Ford County

by John Grisham

  It's twenty-five thousand or nothing. And we have to move quick. I can hand you the cash in less than a month."

  "What do I have to do?"

  "Meet me here Friday of next week, 8:00 a.m. I'll need one signature, then I can get the money."

  "How much you makin' off this?"

  "It's not important. You want the cash or not?"

  "That's not much money for an eyeball."

  "You're right about that, but it's all you're gonna get. Yes or no?"

  Odell spat again and moved the toothpick from one side to the other. Finally, he said, "I reckon."

  "Good. Next Friday, 8:00 a.m., here, and come alone."

  During their first meeting years earlier, Odell had mentioned that he knew of another pulp wood cutter who'd lost a hand while using the same model Tinzo chain saw. This second injury had inspired Mack to begin dreaming of a broader attack, a class action on behalf of dozens, maybe hundreds of maimed plaintiffs. He could almost feel the money, years earlier.

  Plaintiff number two had been tracked down next door in Polk County, in a desolate hollow deep in a pine forest. His name was Jerrol Baker, aged thirty-one, a former logger who'd been un-able to pursue that career "with only one hand. Instead, he and a cousin had built a methamphetamine lab in their double-wide trailer, and Jerrol the chemist made much more money than Jer' rol the logger. His new career, however, proved just as dangerous, and Jerrol narrowly escaped a fiery death when their lab exploded, incinerating the equipment, the inventory, the trailer, and the cousin. Jerrol was indicted, sent to prison, and from there wrote several unanswered letters to his class-action lawyer seeking updates on the good, solid case they had against Tinzo. He was paroled after a few months, and rumored to be back in the area. Mack had not spoken to him in at least two years.

  And speaking to him now would be a challenge, if not an impossibility. Jerrol's mother's house was abandoned. A neighbor down the road was most uncooperative until Mack explained that he owed Jerrol $300 and needed to deliver a check. Since it was likely that Jerrol owed money to most of his mother's neighbors, a few details emerged. Mack certainly didn't appear to be a drug agent, a process server, or a parole officer. The neighbor pointed up the road and over the hill, and Mack followed his directions. He dropped more hints about delivering money as he worked his way deeper into the pine forests of Polk County. It was almost noon when the gravel road came to a dead end. An ancient mobile home sat forlornly on cinder blocks wrapped in wild vines. Mack, a .38-caliber handgun in one pocket, slowly approached the trailer. The door opened slowly, sagging on its hinges.

  Jerrol stepped onto the rickety plank porch and glared at Mack, who froze twenty feet away. Jerrol was shirtless but wearing ink, his arms and chest adorned with a colorful collection of prison tattoos. His hair was long and dirty, his thin body no doubt ravaged by meth. He'd lost his left hand thanks to Tinzo, but in his right he held a sawed-off shotgun. He nodded, but didn't speak. His eyes were deep-set, ghostlike.

  "I'm Mack Stafford, a lawyer from Clanton. I believe you're Jerrol Baker, aren't you?"

  Mack half expected the shotgun to come up firing, but it didn't move. Oddly enough, the client smiled, a toothless offering that was more frightening than the weapon. "'At's me," he grunted.

  They talked for ten minutes, a surprisingly civil exchange given the setting and given their history. As soon as Jerrol realized he was about to receive $25,000 in cash, and that no one would know about it, he turned into a little boy and even invited Mack inside. Mack declined.

  By the time they settled into their leather seats and faced the counselor across the desk, Dr. Juanita had been fully briefed on all issues and only pretended to be open-minded. Mack almost asked how many times the girls had chatted, but his strategy was all about avoiding conflict.

  After a few comments designed to relax the husband and wife, and to instill confidence and warmth, Dr. Juanita invited them to say something. Not surprisingly, Lisa went first. She prattled nonstop for fifteen minutes about her unhappiness, her emptiness, her frustrations, and she minced no words in describing her husband's lack of affection and ambition, and his increasing reliance upon alcohol.

  Mack's forehead was black'and'blue, and a fairly large white bandage covered a third of it, so not only was he described as a drunk, he in fact looked like one. He bit his tongue, listened, tried to appear dismal and depressed. When it was his turn to speak, he expressed some of the same concerns but didn't drop any bombs. Most of their problems were caused by him, and he was ready to take the blame.

  When he finished, Dr. Juanita split them up. Lisa left first and went back to the lobby to flip through magazines while she reloaded. Mack was left to face the counselor alone. The first time he'd endured this torture, he'd been nervous. Now, though, he'd been through so many sessions that he really didn't care. Nothing he said would help save their marriage, so why say much at all?

  "I have a sense that you want out of this marriage," Dr. Juanita began softly, wisely, eyeing him carefully.

  "I want out because she wants out. She wants a bigger life, a bigger house, a bigger husband.

  I'm just too small." "Do you and Lisa ever share a laugh?"

  "Maybe if we're watching something funny on television. I laugh, she laughs, the girls laugh."

  "How about sex?"

  "Well, we're both forty-two years old, and we average about once a month, which is sad because an encounter takes five minutes, max. There's no passion, no romance, just something to knock off the edge. Pretty methodical, like connect the dots. I get the impression that she could forget the entire business."

  Dr. Juanita took some notes, in much the same manner that Mack took notes with a client who said nothing but something needed to be written nonetheless.

  "How much are you drinking?" she asked.

  "Not nearly as much as she says. She's from a family of non-drinkers, so a three-beer night is a regular bender."

  "But you are drinking too much."

  "I came home the other night, the day it snowed, slipped on some ice, hit my head, and now most of Clanton has heard that I staggered home drunk and fell out in the driveway, cracked my skull, and now I'm acting weird. She's lining up allies, Juanita, you understand? She's telling everyone how lousy I am because she wants folks on her side "when she files for divorce. The battle lines are already drawn. It's inevitable."

  "You're giving up?"

  "I'm surrendering. Total. Unconditional."

  Sunday just happened to be the second Sunday of the month, a day Mack hated above all others. Lisa's family, the Running clan, was required by law to meet at her parents' home for an after' church brunch the second Sunday of every month. No excuses were tolerated, unless a family member happened to be out of town, and even then such an absence was frowned upon and the missing one usually subjected to withering gossip, outside the presence of the children of course.

  Mack, his forehead an even deeper shade of blue and the swelling still evident, couldn't resist the temptation of a final, glorious farewell. He skipped church, decided to neither shower nor shave, dressed himself in old jeans and a soiled sweatshirt, and for dramatic effect removed the white gauze that covered his wound so that the entire brunch would be ruined when all the Bunnings saw his gruesome stitches. He arrived just a few minutes late, but early enough to prevent the adults from enjoying a few preliminary rounds of excoriating chitchat. Lisa completely ignored him, as did almost everyone else. His daughters hid in the sunroom with their cousins, who, of course, had heard all about the scandal and wanted details about his crack-up.

  At one point, just before they were seated at the table, Lisa brushed by him and through gritted teeth managed to utter, "Why don't you just leave?" To which Mack cheerfully responded, "Because I'm starving and I haven't had a burned casserole since the second Sunday of last month."

  All were present, sixteen total, and after Lisa's father, still wearing his white shirt and tie from church, blessed the day with h
is standard petition to the Almighty, they passed the food and the meal began. As always, about thirty seconds passed before her father began discussing the price of cement. The women drifted off into little side pockets of gossip. Two of Mack's nephews across the table just stared at his stitches, unable to eat. Finally, Lisa's mother, the grandam, reached the inevitable point at which she could no longer hold her tongue. During a lull, she announced at full volume, "Mack, your poor head looks dreadful. That must be painful."

  Mack, anticipating just such a salvo, shot back, "Can't feel a thing. I'm on some wonderful drugs."

  "What happened?" The question came from the brother-in-law, the doctor, the only other person at the table with access to Mack's hospital records. There was little doubt the doctor had practically memorized Mack's charts, grilled the attending physicians, nurses, and orderlies, and knew more about Mack's condition than he did himself. As Mack made his plans to exit the legal profession, perhaps his only regret was that he'd never sued his brother-in-law for medical malpractice. Others certainly had, and collected.

  "I'd been drinking," Mack said proudly. "Came home late, slipped on some ice, hit my head."

  Spines stiffened in unison around the table from the fiercely teetotaling family.

  Mack pressed on: "Don't tell me you guys haven't heard all the details. Lisa was an eyewitness. She's told everyone."

  "Mack, please," Lisa said as she dropped her fork. All forks were suddenly still, except for Mack's. He plunged his into a pile of rubber chicken and stuffed it into his mouth.

  "Please what?" he said, mouth full, chicken visible. "You've made sure that every person at this table knows your version of what happened." He was chewing, talking, and pointing his fork at his wife, who was at the other end of the table close to her father. "And you've probably told them all about our visit to the marriage counselor, right?"

  "Oh my God," Lisa gasped.

  "And Fm sleeping at the office, don't we all know that?" he said. "Can't go home anymore, because, well, hell, I might slip and fall again. Or whatever. I might get drunk and beat my kids. Who knows? Right, Lisa?"

  "That's enough, Mack," her father said, the voice of authority.

  "Yes, sir. Sorry. This chicken is practically raw. Who

  cooked it?"

  His mother-in-law bristled. Her spine stiffened even more. Her eyebrows arched. "Well, I did, Mack. Any more complaints about the food?"

  "Oh, tons of complaints, but what the hell."

  "Watch your language, Mack," her father-in-law said.

  "See what I mean." Lisa leaned in low. "He's cracking up." Most of them nodded gravely. Helen, their younger daughter, began crying softly.

  "You love to say that, don't you?" Mack yelled from his end. "You said the same thing to the marriage counselor. You've said it to everyone. Mack bumped his head, and now he's losing

  his shit."

  "Mack, I don't tolerate such language," her father said sternly. "Please leave the table."

  "Sorry. I'll be happy to leave." He rose and kicked back his chair. "And you'll be delighted to know that I'll never be back. That'll give you all a thrill, won't it?"

  The silence was thick as he left the table. The last thing he heard was Lisa saying, "I'm so sorry."

  Monday, he walked around the square to the large and busy office of Harry Rex Vonner, a friend who was undoubtedly the nastiest divorce lawyer in Ford County. Harry Rex was a loud, burly brawler who chewed black cigars, growled at his secretaries, growled at the court clerks, controlled the dockets, intimidated the judges, and terrified every divorcing party on the other side. His office was a landfill, with boxes of files in the foyer, overflowing wastebaskets, stacks of old magazines in the racks, a thick layer of blue cigarette smoke just below the ceiling, another thick layer of dust on the furniture and bookshelves, and, always, a motley collection of clients waiting forlornly near the front door. The place was a zoo. Nothing ran on time. Someone was always yelling in the back. The phones rang constantly. The copier was always jammed. And so on. Mack had been there many times before on business and loved the chaos of the place.

  "Heard you're crackin' up, boy," Harry Rex began as they met at his office door. The room was large, windowless, and situated at the back of the building, far away from the waiting clients. It was filled with bookshelves, storage boxes, trial exhibits, enlarged photos, and stacks of thick depositions, and the walls were covered with cheap matted photos, primarily of Harry Rex holding rifles and grinning over slain animals. Mack could not remember his last visit, but he was certain nothing had changed.

  They sat down, Harry Rex behind a massive desk with sheets of paper falling off the sides, and Mack in a worn canvas chair that tottered back and forth.

  "I just busted my head, that's all," Mack said.

  "You look like hell."

  "Thanks."

  "Has she filed yet?"

  "No. I just checked. She said she'll use some gal from Tupelo, can't trust anyone around here. I'm not fighting, Harry Rex. She can have everything—the girls, the house, and everything in it. I'm filing for bankruptcy, closing up shop, and moving away."

  Harry Rex slowly cut the end off another black cigar, then shoved it into the corner of his mouth. "You are crackin' up, boy." Harry Rex was about fifty but seemed much older and wiser. To anyone younger, he habitually added the word "boy" as a term of affection.

  "Let's call it a midlife crisis. I'm forty-two years old, and I'm fed up with being a lawyer. The marriage ain't working. Neither is the career. It's time for a change, some new scenery."

  "Look, boy, I've had three marriages. Gettin' rid of a woman ain't no reason to tuck tail and run."

  "I'm not here for career advice, Harry Rex. I'm hiring you to handle my divorce and my bankruptcy. I've already prepared the paperwork. Just get one of your flunkies to file everything and make sure I'm protected."

  "Where you going?"

  "Somewhere far away. I'm not sure right now, but I'll let you know when I get there. I'll come back when I'm needed. I'm still a father, you know?"

  Harry Rex slumped in his chair. He exhaled and looked around at the piles of files stacked haphazardly on the floor around his desk. He looked at his phone with five red lights blinking.

  "Can I go with you?" he asked.

  "Sorry. You gotta stay here and be my lawyer. I have eleven active divorce files, almost all uncontested, plus eight bankruptcies, one adoption, two estates, one car wreck, one workers' comp case, and two small business disputes. Total fees of about $25,000 over the next six months. I'd like you to take 'em off my hands."

  "It's a pile of crap."

  "Yes, the same stuff I've been shoveling for seventeen years. Dump it on one of your little associates back there and give him a bonus. Believe me, there's nothing complicated about it."

  "How much child support can you stand?"

  "Max is three thousand a month, which is a helluva lot more than I contribute now. Start at two thousand and see how it goes. Irreconcilable differences, she can file, I'll join in. She gets full custody, but I get to see the girls whenever I'm in town. She gets the house, her car, bank accounts, everything. She's not involved in the bankruptcy. The joint assets are not included."

  "What are you bankrupting?"

  "The Law Offices of Jacob McKinley Stafford, LLC. May it rest in peace."

  Harry Rex chewed the cigar and looked at the petition for bankruptcy. There was nothing remarkable about it, the usual run'up on credit cards, the ever-present unsecured line of credit, the burdensome mortgage. "You don't have to do this," he said. "This stuff is manageable."

  "The petition has already been prepared, Harry Rex. The decision has been made, along with several others. I'm bolting, okay? Outta here. Gone."

  "Pretty gutsy."

  "No. Most folks would say that running away is the act of a

  coward."

  "How do you see it?"

  "I could not care less. If I don't leave now, then I'll be h
ere forever. This is my only chance."

  "Attaboy."

  At precisely 10:00 a.m., Tuesday, one glorious week after the first phone call, Mack made the second. As he punched the numbers, he smiled and congratulated himself on the amazing accomplishments of the past seven days. The plan was working perfectly, not a single hitch so far, except perhaps the head wound, but even that had been skillfully woven into the escape. Mac was hurt, hospitalized with a blow to the head. No wonder he's acting weird.

  "Mr. Marty Rosenberg," he said pleasantly, then waited until the great man was notified. He answered quickly, and they exchanged preliminaries. Marty seemed unhurried, willing to go with the flow of meaningless chatter, and Mack was suddenly worried that this lack of efficiency would lead to a change in plans, some bad news. He decided to get to the point.

  "Say, Marty, I've met with all four of my clients, and as you might guess, they're all anxious to accept your offer. We'll put this baby to sleep for half a million bucks."

  "Yes, well, was it half a million, Mack?" He seemed uncertain.