by John Grisham
stuff.”
“Okay, what do you have in mind?”
As they settled in, Annette said, “Well, sex for one. How often do you get laid in New York?”
Samantha laughed at the frankness, then hesitated as if she couldn’t remember the last time. “It’s not that wild, really. I mean, it is if you’re in the game, but in my crowd we work too much to have any fun. A night out for us is a nice dinner and drinks, after which I’m always too tired to do anything but go to sleep, alone.”
“That’s hard to believe, all those rich, young professionals on the prowl. I’ve watched Sex and the City, over and over. By myself, of course, after the kids go to bed.”
“Well, I haven’t. I’ve heard about it, but I’m usually at the office. I’ve had one boyfriend in the past three years. Henry, a starving actor, really cute and fun in the sack, but he got tired of my hours and my fatigue. Sure, you meet a lot of guys, but most of them are just as driven. Women are disposable. A lot of jerks too, a lot of arrogant brats who talk of nothing but money and brag about what they can buy.”
“I’m crushed.”
“Don’t be. It’s not as glamorous as you think.”
“Never?”
“Oh sure, the occasional hookup, but nothing I care to remember.” Samantha sipped her tea and wanted to shift the conversation. “What about you? You get much action in Brady?”
It was Annette’s turn to laugh. She paused, took a sip, and became sad. “There’s not much happening here. I made the choice, now I live it, and that’s okay.”
“The choice?”
“Yes, I came here ten years ago, in full retreat. My divorce was a nightmare and I had to get away from my ex. Get my kids away too. He has almost no contact. Now, I’m forty-five years old, somewhat attractive, in fairly good shape, unlike, well—”
“Got it.”
“Let’s just say there’s not much competition in Noland County. There have been a couple of nice men along the way, but no one I wanted to live with. One guy was twenty years older, and I just couldn’t do that to my kids. For the first few years, it seemed as though half the women in town were trying to fix me up with a cousin. Then I realized they really wanted me to get married so they wouldn’t have to worry about their own husbands. Married men, though, do not tempt me. Far too much trouble, here or in the city.”
“Why do you stay?”
“That’s a great question, and I’m not sure I will. It’s a safe place to raise kids, though we do worry about the environmental hazards. Brady’s okay, but not far from here, back in the settlements and hollows, kids are constantly sick from contaminated water and coal dust. To answer your question, I’ve stayed because I love the work. I love the people who need my help. I can make a small difference in their lives. You met them today. You saw their fear and hopelessness. They need me. If I leave, there may be someone to take my place, and maybe not.”
“How do you turn it off when you leave the office?”
“I can’t always do that. Their problems are too personal, so I lose a lot of sleep.”
“I’m glad to hear that because I keep thinking about Phoebe Fanning, with her busted face and kids hidden with a relative, and a goon for a husband who’ll probably kill her when he gets out.”
Annette offered a caring smile. “I’ve seen a lot of women in her situation, and they’ve all survived. Phoebe will be fine, eventually. She’ll relocate somewhere—we’ll help her—and she’ll divorce him. Keep in mind, Samantha, he’s in jail right now, getting a good taste of life behind bars. If he does something stupid, he could spend the rest of his days in prison.”
“I didn’t get the impression he’s that much of a thinker.”
“You’re right. He’s an idiot and an addict. I’m not making light of her situation, but she’ll be okay.”
Samantha exhaled and set her cup on the coffee table. “I’m sorry, this is just so new to me.”
“Dealing with real people?”
“Yes, so caught up in their problems, and expected to fix them. The last file I worked on in New York involved a really shady guy, worth about a billion or so, our client, who wanted to build this very tall and sleek hotel in the middle of Greenwich Village. It was by far the ugliest model I ever saw, really gaudy. He fired three or four architects and his building just got taller and uglier. The city said hell no, so he sued and cozied up to the politicians and conducted himself like a lot of Manhattan developers. I met him once briefly when he came to the office to yell at my partner. A total sleazeball. And he was our client, my client. I detested the man. I wanted him to fail.”
“And why not?”
“He did fail, and we were secretly thrilled. Imagine that, we put in tons of hours, charged the guy a fortune, and felt like celebrating when his project got rejected. How’s that for client relations?”
“I’d celebrate too.”
“Now I’m worried about Lady Purvis whose husband is serving time in a debtors’ prison, and I’m fretting about Phoebe getting out of town before her husband is free on bond.”
“Welcome to our world, Samantha. There’ll be even more tomorrow.”
“I’m not sure I’m cut out for this.”
“Yes, you are. You gotta be tough in this business, and you’re a lot tougher than you think.”
Adam was back, homework suddenly finished, and he wanted to challenge Miss Sam to a game of gin rummy. “He thinks he’s a card shark,” Annette said. “And he cheats.”
“I’ve never played gin rummy,” Miss Sam said.
Adam was shuffling the deck like a Vegas dealer.
10
Most of Mattie’s workdays began with coffee at eight o’clock sharp, office door closed, phone ignored, and Donovan sitting across from her sharing the latest gossip. There was really no need to close her door because no one else arrived for work until around 8:30, when Annette punched in after dropping her kids off at school. Nonetheless, Mattie treasured the privacy with her nephew and protected it.
Office rules and procedures appeared to be lax, and Samantha had been told to show up “around nine” and work until she found a good stopping place late in the afternoon. At first, she worried that the transition from a hundred hours a week to forty might be difficult, but not so. She had not slept until seven in years and was finding it quite agreeable. By eight, however, she was climbing the walls and eager to start the day. On Tuesday, she eased through the front door, passed Mattie’s office, heard low voices, and checked the kitchen for the coffeepot. She had just settled behind her compact desk for an hour or two of studying, or until she was fetched to sit through another client interview, when Donovan suddenly appeared and said, “Welcome to town.”
“Well, hello,” she said.
He glanced around and said, “I’ll bet your office in New York was a lot bigger.”
“Not really. They stuffed us rookies into what they called ‘quads,’ these cramped little work spaces where you could reach over and touch your colleague, if you needed to. They saved on rent so the partners could protect their bottom line.”
“Sounds like you really miss it.”
“I think I’m still numb.” She waved at the only other chair and said, “Have a seat.”
Donovan casually folded himself into the small chair and said, “Mattie tells me you made it to court on your very first day.”
“I did. What else did she tell you?” Samantha wondered if her daily movements would be recapped each morning over their coffee.
“Nothing, just the idle chatter of small-town lawyers. Randy Fanning was once an okay guy, then he got into meth. He’ll wind up dead or in prison, like a lot of guys around here.”
“Can I borrow one of your guns?”
A laugh, then, “You won’t need one. The meth dealers are not nearly as nasty as the coal companies. Start suing them all the time and I’ll get you a gun. I know it’s early, but have you thought about lunch?”
“I haven’t thought about breakf
ast yet.”
“I’m offering lunch, a working lunch in my office. Chicken salad sandwich?”
“How can I refuse that?”
“Does noon work in your schedule?”
She pretended to consult her busy daily planner, and said, “Your lucky day. I happen to have an opening.”
He jumped to his feet and said, “See ya.”
She studied quietly for a while, hoping to be left undisturbed. Through the thin walls she heard Annette discussing a case with Mattie. The phone rang occasionally, and each time Samantha held her breath and hoped that Barb would send the caller to another office, to a lawyer who knew what to do. Her luck lasted until almost ten, when Barb stuck her head around the door and said, “I’ll be out for an hour. You have the front.” She disappeared before Samantha could inquire as to what, exactly, that meant.
It meant sitting at Barb’s desk in the reception area, alone and vulnerable and likely to be approached by some poor soul with no money to hire a real lawyer. It meant answering the phone and routing the calls to either Mattie or Annette, or simply stalling. One person asked for Annette, who was with a client. Another asked for Mattie, who had gone to court. Another needed advice on a Social Security disability claim, and Samantha happily referred him to a private firm. Finally, the front door opened and Mrs. Francine Crump walked in with a legal matter that would haunt Samantha for months.
All she wanted was a will, one “that didn’t cost anything.” Simple wills are straightforward documents, the preparation of which can easily be undertaken by even the greenest of lawyers. Indeed, rookies jump at the chance to draft them because it’s difficult to screw them up. Suddenly confident, Samantha led Mrs. Crump back to a small meeting room and left the door open so she could keep an eye on the front.
Mrs. Crump was eighty years old and looked all of it. Her husband died long ago, and her five children were scattered around the country, none close to home. She said she had been forgotten by them; they seldom came to visit, seldom called. She wanted to sign a simple will that gave them nothing. “Cut ’em all out,” she said with astonishing bitterness. Judging from her appearance, and from the fact that she was looking for a free will, Samantha assumed there was little in the way of assets. Mrs. Crump lived in Eufaula, a small community “deep in Jacob’s Holler.” Samantha wrote this down as if she knew exactly where it was. There were no debts, nothing in the way of real assets except for an old house and eighty acres, land that had been in her family forever.
“Any idea what the land is worth?” Samantha asked.
Mrs. Crump crunched her dentures and said, “A lot more than anybody knows. You see, the coal company came out last year and tried to buy the land, been trying for some time, but I ran ’em off again. Ain’t selling to no coal company, no ma’am. They’re blasting away not far from my land, taking down Cat Mountain, and it’s a real shame. Ain’t got no use for no coal company.”
“How much did they offer?”
“A lot, and I ain’t told my kids either. Won’t tell them. I’m in bad health, you see, and I’ll be gone pretty soon. If my kids get the land, they’ll sell to the coal company before I’m cold in the ground. That’s exactly what they’ll do. I know ’em.” She reached into her purse and pulled out some folded papers. “Here’s a will I signed five years ago. My kids took me down to a lawyer’s office, just down the street, and they made me sign it.”
Samantha slowly unfolded the papers and read the last will and testament of Francine Cooper Crump. The third paragraph left everything to her five children in equal shares. Samantha scribbled some useless notes and said, “Okay, Mrs. Crump, for estate tax purposes, I need to know the approximate value of this land.”
“The what?”
“How much did the coal company offer you?”
She looked as if she’d been insulted, then leaned in low and whispered. “Two hundred thousand and change, but it’s worth double that. Maybe triple. You can’t trust a coal company. They low ball everybody, then figure out ways to steal from you at the end.”
Suddenly the simple will was not so simple. Samantha proceeded cautiously, asking, “All right, so who gets the eighty acres under a new will?”
“I want to give it to my neighbor, Jolene. She lives across the creek on her own land and she ain’t selling either. I trust her and she’s already promised to take care of my land.”
“You’ve discussed this with her?”
“Talk about it all the time. She and her husband, Hank, say they’ll make new wills too, and leave their land to me in case they go first. But they’re in better health, you know? I figure I’ll pass first.”
“But what if they pass first?”
“I doubt it. I got high blood pressure and a bad heart, plus bursitis.”
“Sure, but what if they pass first, and you inherit their land to go along with your land, and then you die, who gets all this land?”
“Not my kids, and not their kids either. God help us. You think mine are bad.”
“Got that, but someone has to inherit the land. Who do you have in mind?”
“That’s what I came here for, to talk to a lawyer. I need some advice on what to do.”
Suddenly, with assets on the line, there were different scenarios. The new will would certainly be contested by the five children, and other than what she had just skimmed in the seminar materials, Samantha knew nothing about will contests. She vaguely recalled a case or two from a class in law school, but that seemed like so long ago. She managed to stall, take notes, and ask semi-relevant questions for half an hour, and succeeded in convincing Mrs. Crump that she should return in a few days after the firm had reviewed her situation. Barb was back, and she proved skillful in helping to ease the new client out the front door.
“What was that all about?” Barb asked when Mrs. Crump was gone.
“I’m not sure. I’ll be in my room.”
Donovan’s office was in much better shape than the legal aid clinic’s. Leather chairs, thick rugs, hardwood floors with a nice finish. A funky chandelier hung in the center of the foyer. Samantha’s first thought was that, finally, there was someone in Brady who might be making a buck or two. His receptionist, Dawn, greeted her politely and said the boss was waiting upstairs. She was off to lunch. As she climbed the circular staircase, Samantha heard the front door close and lock. There was no sign of anyone else.
Donovan was on the phone behind a large wooden desk that appeared to be very old. He waved her in, pointed to a bulky chair, and said, “Gotta go.” He slammed the phone down and said, “Welcome to my domain. This is where all the long balls are hit.”
“Nice,” she said, looking around. The room was large and opened onto the balcony. The walls were covered with handsome bookcases, all packed with the usual assortment of treatises and thick tomes meant to impress. In one corner was a gun rack displaying at least eight deadly weapons. Samantha didn’t know a shotgun from a deer rifle, but the collection appeared to be primed and ready.
“Guns everywhere,” she observed.
“I hunt a lot, always have. When you grow up in these mountains, you grow up in the woods. I killed my first deer at the age of six, with a bow.”
“Congratulations. And why do you want to have lunch?”
“You promised, remember? Last week, just after you were arrested and I rescued you from jail.”
“But we agreed on lunch at the diner down the street.”
“I thought we might have more privacy here. Plus, I try and avoid the local spots. As I told you, there are a lot of people around here who don’t like me. Sometimes they say things and make a scene in public. It can really ruin a good lunch.”
“I don’t see any food.”
“It’s in the war room. Come with me.” He jumped to his feet and she followed him down a short hallway to a long, windowless room. At one end of a cluttered table were two plastic carryout containers and two bottles of water. He pointed and said, “Lunch is served.”
&
nbsp; Samantha walked to a side wall and stared at an enlarged photo that was at least eight feet tall. It was in color, and it portrayed a scene that was shocking and tragic. A massive boulder, the size of a small car, had crashed through a mobile home, shearing it in half and causing serious damage. “What’s this?” she asked.
Donovan stepped beside her and said, “Well, it’s a lawsuit, to begin with. For about a million years, that boulder was part of Enid Mountain, about forty miles from here, over in Hopper County. A couple of years ago, they began strip-mining the mountain, blew its top off, and dug out the coal. On March 14 of last year, at four in the morning, a bulldozer owned and operated by a roguish outfit called Strayhorn Coal was clearing rock, without a permit, and this boulder was shoved into the fill area down the valley. Because of its size, it picked up momentum as it descended along this steep creek bed.” He was pointing to an enlarged map next to the photo. “Almost a mile from where it left the blade of the bulldozer, it crashed into this little trailer. In the back bedroom were two brothers, Eddie Tate, age eleven, and Brandon Tate, age eight. Sound asleep, as you might expect. Their father was in prison for cooking meth. Their mother was at work at a convenience store. The boys were killed instantly, crushed, flattened.”
Samantha gawked at the photo in disbelief. “That’s horrible.”
