I DECIDE TO HIDE IN THE LAW SCHOOL. I spend a couple of hours lurking between the tiers in the basement, retrieving and perusing case after case on insurance bad faith. I kill time.
I drive slowly in the general direction of the airport and arrive at Bruiser's at three-thirty. The neighborhood is worse than it seemed just hours earlier. The street has five lanes for traffic and is lined with light industries and freight terminals and dark little bars and clubs where the workingmen unwind. It's somewhere near the final approach to the airport, and jets scream by overhead.
Bruiser's strip is labeled Greenway Plaza, and as I sit in my car in the littered lot I notice, in addition to the cleaners and video rental, a liquor store and a small coffee shop. Though it's difficult to tell because of the blackened windows and sealed doors, it appears as if the law offices occupy six or seven contiguous bays in the center of the strip. I grit my teeth, and pull open the door.
The denim-clad secretary is visible on the other side of a chest-high partition. She has bleached hair and a re-
markable figure, the curves and grooves of which are magnificently displayed.
I explain my presence to her. I expect to be rebuffed and asked to leave, but she is civil. In a sultry and intelligent voice, quite unbimbolike, she asks me to fill out the necessary employment forms. I'm stunned to learn that this firm, the Law Offices of J. Lyman Stone, offers comprehensive health insurance to its employees. I carefully read the fine print because I half-expect Bruiser to hide little clauses that further sink his claws into my flesh.
But there are no surprises. I ask her if I may see Bruiser, and she asks me to wait. I take a seat in a row of plastic chairs along the wall. The reception area is designed on the same lines as a welfare office-well-worn tile floor, thin layer of dirt on said floor, cheap seats, flimsy paneled walls, amazing assortment of torn magazines. She, Dru, the secretary, is typing away and answering the phone at the same time. It rings a lot, and-she is very efficient, often able to continue typing rapidly while chatting with clients.
She eventually sends me back to see my new boss. Bruiser is at his desk, poring over my employment forms like an accountant. I'm surprised at his interest in the details. He welcomes me back, goes over the financial terms of our arrangement, then slides a contract in front of me. It's customized with my name in the blanks. I read it, then sign it. There's a thirty-day walkout clause in case either of us wishes to terminate my employment. I'm quite thankful for it, but I sense he placed it there for a very good reason.
I explain my recent bankruptcy. Tomorrow, I'm scheduled to be in court for my first meeting with my creditors. It's called a Debtor's Examination, and the lawyers for the folks I've stiffed are entitled to poke around in my dirty laundry. They can ask virtually any question they want
about my finances, and about my life in general. It will be a low-key affair. In fact, there's a good chance there will be no one there to grill me.
Because of the hearing, it's to my advantage to remain unemployed for a few days. I ask Bruiser to hold the forms there, and to postpone the first month's salary until after the hearing. This has a fraudulent ring to it, and Bruiser likes it. No. problem.
He takes me on a quick tour of the place. It's just as, I figured-a little sweatshop of rooms stuck here and there as the firm expanded from one bay to the next, walls being knocked out as things progressed. We fade deeper and deeper into the maze. He introduces me to two harried women in a small room crowded with computer's and printers. I doubt if they ever danced on tables. "I think we have six girls now," he says as we move on. A secretary is simply a girl.
He introduces me to a couple of the lawyers, nice enough guys, badly dressed and working in cramped offices. "We're down to five lawyers," he explains as we enter the library. "Used to have seven, but that's too many headaches. I prefer four or five. The more I hire, the more I referee. Same with the girls."
The library is a long, narrow room with books from floor to ceiling, in no apparent order. A long table in the center is covered with open volumes and wadded-up legal paper. "Some of these guys are pigs," he mumbles to himself. "So what do you think of my little spread?"
"It's fine," I say. And I'm not lying. I'm relieved to see that law is actually practiced here. Bruiser may be a well-connected thug with shady deals and crooked investments, but he is still a lawyer. His offices hum with the busy noise of legitimate commerce.
"Not as fancy as the big boys downtown," he says, not apologizing. "But it's all paid for. Bought it fifteen years
ago. Your office is over here." He points and we leave the library. Two doors down, next to a soft-drink machine, is a well-used room with a desk, some chairs, file cabinets and pictures of horses on the walls. On the desk is a phone, a dictating machine, a stack of legal pads. Everything is neat. The smell of disinfectant lingers as if it's been cleaned in the past hour.
He hands me a ring with two keys on it. "This is for the front door, this is for your office. You're free to come and go at all hours. Just be careful at night. This is not the best part of town."
"We need to talk," I say, taking the keys.
He glances at his watch. "For how long?"
"Give me thirty minutes. It's urgent."
He shrugs, and I follow him back to his office, where he settles his wide rear into his leather chair. "What's up?" he asks, all business, taking a designer pen from his pocket and addressing the obligatory legal pad. He starts scribbling before I start talking.
I give him a rapid, fact-filled summary of the Black case that takes ten minutes. In doing so, I fill in the gaps of my termination from the Lake firm. I explain how Barry Lancaster used me so he could steal the case, and this leads to my strong-arm maneuver with Bruiser. "We have to file suit today," I tell him gravely. "Because Lancaster technically owns the case. I think he'll file soon."
Bruiser glares at me with his black eyes. I think I've caught his attention. The idea of beating the Lake firm to the courthouse appeals to him. "What about the clients?" he asks. "They've signed up with Lake."
"Yeah. But I'm on my way to see them. They'll listen to me." I pull from my briefcase a rough draft of a lawsuit against Great Benefit, one that Barry and I had spent hours on. Bruiser reads it carefully.
I then hand him a termination letter I've typed to
Barry X. Lancaster, to be signed by all three Blacks. He reads it slowly.
"This is good work, Rudy," he says, and I feel like an accomplished shyster. "Lemme guess. You file the lawsuit this afternoon, then take a copy of it to the Blacks. Show it to them, then get them to sign the letter of termination."
"Right. I just need your name and signature on the lawsuit. I'll do all the work and keep you posted."
"That'll effectively screw the Lake firm, won't it?" he says, pondering and tugging at a wayward whisker. "I like it. What's the lawsuit worth?"
"Probably whatever the jury says. I doubt if it'll be settled out of court."
"And you're gonna try it?"
"I might need a little help. I figure it's a year or two away."
"I'll introduce you to Deck Shifflet, one of my associates. He used to work for a big insurance company and reviews a lot of policies for me."
"Great."
"His office is just down the hall from yours. Get this thing redrafted, put my name on it and we'll get it filed today. Just be damned sure the clients go along with us."
"The clients are with us," I assure him with images of Buddy stroking his cats and swatting horseflies in the Fairlane, of Dot sitting on the front porch smoking and watching the mailbox as if a check from Great Benefit will arrive at any moment, of Donny Ray holding his head up with his hands.
"Changing the subject a bit," I say, clearing my throat. "Any word from the cops?"
"Nothing to it," he says smugly, as if the master fixer has once again performed his magic. "I talked to some people I know, and they're not even sure it's arson. Could take days."
"So they won't be arresting me in the middle of the night."
"Nope. They promised me they'd call me if they want you. I assured them you'd turn yourself in, post bond, etcetera. But it won't get that far. Relax."
I do in fact relax. I trust Bruiser Stone to be able to squeeze promises out of the police.
"Thanks," I say.
FIVE MINUTES before closing, I walk into the office of the Circuit Clerk and file my four-page lawsuit against Great Benefit Life Insurance Company and Bobby Ott, the missing agent who sold the policy. My clients, the Blacks, seek actual damages of two hundred thousand dollars, and punitive damages of ten million. I have no idea of the net worth of Great Benefit, and it will be a long time before I find out. I pulled the ten million from the air because it has a nice ring to it. Trial lawyers do this all the time.
Of course, my name is nowhere to be seen. Plaintiffs counsel of record is J. Lyman Stone, and his garish signature adorns the last page, giving the entire pleading the weight of authority. I hand the deputy clerk a firm check for the filing fee, and we're in business.
Great Benefit has been officially sued!
I race across town to North Memphis into the Granger section, where I find my clients much as I had left them a few days ago. Buddy's outside. Dot fetches Donny Ray from his room. The three of us sit around the table while they admire their copy of the lawsuit. They're very impressed with the big numbers. Dot keeps repeating the sum of ten million, as if she holds the winning lottery number.
I am eventually forced to explain what happened with those awful folks at the Lake firm. A conflict of strategy.
They weren't moving fast enough to suit me. They didn't like my hard-charging approach to the case. And on and on.
They really don't care. The lawsuit has been filed, and they have proof. They can read it all they want. They want to know what will happen next, how soon might they know something? What are the chances of a quick settlement? These questions knock the wind out of me. I know it will take much too long, and I feel cruel concealing this.
I cajole them into signing a letter addressed to Barry X. Lancaster, their old-lawyer. It tersely fires him. There's also a new contract with the firm of J. Lyman Stone. I talk real fast as I explain this new batch of paperwork. From the same seats at the kitchen table, Donny Ray and I watch as Dot stomps through the weeds again and quarrels with her husband to get his signatures.
I leave them in better spirits than when I found them. They're taking a fair amount of satisfaction in the fact that they've sued this company they've hated for so long. They've finally fought back: they've been stepped on, and they've convinced me that they've been wronged. Now, they've joined the millions of other Americans who file suit each year. It makes them feel somewhat patriotic.
I SIT in my hot little car in rush hour traffic, and think about the insanity of the past twenty-four hours. I've just signed a quicksand employment contract. A thousand dollars a month is such a paltry sum, yet it frightens me. It's not a salary, but a loan, and I have no idea how Bruiser plans for me to immediately start generating fees. If I collect on the Black case, it'll be many months away.
I'll continue to work at Yogi's for a while. Prince still pays me in cash-five bucks an hour plus dinner and a few beers.
There are firms in this town that expect their new asso-
ciates to wear nice suits every day, to drive a presentable vehicle, to live in a respectable house, even to hang out at the fashionable country clubs. Of course, they pay them a helluva lot more than Bruiser's paying me, but they also weigh them down with a lot of unnecessary societal burdens.
Not me. Not my firm. I can wear anything, drive anything, hang out anywhere, and no one will ever say a word. In fact, I wonder what I'll say the first time one of the guys in the office wants to dart across the street for a quick table dance or two.
Suddenly, I'm my own man. A wonderful feeling of independence comes over me as the traffic inches forward. I can survive! I'll put in some hard time with Bruiser, and probably learn much more about law than I would with the boys in the buildings downtown. I'll endure the snubs and quips and put-downs from others about working in such a seedy outfit. I can handle it. It'll make me tough. I was a bit haughty not long ago when I was safe and secure with old Brodnax and Speer, and then with Lake, so I'll eat a little crow.
It's dark when I park at Greenway Plaza. Most of the cars are gone. Across the street, the bright lights of Club Amber have attracted the usual crowd of pickup trucks and corporate rental cars. The neon swirls around the roof of the entire building and illuminates the area.
The skin business has exploded in Memphis, and it's difficult to explain. This is a very conservative town with lots of churches, the heart of the Bible Belt. The people who seek elective office here are quick to embrace strict moral standards, and they're usually rewarded accordingly by the voters. I cannot imagine a candidate being soft on the skin trade and getting elected.
I watch a carload of businessmen unload and stagger into Club Amber. It's an American with four of his Japa-
nese friends, no doubt about to top off a long day of deal-making with a few drinks and a pleasant review of the latest developments in American silicon.
The music is already loud. The parking lot is rilling fast.
I walk quickly to the front door of the firm and unlock it. The offices are empty. Hell, they're probably across the street. I got the distinct impression this afternoon that the firm of J. Lyman Stone is not a place for workaholics.
All the doors are closed and I presume locked. No one trusts anyone around here. I certainly plan to lock mine.
I'll stay here for a few hours. I need to call Booker and update him on my latest adventures. We've been neglecting our studies for the bar exam. For three years we've been able to prod and motivate each other. The bar exam is looming like a date with a firing squad.