by John Grisham
Mattie arrived earlier on Monday, and they huddled in her office with the door closed. Samantha reported that the documents had been delivered, somewhat safely, and that if all went as planned they would be handed over to an officer of the court later in the day. She left out the more colorful aspects of the adventure—the shoot-out that left someone with a bum leg, the dead bear, the miraculous presence of Vic Canzarro, and the quick cocktail on Jarrett London’s handsome jet. Some things were better left unsaid.
At any rate, the documents were now in safer hands, where they could be fought over by other lawyers. Somebody else would make sense of them. Samantha speculated that the FBI was now on the sidelines. There was even a hint that the investigation might turn 180 degrees and begin probing into the actions of Krull Mining. Nothing definite as of yet, just a word or two out of Washington.
After the death of Buddy Ryzer and the drama of the documents, life might possibly return to normal within the confines of the Mountain Legal Aid Clinic. The two lawyers certainly hoped so. Samantha was due in court at ten o’clock, in a case that had nothing to do with coal, documents, or federal authorities, and she was looking forward to an uneventful day. Jeff, though, was lurking around the courthouse, as if he knew her schedule. “Can we talk?” he said as they walked up the stairs to the main courtroom.
“I was hoping I wouldn’t see you for a while,” she said.
“Sorry, no chance. How long will you be in court?”
“An hour.”
“I’ll meet you in Donovan’s office. It’s important.”
Dawn, the secretary and receptionist, was gone, terminated. The firm was out of business, its offices shuttered and gathering dust. Jeff unlocked the front door, opened it for Samantha, then closed it and relocked it. They walked up the stairs to the second floor, to the war room where the walls were still lined with enlarged photos and courtroom exhibits from the Tate trial. Files and books and papers were scattered about, lingering evidence of the FBI raid. It seemed odd to her that no one had bothered to clean up the mess, to tidy up the room. Half the lights were out. The long table was covered in dust. Donovan had been dead for almost two months, and as Samantha looked around the room at his work, at the remains of his big cases, she was hit with a wave of sadness and nostalgia. She had known him so briefly, but for a second she longed to see his cocky smile.
They sat in folding chairs and drank coffee from paper cups. Jeff swept a hand over the room and said, “What am I supposed to do with this building? My brother left it to me in his will and no one wants it. We can’t find a lawyer to take over his practice, and so far no one wants to buy it.”
“It’s early,” she said. “It’s a beautiful building and someone will buy it.”
“Sure. Half the beautiful buildings on Main Street are empty. This town is dying.”
“Is this the important matter you wanted to discuss?”
“No. I’m leaving for a few months, Samantha. I have a friend who runs a hunting lodge in Montana, and I’m going for a long visit. I need to get away. I’m tired of being followed, tired of worrying about who’s back there, tired of thinking about my brother. I need a break.”
“That’s a great idea. What about your sniper work? I see where the reward is now a million bucks, cash. Things are heating up, huh?”
He took a long sip of the coffee and ignored her last comment. “I’ll pop in from time to time to take care of Donovan’s estate, whenever Mattie needs me. But long term, I think I’ll relocate out west somewhere. There’s just too much history around here, too many bad memories.”
She nodded, understood, but did not respond. Was he attempting a bit of drama here with some lame lover’s farewell? If so, she had nothing for him. She liked the boy all right, but at that moment she was relieved to hear he was headed for Montana. A full minute passed without a word, then another.
Finally, he said, “I think I know who killed Donovan.” A pause as she was expected to ask “Who?” But she bit her tongue and let it pass. He went on: “It’ll take some time, five maybe ten years, but I’ll hide in the bushes, lay my traps, so to speak. They like airplane crashes, so I’ll give them another.”
“I don’t want to hear this, Jeff. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life in prison?”
“I’m not going to.”
“Famous last words. Look, I need to get to the office.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
There was nothing at the office but the Monday brown-bag lunch, a rowdy gossip fest that she hated to miss. There seemed to be a code among the five women who participated in the lunch: If you skip it, you’ll probably be discussed at length.
He said, “Okay, I know you’re busy. I’ll be back in a couple of months. Will you be here?”
“I don’t know, Jeff, but don’t think about me.”
“But I will think about you, I can’t help it.”
“Here’s the deal, Jeff. I’m not going to worry about whether you’re coming back, and you don’t worry about whether I’m here or in New York. Got it?”
“Okay, okay. Can I at least kiss you good-bye?”
“Yes, but watch your hands.”
Samantha returned to her desk and was greeted with the latest from New York. Andy wrote:
Dear Samantha:
Old Spane & Grubman is growing by leaps and bounds. It now has 17 of the best and brightest associates signed on for what promises to be an exciting endeavor. We need two or three more. We need you! I’ve worked with a handful of these brilliant people—Nick Spane has worked with some others—so it’s fair to say I don’t know them all. But I know you, and I know I can trust you. I want you on my team and covering my back. A lot of sharks up here, as you know.
Here’s the total package: (1) beginning salary of $160,000 (up slightly and the highest offer so far so please keep this quiet—wouldn’t want to start trouble from the get-go); (2) an annual bonus to be determined by performance and overall firm productivity (no, the two partners do not plan to keep all the profits); (3) full health insurance—medical, dental, optical (everything but Botox and tummy tucks); (4) a savings and retirement plan which includes matching contributions to a rather generous 401K; (5) overtime pay beyond 50 hours a week (yes, dear, you read that right; S&G is probably the first law firm in history to offer overtime; we’re serious about the 50 hour workweek); (6) three weeks of paid vacation; (7) your own private office with your own designated secretary (and probably your own paralegal too but can’t make that promise right now); (8) advancement; we do not want our associates cutting throats to make partner, so we’re considering a plan whereby one can stake out an equity position at 7 to 10 years with the firm.
Top that, will you? And you can start July 1 and not May 1.
I’m waiting, dear. I need an answer in a week or so. Please.
Andy
She read it twice, printed it, and admitted to herself that she was getting tired of Andy and his e-mails. She found her brown bag and went to lunch.
It was 6:00 p.m. before Mattie’s last client left. Samantha had been puttering around her desk, stalling, waiting for the right moment. She poked her head into Mattie’s office and said, “Got time for a drink?” Mattie smiled and said of course.
Monday’s drinks were of the diet-soda variety. They poured themselves stiff ones and met in the conference room. Samantha slid Andy’s latest e-mail across the table. Mattie read it slowly, smiled, laid it down, and said, “Wow. That’s quite an offer. Nice to be wanted. I guess you’ll be leaving sooner than expected.” The smile was gone.
“I’m not ready to go back, Mattie. As generous as it sounds, the work is tedious, just hour after hour of reading and proofing and preparing documents. Try as they might, they can’t jazz it up and make it even remotely exciting. I’m just not ready for that, and I don’t think I ever will be. I’d like to stay awhile.”
Mattie smiled again, a smug little grin that conveyed a lot of satisfaction. “I’m sure you have so
mething in mind.”
“Well, not long ago I was an unpaid intern. Now I’m dodging job offers, none of which I find that appealing. I’m not going back to New York, not now anyway. I’m not working for Jarrett London. He’s too much like my father. I’m wary of trial lawyers who bounce around the country on their own jets. I don’t want Donovan’s office, too much baggage there. Jeff will own the building and be on the payroll, and knowing him as intimately as I do I can see a lot of trouble. He would assume the role of the boss and there would be tension from day one. He’s dangerous and reckless and I’m shoving him away, not getting closer. We’re having a romp every now and then but nothing serious. Besides, he says he’s leaving town.”
“So you’re staying here?”
“If that’s possible.”
“For how long?”
“There are three things I want to do. The most important client is the Ryzer family. I feel like I’m needed there, and I can’t just up and leave them in a few months. They’re vulnerable right now, and for some reason they think I can help. I’ll do the best I can. I like the idea of handling the Tate appeal, from start to finish. Lisa Tate needs us. The poor woman is living on food stamps and still grieving. I want to win the appeal and get her the money she deserves. And by the way, I think 40 percent is too much for Donovan’s estate. He may have earned that money, but he’s gone now. Lisa lost her boys; Donovan did not. With that set of facts, a lot of lawyers could have won the case. I guess we can discuss it later.”
“I’ve had the same thought.”
“During my second year of law school, we had to do a mock appellate case; write the briefs and argue before a three-judge panel, really just three law professors, but they were notorious for grilling the students. Oral argument was a big deal—coats and ties, dresses and pumps, you know?”
Mattie was nodding and smiling. “We did the same thing.”
“I guess all law students suffered through it. I was so nervous I couldn’t sleep the night before. My co-counsel gave me a Xanax two hours before the argument, but it didn’t help. I was so stiff I could barely utter the first word, then something strange happened. One of the judges hit me with a cheap shot, and I got mad. I began arguing with him. I unloaded case after case to support our position and really blasted the guy. I forgot about being scared—I was too focused on showing this judge how right I was. My ten minutes flew by, and when I sat down everybody just stared at me. My co-counsel leaned over and whispered one word: ‘Brilliant.’
“Anyway, it was my finest moment in law school, one I’ll never forget. Which is to say, I’d love to take the Tate case all the way to the Supreme Court of Virginia, present the oral argument, make fools out of the lawyers for Strayhorn Coal, and win the case for Lisa Tate.”
“Go girl. It’s all yours.”
“So that’s eighteen months, right?”
“Something like that. You said there were three things you want to do.”
“The third is simply to finish the cases I have, take some new ones as they come along, and try to help our clients. And in doing so, I’d like to spend more time in the courtroom.”
“You have a flair for it, Samantha. It’s pretty obvious.”
“Thank you, Mattie. That’s very kind. I don’t like being shoved around by the Trent Fullers of the world. I want respect, and the only way to get it is to earn it. When I walk into a courtroom, I want all the boys to sit up straight and notice, and not just my ass.”
“My, my, haven’t we come a long way?”
“Yes, we have. Now, about this internship. If I’m spending the next two years here, I need some sort of a salary. Not much, but something I can live on.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. We can’t quite match your guy up in New York, but we can do okay for rural Virginia. Annette and I both make forty a year, so that’s the ceiling. The clinic can pay you twenty. Since you’ll be handling the Tate appeal, I can get the court to authorize another twenty out of Donovan’s estate. How’s that?”
“Forty might cause a little resentment from you know who.”
“Annette?”
“Yes. Let’s go with thirty-nine.”
“We can do thirty-nine. Deal.” Mattie thrust her hand across the table and Samantha shook it. She picked up Andy’s e-mail and said, “Now I need to get rid of this jerk.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Thankfully, there are dozens of nonprofits working diligently in the coalfields to protect the environment, change policy, and fight for the rights of miners and their families. One is the Appalachian Citizens’ Law Center in Whitesburg, Kentucky. Mary Cromer and Wes Addington are wonderful lawyers there, and they provided guidance as I wandered through their region for the first time. Appalachian Voices is a feisty, grassroots environmental group out of Boone, North Carolina. Matt Wasson is its Director of Programs and was a great resource as I searched for facts.
Thanks also to Rick Middleton, Hayward Evans, Wes Blank, and Mike Nicholson.
