1DIAL THE NUMBER AT THE PENAL FARM, and ask for the same lady I spoke with the first time I visited Ott. Regulations require all visits to be cleared with her. I want to visit him again before we take his deposition.
I can hear her pecking away at a keyboard. "Bobby Ott is no longer here," she says.
"What?"
"He was released three days ago."
"He told me he had eighteen days left. And that was a week ago."
"That's too bad. He's gone."
"Where'd he go?" I ask in disbelief.
"You must be kidding," she says, and hangs up.
Ott is loose. He lied to me. We got lucky the first time we found him, and now he's in hiding again.
THE PHONE CALL I've been dreading finally comes on a Sunday morning. I'm sitting on Miss Birdie's patio like I own the place, reading the Sunday paper, sipping coffee
and enjoying a beautiful day. It's Dot, and she tells me she found him about an hour ago. He went to sleep last night, and never woke up.
Her voice wavers a little, but her emotions are under control. We talk for a moment, and I realize that my throat is getting diy and my eyes are wet. There's a trace of relief in her words. "He's better off now," she says more than once. I tell her I'm sorry, and I promise to come over this afternoon.
I walk across the backyard to the hammock, where I lean against an oak tree and wipe tears from my cheeks. I sit on the edge of the hammock, my feet on the ground, my head hung low, and say the last of my many prayers for Donny Ray.
I CALL JUDGE KIPLER at home with the news of the death. The funeral will be tomorrow afternoon at two, which presents a problem. The home office depositions are scheduled to begin at nine in the morning, and run for most of the week. I'm sure the suits from Cleveland are already in town, probably sitting in Drummond's office right now doing rehearsals before video cameras. That's how thorough he is.
Kipler asks me to be in court at nine anyway, and he'll handle things from there. I tell him I'm ready. I certainly should be. I've typed every possible question for each of the witnesses, and His Honor himself has made suggestions. Deck has reviewed them too.
Kipler hints that he might postpone the depositions because he has two important hearings tomorrow.
Whatever. I really don't care right now.
BY THE TIME I get to the Blacks', the whole neighborhood has come to mourn. The street and driveway are bumper to bumper with parked cars. Old men loiter in
the front yard and sit on the porch. I smile and nod and work my way inside through the crowd, where I find Dot in the kitchen, standing by the refrigerator. The house is packed with people. The kitchen table and countertops are covered with pies and casseroles and Tupperware filled with fried chicken.
Dot and I hug each other gently. I express my sympathy by simply saying that I'm sorry, and she thanks me for coming. Her eyes are red but I sense that she's tired of crying. She waves at all the food and tells me to help myself. I leave her with a group of ladies from the neighborhood.
I'm suddenly hungry. I fill a large paper plate with chicken and baked beans and coleslaw, and go to the tiny patio, where I eat in solitude. Buddy, bless his heart, is not in his car. She's probably locked him in the bedroom, where he can't embarrass her. I eat slowly, and listen to the quiet chatter emanating from the open windows of the kitchen and den. When my plate is empty, I fill it for the second time and again hide on the patio.
I'm soon joined by a young man who looks oddly familiar. "I'm Ron Black," he says, sitting in the chair next to mine. "The twin."
He's lean and fit, not very tall. "Nice to meet you," I say.
"So you're the lawyer." He's holding a canned soft drink.
"That's me. Rudy Baylor. I'm sorry about your brother."
"Thanks."
I'm very aware of how little Dot and Donny Ray talked about Ron. He left home shortly after high school, went far away and has kept his distance. I can understand this to a certain degree.
He's not in a talkative mood. His sentences are short
and forced, but we eventually get around to the bone marrow transplant. He confirms what I already believe to be true, that he was ready and willing to donate his marrow to save his brother, and that he'd been told by Dr. Kord that he was a perfect match. I explain to him that it'll be necessary for him to explain this to a jury in a few short months, and he says he'd love to. He has a few questions about the lawsuit, but never indicates any curiosity about how much money he might get from it.
I'm sure he's sad, but he handles his grief well. I open the door to their childhood and hope to hear a few warm stories all twins must share about pranks and jokes they played on others. Nothing. He grew up here, in this house and this neighborhood, and it's obvious he has no use for his past.
The funeral is tomorrow at two, and I'll bet Ron Black is on a plane back to Houston by five.
The crowd thins then swells, but the food remains. I eat two pieces of chocolate cake while Ron sips a warm soda. After two hours of sitting, I'm exhausted. I excuse myself and leave.
ON MONDAY, there's a regular throng of stem-faced and darkly dressed men sitting around Leo F. Drummond on the far side of the courtroom.
I'm ready. Scared and shaking and weary, but the questions are written and waiting. If I completely choke, I'll still be able to read the questions and make them answer.
It is amusing to see these corporate honchos cowering in fear. I can only imagine the harsh words they had for Drummond and me and Kipler and lawyers in general and this case in particular when they were informed that they had to appear en masse here today, and not only appear and give testimony, but sit and wait for hours and days until I finish with them.
Kipler takes the bench and calls our case first. We're taking the depositions next door, in a courtroom that's vacant this week, close by so His Honor can stick his head in at random and keep Drummond in line. He calls us forth because he has something to say.
I take my seat on the right. Four boys from Trent & Brent take theirs to the left.
"We don't need a record for this," Kipler tells the court reporter. This is not a scheduled hearing. "Mr. Drummond, are you aware that Donny Ray Black died yesterday morning?"
"No sir," Drummond answers gravely. "I'm very sorry."
"The funeral is this afternoon, and that poses a problem. Mr. Baylor here is a pallbearer. In fact, he should be with the family right now."
Drummond is standing, looking at me, then at Kipler.
"We're going to postpone these depositions. Have your people here next Monday, same time, same place." Kipler is glaring at Drummond, waiting for the wrong response.
The five important men from Great Benefit will be forced to rearrange and rejuggle their busy lives and travel to Memphis next week.
"Why not start tomorrow?" Drummond asks, stunned. It's a perfectly legitimate question.
"I run this court, Mr. Drummond. I control discovery, and I certainly plan to control the trial."
"But, Your Honor, if you please, and I'm not being argumentative, your presence is not necessary to the depositions. These five gentlemen have gone to great hardship to be here today. It might not be possible next week."
This is exactly what Kipler wanted to hear. "Oh, they'll be here, Mr. Drummond. They'll be right here at nine o'clock next Monday morning."
"Well, I think it's unfair, with all due respect."
"Unfair? These depositions could've been taken in
Cleveland two weeks ago, Mr. Drummond. But your client started playing games."
A judge has unbridled discretion in matters like these, and there's no way to appeal. Kipler is punishing Drummond and Great Benefit, and, in my humble opinion, I think he's a bit overboard. There will be a trial here in a few short months, and the judge is establishing himself. He's telling the hotshot lawyer that he, His Honor, will rule at trial.
Fine with me.
BEHIND A SMALL COUNTRY CHURCH, a few miles north of Memphis, Donny Ray Black is laid to rest. Because I'm one of eight pallbearers, I'm instructed to stand behind the chairs where the family is seated. It's chilly with overcast skies, a day for a burial.
The last funeral I attended was my father's, and I try desperately not to think of it.
The crowd inches together under the burgundy canopy as the young minister reads from the Bible. We stare at the gray casket with flowers around it. I can hear Dot crying softly. I can see Buddy sitting next to Ron. I stare away, trying to mentally leave this place and dream of something pleasant.
DECK IS A NERVOUS WRECK when I return to the office. His pal Butch, the private detective, is sitting on a table, his massive biceps bulging under a tight turtleneck. He's a scruffy type with red cheeks, pointed-toe boots, the look of a man who enjoys brawls. Deck introduces us, refers to Butch as a client, then hands me a legal pad with the message, "Keep talking about nothing, okay," scrawled in black felt on the top sheet.
"How was the funeral?" Deck asks, as he takes mv arm
' j
and leads me to the table where Butch is waiting.
"Just a funeral," I say, staring blankly at these two men.
"How's the family?" Deck asks.
"Doing all right, I guess." Butch quickly unscrews the cap from the phone receiver, and points inside.
"I guess the kid's better off now, don't you think?" Deck says as I look inside. Butch points closer, to a small, round, black device stuck to the inside cover. I can only stare at it.
"Don't you think the kid's better off?" Deck repeats himself loudly, and nudges me in the ribs.
"Sure, yeah, right. He certainly is better off. Really sad, though."
We watch as Butch expertly puts the phone back together, then shrugs at me as if I know precisely what to do next.
"Let's walk down and get some coffee," Deck says.
"Good idea," I say, with a huge knot growing in my stomach.
On the sidewalk, I stop and look at them. "What the hell?"
"Let's walk this way," Deck says, pointing down the street. There's an artsy coffee bar a block and a half away, and we walk to it without another word. We hide in a corner as if we're being stalked by gunmen.
The story quickly unfolds. Deck and I have been worried about the feds since Bruiser and Prince disappeared. We expected them to at least stop by and ask some questions. We've talked about the feds many times, but, unknown to me, he's also been spilling his guts to Butch here. I wouldn't trust Butch with much.
Butch stopped by the office an hour ago, and Deck asked him to take a peek at our phones. Butch confesses that he's no expert on bugging devices, but he's been around. They're easy to spot. Identical devices in all three
phones. They were about to search for more bugs, but decided to wait for me.
"More bugs?" I ask.
"Yeah, like little mikes hidden around the office to pick up everything the phones don't catch," Butch says. "It's fairly easy. We just have to cover every inch of the place with a magnifying glass."
Deck's hands are literally shaking. I wonder if he's spoken to Bruiser on our phones.
"What if we find more?" I ask. We haven't taken the first sip of our coffee.
"Legally, you can remove them," Butch explains. "Or, you can just be careful what you say. Sorta talk around them."
"What if we take them out?"
"Then the feds know you've found them. They'll get even more suspicious, probably increase other forms of surveillance. Best thing to do, in my opinion, is act as if nothing has happened."
"That's easy for you to say."
Deck wipes his brow and refuses to look at me. I'm very nervous about him. "Do you know Bruiser Stone?" I ask Butch.
"Of course. I've done some work for him."
I'm certainly not surprised. "Good," I say, then look at Deck. "Have you talked to Bruiser on our phones?"
"No," he says. "I haven't talked to Bruiser since the day he disappeared."
In telling me this lie, he's told me to shut up in front of Butch.
"I'd like to know if there are other bugs, you know," I say to Butch. "It'd be nice to know how much they're hearing out there."
"We'll have to comb the office."
"Let's go."
"Fine with me. Start with the tables, desk and chairs. Look in garbage cans, books, clocks, staplers, everything. These bugs can be smaller than raisins."
"Can they tell we're looking?' Deck asks, scared to death.
"No. You two guys carry on the usual office chatter. I won't say a word, and they won't know I'm there. If you find something, use hand signals."
We take the coffee back to our offices, a place that's suddenly spooky and forbidding. Deck and I begin a banal conversation about Derrick Dogan's case while we gently overturn tables and chairs. Anyone with a brain listening would know that we're out of step and trying to cover something.
We crawl around on all fours. We dig through wastebas-kets and pick through files. We examine heating vents and inspect baseboards. For the first time, I'm thankful we have so little furniture and furnishings.
We dig for four hours, and find nothing. Only our phones have been defiled. Deck and I buy Butch a spaghetti dinner at a bistro down the street.
AT MIDNIGHT, I'm lying in bed, the possibility of sleep long since forgotten. I'm reading the morning paper, and occasionally staring at my phone. Surely, I keep telling myself, surely they wouldn't go to the trouble of bugging it. I've seen shadows and heard noises all afternoon and all evening. I've jumped at nonexistent sounds. My skin has crawled with goose bumps. I can't eat. I'm being followed, I know, the question is, How close are they?
And how close do they intend to get?
With the exception of the classifieds, I read every word in the paper. Sara Plankmore Wilcox gave birth to a seven-pound girl yesterday. Good for her. I don't hate her anymore. Since Donny Ray died, I've found myself being
easier on everybody. Except, of course, Drummond and his loathsome client.
PFX Freight is undefeated in WinterBall.
I wonder if he makes her go to all the games.
I check the record of vital statistics every day. I pay particular attention to the divorce filings, though I'm not optimistic. I also look at the arrests to see if Cliff Riker has been picked up for beating his wife again.