MY EXCUSE FOR SKIPPING THE GRADU-ation ceremony is that I have some interviews with law firms. Promising interviews, I assure Booker, but he knows better. Booker knows I'm doing nothing but knocking on doors and air-dropping resumes over the city.
Booker is the only person who cares if I wear a cap and gown and take part in the exercises. He's disappointed that I'm not attending. My mother and Hank are camping somewhere in Maine, watching the foliage turn green. I talked to her a month ago, and she has no clue as to when I'll finish law school.
I've heard the ceremony is quite tedious, lots of speeches from long-winded old judges who implore the graduates to love the law, treat it as an honorable profession, respect it as a jealous mistress, rebuild the image so tarnished by those who've gone before us. Ad nauseum. I'd rather sit at Yogi's and watch Prince gamble on goat races.
Booker will be there with his family. Charlene and the
kids. His parents, her parents, several grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. The Kane clan will be a formidable group. There will be lots of tears and photographs. He was the first in his family to finish college, and the fact that he's finishing law school is causing immeasurable pride. I'm tempted to hide in the audience just so I can watch his parents when he receives his degree. I'd probably cry along with them.
I don't know if the Sara Plankmore family will take part in the festivities, but I'm not running that risk. I cannot stand the idea of seeing her smiling for the camera with her fiance, S. Todd Wilcox, giving her a hug. She'd be wearing a bulky gown, so it would be impossible to tell if she's showing. I'd have to stare, though. Try as I might, there'd be no way for me to keep my eyes off her midsec-tion.
It's best if I skip graduation. Madeline Skinner confided in me two days ago that every other graduate has found a job of some sort. Many took less than they wanted. At least fifteen are hitting the streets on their own, opening small offices and declaring themselves ready to sue. They've borrowed money from parents and uncles, and they rented little rooms with cheap furniture. She's got the statistics. She knows where everybody's going. There's no way I'd sit there in my black cap and gown with a hundred and twenty of my peers, all of us knowing that I, Rudy Baylor, am the sole remaining unemployed schmuck in the class. I might as well wear a pink robe with a neon cap. Forget it.
I picked up my diploma yesterday.
GRADUATION STARTS at 2 P.M., and at precisely that hour I enter the law offices of Jonathan Lake. This will be an encore performance, my first. I was here a month ago,
feebly handing over a resume to the receptionist. This visit will be different. Now I have a plan.
I've done a bit of research on the Lake firm, as it's commonly known. Since Mr. Lake does not believe in sharing much of his wealth, he is the sole partner. He has twelve lawyers working for him, seven known as trial associates, and the other five are younger, garden-variety associates. The seven trial associates are skilled courtroom advocates. Each has a secretary, a paralegal, and even the paralegal has a secretary. This is known as a trial unit. Each trial unit works autonomously from the others, with only Jonathan Lake occasionally stepping in to do the quarterbacking. He takes the cases he wants, usually the ones with the greatest potential for large verdicts. He loves to sue obstetricians in bad baby cases, and recently made a fortune in asbestos litigation.
Each trial associate handles his own staff, can hire and fire, and is also responsible for generating new cases. I've heard that almost eighty percent of the firm's business comes in as referrals from other lawyers, street hacks and real estate types who stumble onto an occasional injured client. The income of a trial associate is determined by several factors, including how much new business he generates.
Barry X. Lancaster is a rising young star in the firm, a freshly anointed trial associate who hit a doctor in Arkansas for two million last Christmas. He's thirty-four, divorced, lives at the office, studied law at Memphis State. I've done my homework. He is also advertising for a paralegal. Saw it in The Daily Record. If I can't get my start as a lawyer, what's wrong with being a paralegal? It'll make a great story one day, after I'm successful and have my own big firm; young Rudy couldn't buy a job, so he started in the mail room at Jonathan Lake. Now look at him.
I have a two o'clock appointment with Barry X. The
receptionist gives me the double take, but lets it pass. I doubt if she recognizes me from my first visit. A thousand people have come and gone since then. I hide behind a magazine on a leather sofa and admire the Persian rugs and hardwood floors and exposed twelve-inch beams above. These offices are in an old warehouse near the medical district of Memphis. Lake reportedly spent three million dollars renovating and decorating this monument to himself. I've seen it laid out in two different magazines.
Within minutes I'm led by a secretary through a maze of foyers and walkways to an office on an upper level. Below is an open library with no walls or boundaries, just row after row of books. A solitary scholar sits at a long table, treatises stacked around him, lost in a flood of conflicting theories. (-
The office of Barry X. is long and narrow, with brick walls and creaky floors. It's adorned with antiques and accessories. We shake hands and take our seats. He's lean and fit, and I remember from the magazine spread the photos of the gym Mr. Lake installed for his firm. There's also a sauna and a steam room.
Barry's quite busy, no doubt needing to be in a strategy session with his trial unit, preparing for a major case. His phone is situated so I can see the lights blinking furiously. His hands are quiet and still, but he can't help but glance at his watch.
"Tell me about your case," he says after a brief moment of preliminaries. "Something about an insurance claim denied." He's already suspicious because I'm wearing a coat and tie, not your average-looking client.
"Well, I'm actually here looking for a job," I say boldly. All he can do is ask me to leave. What's to lose?
He grimaces and snatches at a piece of paper. Damned secretary has screwed up again.
"I saw your ad for a paralegal in The Daily Record."
"So you're a paralegal?" he snaps.
"I could be."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"I've had three years of law school."
He studies me for about five seconds, then shakes his head, glances at his watch. "I'm really busy. My secretary will take your application."
I suddenly jump to my feet and lean forward on his desk. "Look, here's the deal," I say dramatically as he looks up, startled. I then rush through my standard routine about being bright and motivated and in the top third of my class, and how I had a job with Brodnax and Speer. Got the shaft. I blast away with both barrels. Tinley Britt, my hatred of big firms. My labor is cheap. Anything to get going. Really need a job, mister. I rattle on without interruption for a minute or two, then return to my seat.
He stews for a bit, chews a fingernail. I can't tell if he's angry or thrilled.
"You know what pisses me off?" he finally says, obviously somewhat less than thrilled.
"Yeah, people like me lying to the people up front so I can get back here and make my .pitch for a job. That's exactly what pisses you off. I don't blame you. I'd be pissed too, but then I'd get over it, you know. I'd say, look, this guy is about to be a lawyer, but instead of paying him forty grand, I can hire him to do grunt work at, say twenty-four thousand."
"Twenty-one."
"I'll take it," I say. "I'll start tomorrow at twenty-one. And I'll work a whole year at twenty-one. I promise I won't leave for twelve months, regardless of whether I pass the bar. I put in sixty, seventy hours a week for twelve months. No vacation. You have my word. I'll sign a contract."
"We require five years' experience before we'll look at a paralegal. This is high-powered stuff."
"I'll learn it quick. I clerked last summer for a defense firm downtown, nothing but litigation."
There's something unfair here, and he's just figured it out. I walked in with my guns loaded, and he's been ambushed. It's obvious that I've done this several times, because I have such rapid responses to anything he says.
I don't exactly feel sorry for him. He can always order me out.
"I'll run it by Mr. Lake," he says, conceding a little. "He has pretty strict rules about personnel. I don't have the authority to hire a paralegal who doesn't meet our specs."
"Sure," I say sadly. Kicked in the face again. I've actually become quite good at this. I've learned that lawyers, regardless of how busy they are, have an inherent sympathy for a fresh new graduate who can't find work. Limited sympathy.
"Maybe he'll say yes, and if he does, then the job's yours." He offers this to ease me down gently.
"There's something else," I say, rallying. "I do have a case. A very good one."
This causes him to be extremely suspicious. "What kind of case?" he asks.
"Insurance bad faith."
"You the client?"
"Nope. I'm the lawyer. I sort of stumbled across it."
"What's it worth?"
I hand him a two-page summary of the Black case, heavily modified and sensationalized. I've worked on this synopsis for a while now, fine-tuning it every time some lawyer read it and turned me down.
Barry X. reads it carefully, with more concentration than I've seen from anyone yet. He reads it a second time
as I admire his aged-brick walls and dream of an office like this.
"Not bad," he says when he's finished. There's a gleam in his eye, and I think he's more excited than he lets on. "Lemme guess. You want a job, and a piece of the action."
"Nope. Just the job. The case is yours. I'd like to work on it, and I'll need to handle the client. But the fee is yours."
"Part of the fee. Mr. Lake gets most of it," he says with a grin.
Whatever. I honestly don't care how they split the money. I only want a job. The thought of working for Jonathan Lake in this opulent setting makes me dizzy.
I've decided to keep Miss Birdie for myself. As a client, she's not that attractive because she spends nothing on lawyers. She'll probably live to be a hundred and twenty, so there's no benefit in using her as a trump card. I'm sure there are highly skilled lawyers who could show her all sorts of ways to pay them, but this would not appeal to the Lake firm. These guys litigate. They're not interested in drafting wills and probating estates.
I stand again. I've taken enough of Barry's time. "Look," I say as sincerely as possible, "I know you're busy. I'm completely legitimate. You can check me out at the law school. Call Madeline Skinner if you want."
"Mad Madeline. She's still there?"
"Yes, and right now she's my best friend. She'll vouch for me."
"Sure. I'll get back with you as soon as possible."
Sure you will.
I get lost twice trying to find the front door. No one's watching me, so I take my time, admiring the large offices scattered around the building. At one point, I stop at the edge of the library and gaze up at three levels of walkways and narrow promenades. No two offices are even re-
motely similar. Conference rooms are stuck here and there. Secretaries and clerks and flunkies move quietly about on the heartpine floors.
I'd work here for a lot less than twenty-one thousand a year.
I PARK QUIETLY behind the long Cadillac, and ease from my car without a sound. I'm in no mood to repot mums. I step softly around the house and am greeted by a tall stack of huge white plastic bags. Dozens of them. Pine bark mulch, by the ton. Each bag weighs one hundred pounds. I now recall something Miss Birdie said a few days ago about remulching all the flower beds, but I had no idea.
I dart for the steps leading to my apartment, and as I bound for the top I hear her calling, "Rudy. Rudy dear, let's have some coffee." She's standing by the monument of pine bark, grinning broadly at me with her gray and yellow teeth. She is truly happy I'm home. It's almost dark and she likes to sip coffee on the patio as the sun disappears.
"Of course," I say, folding my jacket over the rail and ripping off my tie.
"How are you, dear?" she sings upward. She started this "Dear" business about a week ago. It's dear this and dear that.
"Just fine. Tired. My back is bothering me." I've been hinting about a bad back for several days, and so far she hasn't taken the bait.
I take my familiar chair while she mixes her dreadful brew in the kitchen. It's late afternoon, the shadows are falling across the back lawn. I count the bags of mulch. Eight across, four deep, eight high. That's 256 bags. At 100 pounds each, that's a total of 25,600 pounds. Of mulch. To be spread. By me.
We sip our coffee, very small sips for me, and she wants to know everything I've done today. I lie and tell her I've been talking to some lawyers about some lawsuits, then I studied for the bar exam. Same thing tomorrow. Busy, busy, you know, with lawyer stuff. Certainly no time to lift and carry a ton of mulch.
Both of us are sort of facing the white bags, but neither wants to look at them. I avoid eye contact.
"When do you start working as a lawyer?" she asks.
"Not sure," I say, then explain for the tenth time how I will study hard for the next few weeks, just bury myself in the books at law school, and hope I pass the bar exam. Can't practice till I pass the exam.
"How nice," she says, drifting away for a moment. "We really need to get started with that mulch," she adds, nodding and rolling her eyes wildly at it.
I can't think of anything to say for a moment, then, "Sure is a lot."
"Oh, it won't be bad. Ill help."
That means she'll point with her spade and maintain an endless line of chatter.
"Yeah, well, maybe tomorrow. It's late and I've had a rough day."
She thinks about this for a second. "I was hoping we could start this afternoon," she says. "I'll help."
"Well, I haven't had dinner," I say.
"I'll make you a sandwich," she offers quickly. A sandwich to Miss Birdie is a transparent slice of processed turkey between two thin slices of no-fat white bread. Not a drop of mustard or mayo. No thought of lettuce or cheese. It would take four to knock off the slightest of hunger pains.
She stands and heads for the kitchen as the phone rings. I have yet to receive a separate line into my apartment, though she's been promising one for two weeks.
Right now I have an extension, which means there is no privacy on the phone. She has asked me to restrict my calls because she needs complete access to it. It seldom rings.
"It's for you, Rudy," she calls from the kitchen. "Some lawyer."
It's Barry X. He says he's talked it over with Jonathan Lake, and it's okay if we pursue another conversation. He asks if I can come to his office now, at this moment, he says he works all night. And he wants me to bring the file. He wants to see the entire file on my bad-faith case.
As we talk, I watch Miss Birdie prepare with great care a turkey sandwich. Just as she slices it in two, I hang up.
"Gotta run, Miss Birdie," I say breathlessly. "Something's come up. Gotta meet with this lawyer about a big case."
"But what about-"
"Sorry. I'll get to it tomorrow." I leave her standing there, a half a sandwich in each hand, face sagging as if she just can't believe I won't dine with her.
BARRY MEETS ME at the front door, which is locked, though there are still many people at work inside. I follow him to his office, my step a little quicker than it's been in days. I can't help but admire the rugs and bookshelves and artwork and think to myself that I'm about to be a part of this. Me, a member of the Lake firm, the biggest trial lawyers around.
He offers me an egg roll, the remnants of his dinner. Says he eats three meals a day at his desk. I remember that he's divorced, and now understand why. I'm not hungry-
He clicks on his Dictaphone and places the microphone on the edge of the desk nearest me. "We'll record this. I'll get my secretary to type it tomorrow. Is that okay?"
"Sure," I say. Anything.
"I'll hire you as a paralegal for twelve months. Your salary will be twenty-one thousand a year, payable in twelve equal installments on the fifteenth of each month. You won't be eligible for health insurance or other fringes until you've been here for a year. At the end of twelve months, we'll evaluate our relationship, and at that time explore the possibility of hiring you as a lawyer, not a paralegal."
"Sure. Fine."
"You'll have an office, and we're in the process of hiring a secretary who'll assist you. Minimum of sixty hours a week, starting at eight in the morning and going until whenever. No lawyer in this firm works less than sixty hours a week."
"No problem." I'll work ninety. It'll keep me away from Miss Birdie and her pine bark mulch.
He checks his notes carefully. "And we will become counsel of record for the, uh, what's the name of your case?"
"Black. Black versus Great Benefit."
"Okay. We'll represent the Blacks against Great Benefit Life Insurance Company. You'll work on the file, but be entitled to none of the fees, if any."
"That's right."
"Can you think of anything else?" he says, speaking toward the microphone.
"When do I start?"
"Now. I'd like to go over the case tonight, if you have the time."
"Sure."
"Anything else?"
I swallow hard. "I filed for bankruptcy earlier this month. It's a long story."
"Aren't they all? Seven or thirteen?"
"Straight seven."
"Then it won't affect your paycheck. Also, you study for the bar on your own time, okay?"
"Fine."
He turns off the Dictaphone, and again offers me an egg roll. I decline. I follow him down a spiral staircase to a small library.
"It's easy to get lost here," he says.
"It's incredible," I say, marveling at the maze of rooms and passageways.
We sit at a table and begin to spread the Black file before us. He's impressed with my organization. He asks for certain documents. They're all at my fingertips. He wants dates and names. I have them memorized. I make copies of everything-one copy for his file, one for mine.
I have everything but a signed contract for legal services with the Blacks. He seems surprised by this, and I explain how I came to represent them.
We'll need to get a contract, he says more than once.
I LEAVE after ten o'clock. I catch myself smiling in the rearview mirror as I drive across town. I'll call Booker first thing in the morning with the good news. Then I'll take some flowers to Madeline Skinner and say thanks.
It may be a lowly job, but there's no place to go but up. Give me a year, and I'll be making more money than Sara Plankmore and S. Todd and N. Elizabeth and F. Franklin and a hundred other assholes I've been hiding from for the past month. Just give me some time.
I stop by Yogi's and have a drink with Prince. I tell him the wonderful news, and he gives me a drunken bear hug. Says he hates to see me go. I tell him I'd like to hang around for a month or so, maybe work weekends until the bar exam is over. Anything is fine with Prince.
I sit alone in a booth in the rear, sipping a cool one and
surveying the sparse crowd. I'm not ashamed anymore. For the first time in weeks I am not burdened with humiliation. I'm ready for action now, ready to get on with this career. I dream of facing Loyd Beck in a courtroom one day.
