“Sure.”
“We need to make a few decisions. What about a fax. Do we get one now or wait? Phone guy’s coming tomorrow, remember? And a copier? I say no, not right now, we can hold our originals and once a day I’ll go down to the print shop. We’ll need an answering machine. A good one costs eighty bucks. I’ll take care of it, if you want. And we need to open a bank account. I know a branch manager at First Trust, says he’ll give us thirty checks a month free and two percent interest on our money. Hard to beat. We need to get the checks ordered because we’ll need to pay
some bills, you know.” Suddenly, he looks at his watch. “Hey, I almost forgot.”
He punches a button on the television. “Indictments came down an hour ago, a hundred and something different counts against Bruiser, Bennie ‘Prince’ Thomas, Willie McSwane and others.”
The noon report is already in progress, and the first image we see is a live shot of our former offices. Agents guard the front door, which is unchained at the moment. The reporter explains that the firm’s employees are being allowed to come and go, but can’t remove anything. The next shot is from outside Vixens, a topless club the feds have also seized. “Indictment says Bruiser and Thomas were involved in three clubs,” Deck says. The reporter echoes this. Then there’s some footage of our former boss, skulking around a courthouse corridor during an old trial. Arrest warrants have been issued, but there’s no sign of either Mr. Stone or Mr. Thomas. The agent in charge of the investigation is interviewed, and it’s his opinion that these two gentlemen have fled the area. An extensive search is under way.
“Run Bruiser run,” Deck says.
The story is juicy enough because it involves local thugs, a flamboyant lawyer, several Memphis policemen and the skin business. But it’s spiced up considerably by the element of flight. Prince and Bruiser have obviously hit the road, and this is more than the reporters can stand. There’s footage of policemen being arrested, of another topless club, this time with naked dancers shown from the thighs down, of the U.S. Attorney addressing the media to announce the indictments.
Then there’s a shot that breaks my heart. They’ve closed Yogi’s, wrapped chains around the door handles and posted guards at the doors. They refer to it as the headquarters of Prince Thomas, the kingpin, and the feds
seem surprised because they found no cash when they crashed in last night. “Run Prince run,” I say to myself.
The related stories consume most of the noon report.
“Wonder where they are,” Deck says as he turns off the TV.
We think about this in silence for a few seconds. “What’s in there?” I ask, pointing to a storage box beside the card table.
“My files.”
“Anything good?”
“Enough to pay the bills for two months. Some small car wrecks. Workers’ comp cases. There’s also a death case I took from Bruiser. Actually, I didn’t take it. He gave me the file last week and asked me to review some insurance policies in it. It sort of stayed in my office, now it’s here.”
I suspect there are other files in the box which Deck may have lifted from Bruiser’s office, but I shall not inquire.
“Do you think the feds will wanna talk to us?” I ask.
“I’ve been thinking about that. We don’t know anything, and we didn’t remove any files that would be of interest to them, so why worry?”
“I’m worried.”
“Me too.”
Twenty-five
I
KNOW DECK’S HAVING A HARD TIME CONTROLLING his excitement these days. The idea of having his own office and keeping half the fees without the benefit of a law license is terribly thrilling. If I stay out of his way, he’ll have the offices in top shape within a week. I’ve never seen such energy. Maybe he’s a little too gung-ho, but I’ll give him a break.
However, when the phone rings for the second straight morning before the sun is up, and I hear his voice, it’s difficult to be nice.
“Have you seen the paper?” he asks, quite chipper. “I was sleeping.”
“Sorry. You won’t believe it. Bruiser and Prince are all over the front page.”
“Couldn’t this wait for an hour or so, Deck?” I ask. I’m determined to stop this rude habit of his right now. “If you want to wake up at four, then fine. But don’t call me until seven, no, make it eight.”
“Sorry. But there’s more.”
“What?”
“Guess who died last night?”
Now, how in hell am I supposed to know who, in all of Memphis, died last night? “I give up,” I snap at the phone.
“Harvey Hale.”
“Harvey Hale!”
“Yep. Croaked with a heart attack. Fell dead by his swimming pool.”
“Judge Hale?”
“That’s the one. Your buddy.”
I sit on the edge of my bed and try to shake the fuzz from my brain. “That’s hard to believe.”
“Yeah, I can tell you’re really distraught. There’s a nice story about him on the front page, Metro, big photo, all suited up in a black robe, real distinguished. What a prick.”
“How old was he?” I ask, as if it matters.
“Sixty-two. On the bench for eleven years. Quite a pedigree. It’s all in the paper. You need to see it.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that, Deck. See you later.”
THE PAPER seems a bit heavier this morning, and I’m sure it’s because at least half of it is dedicated to the exploits of Bruiser Stone and Prince Thomas. One story follows the next. They have not been seen.
I skim the front section and go to Metro, where I’m greeted with a very dated photo of the Honorable Harvey Hale. I read the sad reflections of his colleagues, including his friend and old roommate, Leo F. Drummond.
Of particular importance is speculation as to who might replace him. The governor will appoint a successor who’ll serve until the next regular election. The county is half black and half white, but only seven of the nineteen circuit court judges are black. Some people are not pleased with these numbers. Last year, when an old white judge
retired, a strong effort was made to fill the vacancy with a black judge. It didn’t happen.
Remarkably, the leading candidate last year was my new friend Tyrone Kipler, the Harvard-educated partner at Booker’s firm who lectured us on constitutional law back when we were preparing for the bar exam. Though Judge Hale has been dead less than twelve hours, conventional wisdom, says the story, leans heavily toward Kipler as his replacement. The mayor of Memphis, who is black and vocal, is quoted as saying he and other leaders will push hard for Kipler’s appointment.
The governor was out of town and unavailable for comment, but he’s a Democrat and up for reelection next year. He’ll fall in line this time.
AT NINE SHARP, I’m in the Circuit Clerk’s office flipping through the
Black versus Great Benefit
file. I breathe a sigh of relief. His Honor Hale did not, prior to his untimely death, sign an order dismissing our case. We’re still in the game.
There’s a wreath on his courtroom door. How touching.
I call Tinley Britt from a pay phone, ask for Leo F. Drummond and am surprised to hear his voice after a few minutes. I express my sympathy for the loss of his friend, and I tell him my clients will not accept his offer to settle. He seems surprised, but has little to say. Bless his heart, he has a lot on his mind right now.
“I think that’s a mistake, Rudy,” he says patiently, as if he’s really on my side.
“It may be, but my clients made the decision, not me.”
“Oh well, then it’ll be war,” he says in a sad monotone. He does not offer more money.
BOOKER AND I have talked twice on the phone since we received the results of the bar exam. As expected, he’s
downplaying it as a very minor and very temporary setback. As expected, he was genuinely happy for me.
He’s already seated in the rear of the small diner when I enter. We greet each other as if it’s been months. We order tea and gumbo without looking at the menus. Kids are fine. Charlene is wonderful.
He’s buoyed by the possibility that he may pass the bar anyway. I didn’t realize how close he’d come, but his overall score was only one point below the passing mark. He has appealed, and the Board of Law Examiners is reviewing his exam.
Marvin Shankle took the news of his failure hard. He’d better pass it the next time, or the firm will have to replace him. Booker can’t hide the stress when he talks about Shankle.
“How’s Tyrone Kipler?” I ask.
Booker thinks the appointment is in the bag. Kipler talked to the governor this morning, everything’s falling into place. The only snag could be financial. As a partner in the Shankle firm, he earns between a hundred and twenty-five and a hundred and fifty thousand a year. The judge’s salary is only ninety thousand. Kipler has a wife and kids, but Marvin Shankle wants him on the bench.
Booker remembers the Black case. In fact, he remembers Dot and Buddy from our first meeting at the Cypress Gardens Senior Citizens Building. I bring him up-to-date on the case. He laughs out loud when I tell him it’s now sitting in Circuit Court Division Eight, just waiting for a judge to assume responsibility for it. I recount for Booker my experience in the chambers of the late Judge Hale, just three days ago, and how I was kicked back and forth by the former Yale roommates Drummond and Hale. Booker listens closely as I talk of Donny Ray and his twin and the transplant that didn’t happen because of Great Benefit.
He listens with a smile. “No problem,” he says more than once. “If Tyrone gets the appointment, he’ll know all about the Black case.”
“So you can talk to him?”
“Talk to him? I’ll preach to him. He can’t stand Trent & Brent, and he hates insurance companies, sues them all the time. Who do you think they prey on? Middle-class whites?”
“Everybody.”
“You’re right. I’ll be happy to talk to Tyrone. And he’ll listen.”
The gumbo arrives and we add Tabasco, Booker more than I. I tell him about my new office, but not my new partner. He asks lots of questions about my old office. The entire city is buzzing over Bruiser and Prince.
I tell him everything I know, with a few embellished details.
Twenty-six
I
N THIS AGE OF CONGESTED COURTROOMS and overworked judges, the late Harvey Hale left a docket remarkably well organized and free of backlog. There are a few good reasons. First, he was lazy and preferred to play golf. Second, he was quick to dismiss a plaintiff’s suit if it offended his notions of protecting insurance companies and large corporations. And because of this, most plaintiffs’ lawyers avoided him.
There are ways to avoid certain judges, little tricks used by seasoned lawyers who are cozy with the filing clerks. I’ll never understand why Bruiser, a twenty-year lawyer who knew the ropes, allowed me to file the Black case without taking steps to avoid Harvey Hale. That’s another matter I want to discuss with him if he’s ever brought home.
But Hale is gone and life is fair again. Tyrone Kipler will soon inherit a docket that’s begging for action.
In response to years of criticism by laymen and lawyers alike, the rules of procedure were changed not long ago in an effort to speed up justice. Sanctions for frivolous law
suits were increased. Mandatory deadlines for pretrial maneuvering were imposed. Judges were given more authority to ramrod litigation, and they were also encouraged to become more active in settlement negotiations. Lots of rules and laws were implemented, all in an effort to streamline the civil justice system.
Created in this mass of new regulations was a procedure commonly known as “fast-tracking,” designed to bring certain cases to trial faster than others. The term “fast-tracking” was instantly added to our legal jargon. The parties involved can request that their case be fast-tracked, but this seldom happens. It’s a rare defendant who’ll agree to a speedy trip to the courtroom. So the judge has the authority to do it on his own volition. It’s usually done when the issues are clear, the facts are sharply defined but hotly in dispute, and all that’s needed is a jury’s verdict.
Since
Black versus Great Benefit
is my only real case, I want it fast-tracked. I explain this to Booker over coffee one morning. Booker then explains this to Kipler. The justice system at work.
THE DAY AFTER Tyrone Kipler is appointed by the governor, he calls me to his office, the same one I visited not long ago when Harvey Hale occupied it. It’s different now. Hale’s books and mementos are in the process of being boxed. The dusty shelves are bare. The curtains are pulled open. Hale’s desk has been removed, and we chat with each other in folding chairs.
Kipler is under forty, soft-spoken, with eyes that never blink. He’s incredibly bright, and widely thought to be on his way to greatness as a federal judge somewhere. I thank him for helping me pass the bar exam.
We chat about this and that. He says kind things about Harvey Hale, but is amazed at the sparsity of his docket.
He’s already reviewed every active case, and targeted a few for quick movement. He’s ready for some action.
“And you think this Black case should be fast-tracked?” he asks, his words slow and careful.
“Yes sir. The issues are simple. There won’t be a lot of witnesses.”
“How many depositions?”
I have yet to take my first deposition. “I’m not real sure. Less than ten.”
“You’ll have trouble with the documents,” he says. “Happens every time with insurance companies. I’ve sued a bunch of them, and they never give you all the paperwork. It’ll take us a while to get all the documents you’re entitled to.”
I like the way he says “us.” And there’s nothing wrong with it. Among other roles, a judge is an enforcer. It’s his duty to assist all parties as they try to obtain pretrial evidence to which they’re entitled. Kipler does seem to be a bit partial to our side, though. But I guess there’s nothing wrong with that either—Drummond had Harvey Hale on a leash for many years.
“File a motion to fast-track the case,” he says, making notes on a legal pad. “The defense will refuse. We’ll have a hearing. Unless I hear something very persuasive from the other side, I’ll grant the motion. I’ll allow four months for discovery, that should be enough time for all depositions, swapping of documents, written interrogatories, etcetera. When discovery is completed, I’ll set it for a trial.”