by John Grisham
recognized him. He bought a six-pack of bright green bottles, im' ported, good stuff for this special day, and continued south on narrow back roads until there was no other traffic. He listened to Jimmy Buffett sing about sailing and drinking rum and living a life that Mack had been dreaming about for some time. In the summer before he started law school, he spent two weeks scuba diving in the Bahamas. It had been his first trip out of the country, and he longed to do it again. Over the years, as the tedium of practicing law overwhelmed him, and as his marriage became less and less fulfilling, he listened to Buffett more and more. He could handle life on a sailboat. He was ready.
He parked in a secluded picnic area at Lake Chatulla, the largest body of water within fifty miles, and left the engine running, the heat on, a window cracked. He sipped beer and gazed across the lake, a busy place in the summer with ski boats and small catamarans, but deserted in February.
Marty's voice was still fresh and clear. Their conversation was still easy to replay, almost word for word. Mack talked to himself, then sang along with Buffett.
This was his moment, an opportunity that in all likelihood would never pass his way again. Mack finally convinced himself that he wasn't dreaming, that the money was on the table. The math was calculated, then recalculated over and over.
A light snow began, flurries that melted as soon as they touched the ground. Even the chance of an inch or two thrilled the town, and now that a few flakes were falling, he knew that the kids at school were standing at the windows, giddy at the thought of being dismissed and sent home to play. His wife was probably calling the office with instructions to go fetch the girls. Freda was looking for him. After the third beer, he fell asleep.
He missed his 2:30 appointment, and didn't care. He missed his 4:30 as well. He saved one beer for the return trip, and at a quarter past five he walked through the rear door of his office and was soon face-to-face with an extremely agitated secretary. "Where have you been?" Freda demanded. "I went for a drive," he said as he removed his overcoat and hung it in the hallway. She followed him into his office, hands on hips, just like his wife. "You missed two appointments—the Maddens and the Garners—and they are not happy at all. You smell like a brewery."
"They make beer at breweries, don't they?" "I suppose. That's $1,000 in fees you just pissed away." "So what?" He fell into his chair, knocked some files off his desk.
"So what? So we need all the fees we can get around here. You're in no position to run off clients. We didn't cover the overhead last month, and this month is even slower." Her voice was pitched, shrill, rapid, and the venom had been building for hours. "There's a stack of bills on my desk and no money in the bank. The other bank would like some progress on that line of credit you decided to create, for some reason."
"How long have you worked here, Freda?" "Five years."
"That's long enough. Pack your things and get out. Now." She gasped. Both hands flew up to her mouth. She managed to say, "You're firing me?"
"No. I'm cutting back on the overhead. I'm downsizing." She fought back quickly, laughing in a loud nervous cackle. "And who'll answer the phone, do all the typing, pay the bills, organize the files, babysit the clients, and keep you out of trouble?"
"No one."
"You're drunk, Mack."
"Not drunk enough."
"You can't survive without me."
"Please, just leave. I'm not going to argue."
"You'll lose your ass," she growled.
"I've already lost it."
"Well, now you're losing your mind."
"That too. Please."
She huffed off, and Mack put his feet on his desk. She slammed drawers and stomped around the front for ten minutes, then yelled, "You're a lousy son of a bitch, you know that?"
"Got that right. Good'bye."
The front door slammed, and all was quiet. The first step had been taken.
An hour later, he left again. It was dark and cold, and the snow had given up. He was still thirsty and didn't want to go home, nor did he want to be seen in one of the three bars in downtown Clanton.
The Riviera Motel was east of town, on the highway to Memphis. It was a 1950s-style dump with tiny rooms, some known to be available by the hour, and a small cafe and a small lounge. Mack parked himself at the bar and ordered a draft beer. There was country music from a jukebox, college basketball on the screen above, and the usual collection of low-budget travelers and bored locals, all well over the age of fifty. Mack recognized no one but the bartender, an old-timer whose name escaped him. Mack was not exactly a regular at the Riviera.
He asked for a cigar, lit it, sipped his beer, and after a few minutes pulled out a small notepad and began scribbling. To hide much of his financial mess from his wife, he had organized his law firm as a limited liability company, or an LLC, the current rage among lawyers. He was the sole owner, and most of his debts were gathered there: a $25,000 line of credit that was now six years old and showing no signs of being reduced; two law firm credit cards that were used for small expenses, both personal and business, and were also maxed out at the $10,000 limit and kept afloat with minimum payments; and the usual office debts for equipment. The LLC's largest liability was a $120,000 mortgage on the office building Mack had purchased eight years earlier, against the rather vocal objections of his wife. The monthly strain was $1,400, and not eased one bit by the empty space on the second floor Mack was certain he would rent to others when he bought the place.
On this wonderful, dreary day in February, Mack was two months in arrears on his office mortgage.
He ordered another beer as he added up the misery. He could bankrupt it all, give his files to a lawyer friend, and walk away a free man with no trace of embarrassment or humiliation because he, Mack Stafford, wouldn't be around for folks to point at and whisper about.
The office was easy. The marriage would be another matter.
He drank until ten, then drove home. He pulled in to the driveway of his modest little home in an old section of Clanton, turned off the engine and the lights, sat behind the wheel, and stared at the house. The lights in the den were on. She was waiting.
They had purchased the house from her grandmother not long after they were married fifteen years earlier, and for about fifteen years now Lisa had wanted something larger. Her sister was married to a doctor, and they lived in a fine home out by the coun-try club, where all the other doctors, and bankers, and some of the lawyers lived. Life was much better out there because the homes were newer, with pools and tennis courts and a golf course just around the corner. For much of his married life, Mack had been reminded that they were making little progress in their climb up the social ladder. Progress? Mack knew they were actually sliding. The longer they stayed in Granny's house, the smaller it became.
Lisa's family had owned Clanton's only concrete plant for generations, and though this kept them at the top of the town's social class, it did little for their bank accounts. They were afflicted with "family money," a status that had much to do with snobbery and precious little to do with hard assets. Marrying a lawyer seemed like a good move at the time, but fifteen years later she was having doubts and Mack knew it.
The porch light came on.
If the fight was to be like most others, the girls—Helen and Margo—would have front-row seats. Their mother had probably been making calls and throwing things for several hours, and in the midst of her rampage she made sure the girls knew who was right and who was wrong. Both were now young teenagers and showing every sign of growing up to be just like Lisa. Mack certainly loved them, but he had already made the decision, on beer number three at the lake, that he could live without them.
The front door opened, then there she was. She took one step onto the narrow porch, crossed her bare arms, and glared across the frigid lawn, directly into the shivering eyes of Mack. He stared back, then opened the driver's door and got out of the car. He slammed the door, and she let loose with a nasty "Where have you been?"
"At the office," he shot back as he took a step and told him' self to walk carefully and not stagger like a drunk. His mouth was full of peppermint gum, not that he planned to fool anyone. The driveway declined slightly from the house to the street.
"Where have you been?" she inquired again, even louder.
"Please, the neighbors." He didn't see the patch of ice be-tween his car and hers, and by the time he discovered it, things were out of control. He flipped forward, yelping, and crashed into the rear bumper of her car with the front of his head. His world went black for a few moments, and when he came to, he heard the frantic female voices, one of which announced, "He's drunk."
Thanks, Lisa.
His head was split, and his eyes wouldn't focus. She hovered over him, saying things like, "There's blood, oh my God!" And, "Your father's drunk!" And, "Go call 911!"
Mercifully, he blacked out again, and when he could hear again, there was a male voice in control. Mr. Browning from next door. "Watch the ice, Lisa, and hand me that blanket. There's a lot of blood."
"He's been drinking," Lisa said, always looking for allies.
"He probably doesn't feel a thing," Mr. Browning added helpfully. He and Mack had feuded for years.
Though he was groggy and could've said something, Mack decided, lying there in the cold, to just close his eyes and let someone else worry about him. Before long, he heard an ambulance.
He actually enjoyed the hospital. The drugs were delightful, the nurses thought he was cute, and it provided a perfect excuse to stay away from the office. He had six stitches and a nasty bruise on his forehead, but, as Lisa had informed someone on the phone when she thought he was asleep, there was "no additional brain damage." Once it was determined that his wounds were slight, she avoided the hospital and kept the girls away. He was in no hurry to leave, and she was in no hurry for him to come home. But after two days, the doctor ordered his release. As he was gathering his things and saying good-bye to the nurses, Lisa entered his room and shut the door. She sat in the only chair, crossed her arms and legs as if she planned to stay for hours, and Mack relaxed on the bed. The last dose of Percocet was still lingering, and he felt wonderfully light-headed.
"You fired Freda," she said, jaws clenched, eyebrows arched.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I got tired of her mouth. What do you care? You hate Freda."
"What will happen to the office?"
"It'll be a helluva lot quieter for one thing. I’ve fired secretaries before. It's no big deal."
A pause as she uncrossed her arms and began twirling a strand of hair. This meant that she was pondering serious stuff and was about to unload it.
"We have an appointment with Dr. Juanita tomorrow at five," she announced. Done deal. Nothing to negotiate.
Dr. Juanita was one of three licensed marriage counselors in Clanton. Mack knew them professionally through his work as a divorce lawyer. He knew them personally because Lisa had dragged him to all three for counseling. He needed counseling. She, of course, did not. Dr. Juanita always sided with the women, and so her selection was no surprise.
"How are the girls?" Mack asked. He knew the answer would be ugly, but if he didn't ask, then she would later complain to Dr. Juanita, "He didn't even ask about the girls."
"Humiliated. Their father comes home drunk late at night and falls in the driveway, cracks his skull, gets hauled to the hospital, where his blood alcohol is twice the legal limit. Everybody in town knows it."
"If everybody knows it, then it's because you've spread the word. Why can't you just keep your mouth shut?"
Her face flashed red, and her eyes glowed with hatred. "You, you, you're pathetic. You're a miserable pathetic drunk, you know that?"
"I disagree."
"How much are you drinking?"
"Not enough."
"You need help, Mack, serious help."
"And I’m supposed to get this help from Dr. Juanita?"
She suddenly bolted to her feet and stormed for the door. "I'm not going to fight in a hospital."
"Of course not. You prefer to fight at home in front of the girls."
She yanked open the door and said, "Five o'clock tomorrow, and you'd better be there."
"I'll think about it."
"And don't come home tonight."
She slammed the door, and Mack heard her heels click angrily away.
The first client in Mack's chain-saw class-action scheme was a career pulpwood cutter by the name of Odell Grove. Almost five years earlier, Mr. Grove's nineteen-year-old son needed a quick divorce and found his way to Mack's office. In the course of representing the kid, himself a pulpwood cutter, Mack learned of Odell's encounter with a chain saw that proved more dangerous than most. During routine operations, the chain snapped, the guard failed, and Odell lost his left eye. He wore a patch now, and it was the patch that helped identify this long-forgotten client when Mack entered the truck-stop cafe outside the small town of Karraway. It was a few minutes past eight, the morning after Mack's discharge from the hospital, the morning after he'd slept at the office. He had sneaked by the house after the girls left for school and picked up some clothes. To mix with the locals, he was wearing boots and a camouflage suit he put on occasionally when hunting deer. The fresh wound on his forehead was covered with a green wool ski cap pulled low, but he couldn't hide all the bruising. He was taking painkillers and had a buzz,. The pills were giving him the courage to somehow wade through this unpleasant encounter. He had no choice.
Odell with his black eye patch was eating pancakes and talking loudly three tables away, and never glanced at Mack. According to the file, they had met at the same truck stop four years and ten months earlier, when Mack first informed Odell that he had a good, solid case against the maker of the chain saw. Their last contact had been almost two years ago, when Odell called the office -with some rather pointed inquiries about the progress of his good, solid case. After that, the file became odorous.
Mack drank coffee at the counter, glanced at a newspaper, and waited for the early-morning crowd to leave for work. Eventually, Odell and his two co-workers finished breakfast and stopped at the cash register. Mack left a dollar for his coffee and followed them outside. As they headed for their pulpwood truck, Mack swallowed hard and said, "Odell." All three stopped as Mack hustled over for a friendly hello.
"Odell, it's me, Mack Stafford. I handled the divorce for your son Luke."
"The lawyer?" Odell asked, confused. He took in the boots, the hunting garb, the ski cap not far above the eyes.
"Sure, from Clanton. You gotta minute?"
"What—"
"Just take a minute. A small business matter."
Odell looked at the other two, and all three shrugged. "We'll wait in the truck," one of them said.
Like most men who spend their time deep in the woods knocking down trees, Odell was thick through the shoulders and chest, with massive forearms and weathered hands. And with his one good eye he was able to convey more contempt than most men could dish out with two.
"What is it?" he snarled, then spat. A toothpick was stuck in the corner of his mouth. There was a scar on his left cheek, courtesy of Tinzo. The accident had cost him one eyeball and a month's worth of pulpwood, little more.
"I'm winding down my practice," Mack said.
"What the hell does that mean?"
"Means I'm closing up the office. I think I might be able to squeeze some money out of your case."
"I think I've heard this before."
"Here's the deal. I can get you twenty-five thousand cash, hard cash, in two weeks, but only if you keep it extremely confidential. I mean graveyard quiet. You can't tell a soul."
For a man who'd never seen $5,000 in cash, the prospect was instantly appealing. Odell glanced around to make sure they were alone. He worked the toothpick as if it helped him think.
"Somethin' don't smell right," he said, his eye patch twitching.
"I
t's not complicated, Odell. It's a quick settlement because the company that made the chain saw is getting bought out by another company. Happens all the time. They'd like to forget about these old claims."
"All nice and legal?" Odell asked, with suspicion, as if this lawyer couldn't be trusted.
"Of course. They'll pay the money, but only if it's kept confidential. Plus, think of all the problems you'd face if folks knew you had that kind of cash."
Odell looked straight at the pulpwood truck and his two bud' dies sitting inside. Then he thought of his wife, and her mother, and his son in jail for drugs, and his son who was unemployed, and before long he'd thought of lots of people who'd happily help him go through the money. Mack knew what he was thinking, and added, "Cold cash, Odell. From my pocket to yours, and no-body will know anything. Not even the IRS.""No chance of gettin' more?" Odell asked.
Mack frowned and kicked a rock. "Not a dime, Odell. Not a dime.