The Rainmaker

I ARRIVE EARLY FOR MY NINE O'CLOCK AP-pointment with Dr. Walter Kord. A lot of good it does. I wait for an hour, reading Donny Ray's medical records, which I've already memorized. The waiting room fills with cancer patients. I try not to look at them.



A nurse comes for me at ten. I follow her to a window-less exam room deep in a maze. Of all the medical specialties, why would anyone choose oncology? I guess someone has to do it.



Why would anyone choose the law?



I sit in a chair with my file and wait another fifteen minutes. Voices in the hall, then the door opens. A young man of about thirty-five rushes in. "Mr. Baylor?" he says, sticking out a hand. We shake as I stand.



"Yes."



"Walter Kord. I'm in a hurry. Can we do this in five minutes?"



"I guess."



"Let's hurry if we can. I have a lot of patients," he says,



actually managing a smile. I'm very aware of how doctors hate lawyers. For some reason, I don't blame them.



"Thanks for the affidavit. It worked. We've already taken Donny Ray's deposition."



"Great." He's about four inches taller, and stares down at me as if I'm a fool.



I grit my teeth and say, "We need your testimony."



His reaction is typical of doctors. They hate courtrooms. And to avoid them, they sometimes agree to give evidentiary depositions to be used in lieu of their live testimony. They don't have to agree. And when they don't, lawyers occasionally are forced to use a deadly device-the subpoena. Lawyers have the power to have subpoenas issued to almost anyone, including doctors. Thus, to this limited extent, lawyers have power over doctors. This makes doctors despise lawyers even more.



"I'm very busy," he says.



"I know. It's not for me, it's for Donny Ray."



He frowns and breathes heavily as if this is physically very uncomfortable. "I charge five hundred dollars an hour for a deposition."



This doesn't shock me because I expected it. In law school, I heard stories of doctors charging even more. I'm here to beg. "I can't afford that, Dr. Kord. I opened my office six weeks ago, and I'm about to starve to death. This is the only decent case I have."



It's amazing what the truth can do. This guy probably earns a million bucks a year, and he is instantly disarmed by my candor. I see pity in his eyes. He hesitates for a second, maybe he thinks of Donny Ray and the frustration of being unable to help, maybe he feels sorry for me. Who knows?



"I'll send you a bill, okay? Pay whenever you can."



"Thanks, Doc."



"Get with my secretary and pick a date. Can we do it here?"



"Certainly." "Good. Gotta run."



DECK HAS A CLIENT in his office when I return. She's a middle-aged woman, heavyset, nicely dressed. He waves at me as I walk by his door. He introduces me to Mrs. Madge Dresser, who wants- a divorce. She's been crying, and as I lean on the desk next to Deck he slides me a note on a legal pad: "She has money."



We spend an hour with Madge, and it's a sordid tale. Booze, beatings, other women, gambling, bad kids, and she's done nothing wrong. She filed for divorce two years ago and her husband shot out the front window of her lawyer's office. He plays with guns and is dangerous. I glance at Deck when she tells this story. He won't look at me.



She pays six hundred dollars in cash and promises more. We'll file for divorce tomorrow. She's in good hands with the law firm of Rudy Baylor, Deck assures her.



Moments after she leaves, the phone rings. A male voice asks for me. I identify myself.



"Yes, Rudy, this is Roger Rice, attorney. I don't think we've met."



I met almost every lawyer in Memphis when I was looking for work, but I don't remember Roger Rice. "No, I don't think so. I'm new."



"Yeah. I had to call directory assistance to get your number. Listen, I'm in the middle of a meeting with two brothers, Randolph and Delbert Birdsong, and their mother, Birdie. I understand you know these people."



I can just see her sitting there between her sons, grinning stupidly and saying, "How nice."



"Sure, I know Miss Birdie well," I say as if this call has been expected all day.



"Actually, they're next door in my office, I've sneaked off to the conference room so we can talk. I'm working on her will, and, well, there's a pot full of money involved. They said you've tried to do her will."



"That's true. I prepared a rough draft several months ago, but, frankly, she hasn't been inclined to sign it."



"Why not?" He's friendly enough, just doing his job, and it's not his fault they're there. And so I give him the quick version of Miss Birdie's desire to leave her fortune to the Reverend Kenneth Chandler.



"Does she have the money?" he asks.



I simply cannot tell him the truth. It would be terribly unethical for me to divulge any information about Miss Birdie without her prior consent. And the information Rice is after was obtained by me through dubious, though not illegal, means. My hands are tied.



"What has she told you?' I ask.



"Not much. Something about a fortune in Atlanta, money left by her second husband, but when I try to pin her down she gets real flaky."



Certainly sounds familiar. "Why does she want a new will?" I ask.



"She wants to leave everything to her family-kids and grandkids. I just want to know if she has the money."



"I'm not sure of the money. There's a probate court file in Atlanta that's been sealed, and that's as far as I've been."



He's still not satisfied, and I have even less to say. I promise to fax over the lawyer's name and phone number in Atlanta.



THERE ARE EVEN MORE rental cars in the driveway when I arrive home after nine. I'm forced to park in the



street, and this really ticks me off. I sneak through the darkness, and go unnoticed by the party on the patio.



It must be the grandkids. From the window of my small den, I sit in the dark, eat a chicken pot pie and listen to the voices. I can distinguish Delbert's and Randolph's. Miss Birdie's occasional cackling rips through the humid air. The other voices are younger.



It must've been handled like a frantic 911 call. Come quick! She's loaded! We thought the old biddy had a few bucks, but not a fortune. One call led to another as the family was tracked down. Come quick! Your name's in the will, and it's got a million dollars next to it. And she's thinking of redrafting it. Circle the wagons. It's time to love Granny.