and framed. The office was big, for an associate. Much larger than the cubbyholes where the rookies were placed in New York and Chicago. It would do for a couple of years. Then on to one with a better view. Then a corner office, one of those power ones.