The Rainmaker

I'M RIDING TO THE BUS TERMINAL WITH Deck in his minivan. It's early Sunday morning. The weather is clear and beautiful, the first hint of autumn in the air. Mercifully, the stifling humidity is behind us for a few months. Memphis is a lovely place in October.



A round-trip plane ticket to Cleveland costs just under seven hundred dollars. We figured a room in an inexpensive yet safe motel will be forty dollars a night, food will be minimal since I can get by with little. We're doing the deposing, so the costs of taking them are on us. The cheapest court reporter I talked to in Cleveland gets a hundred dollars a day for showing up, two dollars a page for taking down and transcribing the testimony. It's not unusual for these depositions to run for a hundred pages or more. We'd like to video them, but it's out of the question.



So, it seems, is the idea of air travel. The law firm of Rudy Baylor simply cannot afford to fly me to Cleveland. There's no way I'd risk the Toyota on the open road. If it



stopped, then I'd be stranded and the depositions postponed. Deck sort of offered his minivan, but I wouldn't trust it for a thousand miles either.



Greyhound is quite reliable, though awfully slow. The buses eventually get there. It's not my first choice, but what the hell. I'm in no great hurry. I can see some of the countryside. We're saving some valuable money. I've thought of lots of reasons.



Deck drives and says little. I think he's somewhat embarrassed because we can't afford better. And he knows he should be going too. I'm about to confront hostile witnesses and lots of fresh documents which will need instant review. It would be nice to have another mind close by.



We say good-bye in the parking lot by the station. He promises to take care of the office and hustle up some business. I have no doubt that he'll try. He drives off, in the direction of St. Peter's.



I've never been on a Greyhound before. The terminal is small but clean, bustling with Sunday morning travelers, most of whom are old and black. I find the proper clerk and receive my reserved ticket. It costs my firm $139.



The bus leaves on time at eight, and heads west into Arkansas, then north to St. Louis. Luckily, I manage to avoid the nuisance of someone sitting next to me.



The bus is almost full, only three or four empty seats. We're scheduled to be in St. Louis in six hours, Indianapolis by seven P.M., Cleveland by eleven tonight. That's fifteen hours on this bus. The depositions start at nine in the morning.



I'm sure my opponents at Trent & Brent are still sleeping, and will arise to a lovely breakfast, then the Sunday paper on the patio with their wives, perhaps church for a couple of them, then a nice lunch and a round of golf. Around five or so, their wives will drive them to the airport, where they'll be kissed good-bye properly and sent



off together in the first-class section. An hour later, they'll land in Cleveland, no doubt be met by a gofer from Great Benefit who'll chauffeur them to the finest hotel in the city. After a delicious dinner, with drinks and wine, they'll gather in a plush executive conference room and plot against me until late. About the time I check into a Motel 6 or whatever, they'll be retiring to bed, refreshed, prepared, ready for war.



THE GREAT BENEFIT BUILDING is in an affluent Cleveland suburb, one created by white flight. I explain to my cabdriver that I want an inexpensive motel in the vicinity, and he knows exactly where to go. He stops in front of the Plaza Inn. Next door is a McDonald's, across the street, a Blockbuster Video. It's nothing but sprawl-strip shops, fast food, flashing billboards, shopping centers, cheap motels. A mall can't be far away. It appears safe.



There are plenty of vacant rooms, and I pay thirty-two dollars, cash, for one night. I ask for a receipt because Deck instructed me to.



At two minutes after midnight, I get into bed, stare at the ceiling and realize, among other things, that, other than the motel clerk, not a single person in this world knows where I am. There's no one to call and check in with.



Of course, I can't go to sleep.



EVER SINCE I BEGAN to hate Great Benefit, I've had a mental image of their corporate headquarters. I could see a tall, modern building with lots of shiny glass, a fountain by the front entrance, flagpoles, the corporate name and logo emblazoned in bronze. Wealth and corporate prosperity everywhere.



Not exactly. The building is easy enough to find because the address is in bold black letters on a concrete



entrance: 5550 Baker Gap Road. But the name Great Benefit is nowhere to be seen. In fact, the building is unidentifiable from the street. No fountains or flagpoles, just a huge five-story hodgepodge of square block buildings wedged together and seemingly built into one another. It's all very modern and unbelievably ugly. The exterior is white cement and black-tinted windows.



Thankfully, the front entrance is marked, and I step into a small foyer with a few plastic potted plants along one wall and a cute receptionist against another. She wears a chic headset with a tiny felt-tipped wire curved around her jaw and sticking just inches from her lips. On the wall behind her are the names of three nondescript companies: PinnConn Group, Green Lakes Marine and Great Benefit Life Insurance. Which owns which? Each has a self-conscious logo etched in bronze.



"My name is Rudy Baylor, and I'm supposed to see a Mr. Paul Moyer," I say politely.



"One moment please." She punches a button, waits, then says, "Mr. Moyer, a Mr. Baylor here to see you." She never stops smiling.



His office must be close, because I wait less than a minute before he's all over me with handshakes and how-are-you's? I follow him around a corner, down a hallway to an elevator. He's almost as young as I am, talks incessantly about nothing. We exit on four, and I'm already hopelessly lost in this architectural horror. The floors are carpeted on the fourth floor, the lights are dimmer, the walls have paintings. Moyer rattles away as we walk along a hallway, then pulls open a heavy door, and shows me to my place.



Welcome to the Fortune 500. It's a boardroom, long and wide with a shiny oblong table in the center and at least fifty chairs around it. Leather chairs. A glistening chandelier hangs just a few feet from the center of the



table. In a corner to my left is a bar. To my right is a coffee tray with biscuits and bagels. Around the food is a cluster of conspirators, at least eight of them, every one in a dark suit, white shirt, striped tie, black shoes. Eight against one. The nervous tremors in my major organs become serious quakes. Where is Tyrone Kipler when I need him? Right now, even Deck's presence would be comforting.



Four of them are my buddies from Trent & Brent. One is a familiar face from the hearings in Memphis, the other three are strangers, and they all instantly clam up when they realize I've arrived. For a second, they stop sipping and chewing and talking, and just gawk at me. I've interrupted a very serious conversation.



T. Pierce Morehouse recovers first. "Rudy, come on in," he says, but only because he has to. I nod to B. Dewey Clay Hill the Third and to M. Alec Plunk Junior and to Brandon Fuller Grone, then shake hands with the four new acquaintances as Morehouse spits out their names, names that I immediately forget. Jack Underhall is the familiar face from the skirmishes in Kipler's courtroom. He's one of the in-house lawyers for Great Benefit, and the designated corporate spokesman.



My opponents look bright-eyed and fresh, lots of sleep last night after a quick flight up and a relaxing dinner. They're all creased and starched, just as if their clothes came out of their closets this morning and not a travel bag. My eyes are red and tired, my shirt wrinkled. But I have more important things on my mind.



The court reporter arrives, and T. Pierce herds us to the end of the table. He points here and there, saving the end seat for the witnesses, pondering for a second about just exactly how to seat everyone. He finally figures it out. I dutifully take my chair and try to pull it closer to the



table. It's a strain, because the damned thing weighs a ton. Across from me, at least ten feet away, the four boys from Trent & Brent open their briefcases with as much noise as they can create-latches clicking, zippers zipping, files snatched out, papers ruffling. Within seconds, the table is littered with piles of paper.



The four corporate suits are loitering behind the court reporter, uncertain about their next move and waiting for T. Pierce. His papers and pads finally arranged, he says, "Now, Rudy, we thought we'd start with the deposition of our corporate designee, Jack Underhall."



I anticipated this, and I've already decided against it. "No, I don't think so," I say, somewhat nervously. I'm trying desperately to act cool in spite of being on strange turf and surrounded by enemies. There are several reasons I don't want to start with the corporate designee, not the least of which is that it's what they want. These are my depositions, I keep telling myself.



"Beg your pardon?" T. Pierce says.



"You heard me. I want to start with Jackie Lemancyzk, the claims handler. But first I want the file."



The heart of any bad-faith case is the claim file, the collection of letters and documents kept by the claims handler in the home office. In a good bad-faith case, the claim file is an amazing historical account of one screwup after another. I'm entitled to it, and should've received it ten days ago. Drummond pled his innocence, said his client was dragging its feet. Kipler stated unequivocally in a court order that the file must be waiting for me first thing this morning.



"We think it would be best to start with Mr. Underhall," T. Pierce says without authority.



"I don't care what you think," I say, sounding remarkably perturbed and indignant. I can get by with this be-



cause the judge is my buddy. "Shall we call the judge?" I ask, taunting, a real swaggering ass.



Though Kipler is not here, his presence still dominates. His order states, in very plain terms, that the six witnesses I've requested are to be available at nine this morning, and that I have sole discretion as to the order in which they're deposed. They must remain on call until I release them. The order also leaves the door open for additional depos once I start asking questions and digging deeper. I couldn't wait to threaten them with a phone call to His Honor.



"Uh, we, well, we, uh, have a problem with Jackie Lemancyzk," T. Pierce says, glancing nervously at the four suits who've eased backward closer to the door. They're collectively studying their feet, shuffling and twitching. T. Pierce is directly across the table from me, and he's struggling.



"What kind of problem?" I ask.



"She doesn't work here anymore."



I catch my mouth falling open. I am genuinely stunned, and for a second can't think of anything to say. I stare at him and try to collect my thoughts. "When did she leave?" I ask.



"Late last week."



"How late? We were in court last Thursday. Did you know it then?"



"No. She left Saturday."



"Was she terminated?"



"She resigned."



"Where is she now?"



"She's no longer an employee, okay? We can't produce her as a witness."



I study my notes for a second, scanning for more names. "Okay, how about Tony Krick, junior claims examiner?"



More twitching and shuffling and struggling.



"He's gone too," T. Pierce says. "He's been downsized."



I take a second blow to the nose. I'm dizzy with thoughts of what to do next.



Great Benefit has actually fired people to keep them from talking to me.



"What a coincidence," I say, floored. Plunk, Hill and Grorie refuse to look up from their legal pads. I can't imagine what they're writing.



"Our client is going through a periodical downsizing," T. Pierce says, managing to keep a serious face.



"What about Richard Pellrod, senior claims examiner? Lemme guess, he's been downsized too."



"No. He's here."



"And Russell Krokit?"



"Mr. Krokit left us for another company."



"So he wasn't downsized."



"No."



"He resigned, like Jackie Lernaneyzk."



"That's correct."



Russell Krokit was the Senior Claims Supervisor when he wrote the Stupid Letter. As nervous and scared as I've been about this trip, I was actually looking forward to his deposition.



"And Everett Lufkin, Vice President of Claims? Downsized?"



"No. He's here."



There's an incredibly long period of silence as everyone busies himself with nothing-work while the dust settles. My lawsuit has caused a bloodletting. I write carefully on my legal pad, listing the things I should do next.



"Where's the file?" I ask.



T. Pierce reaches behind himself and picks up a stack



of papers. He slides these across the table. They're neatly copied and bound with thick rubber bands.



"Is it in chronological order?" I ask. Kipler's order requires this.



"I think so," T. Pierce says, looking at the four Great Benefit suits as if he could choke them.



The file is almost five inches thick. Without removing the rubber bands, I say, "Give me an hour. Then we'll continue."



"Sure," T. Pierce says. "There's a small conference room right there." He rises and points to the wall behind me.



I follow him and Jack the Suit into an adjacent room, where they quickly leave me. I sit at the table and immediately begin plowing through the documents.



AN HOUR LATER, I reenter the boardroom. They're drinking coffee and suffering through small talk. "We need to call the judge," I say, and T. Pierce snaps to attention. "In here," I say, pointing to my little room.



With him on one phone and me on another, I dial Kipler's office number. He answers on the second ring. We identify ourselves and say good morning. "Got some problems here, Your Honor," I say, anxious to start the conversation with the right tone.



"What kinda problems?" he demands. T. Pierce is listening and staring blankly at the floor.



"Well, of the six witnesses specified in my notice, and in your order, three have suddenly disappeared. They've either resigned, been downsized or suffered some other equal fate, but they aren't here. Happened very late last week."



"Who?"



I'm sure he has the file in front of him, looking at the names.



"Jackie Lemancyzk, Tony Krick and Russell Krokit no longer work here. Pellrod, Lufkin, and Underhall, the designee, miraculously survived the carnage."



"How about the file?"



"I have the claim file, and I've scanned it."



"And?"



"There's at least one missing document," I say, watching T. Pierce carefully. He frowns hard at me, as if he can't believe this.



"What is it?" Kipler asks.



"The Stupid Letter. It's not in the file. I haven't had time to check everything else."



The attorneys for Great Benefit saw the Stupid Letter for the first time last week. The copy Dot handed to Drummond during her depo had the word COPY stamped three times across the top. I did this on purpose so if the letter turned up later we'd know where it came from. The original is locked safely away in my files. It would've been too risky for Drummond et al. to forward their marked copy of the letter to Great Benefit to belatedly add it to the claim file.



"Is this true, Pierce?" Kipler demands.



Pierce is genuinely at a loss. "I'm sorry, Your Honor, I don't know. I've gone through the file, but, well, I guess so, you know. I haven't checked everything."



"Are you guys in the same room?" Kipler asks.



"Yes sir," we answer in unison.



"Good. Pierce, leave the room. Rudy, stay on the phone."



T. Pierce starts to say something, but thinks better of it. Confused, he hangs up his phone and leaves the room.



"Okay, Judge, it's just me," I say.



"What's their mood?" he asks.



"Pretty tense."



"I'm not surprised. This is what I'm gonna do. By killing off witnesses and hiding documents, they've given me the authority to order all depositions to be taken down here. It's discretionary, and they've earned themselves the punishment. I think you should depose Underhall and no one else. Ask him everything under the sun, but try and pin him down on the terminations of the three missing witnesses. Throw everything at him. When you're finished with him, come home. I'll order a hearing for later this week and get to the bottom of this. Get the underwriting file too."



I'm taking notes as fast as I can.



"Lemme talk to Pierce now," he says, "and lay him out."



JACK UNDERHALL is a compact little man with a clipped mustache and clipped speech. He sheds light on the company itself. Great Benefit is owned by PinnConn, a privately held corporation whose owners are hard to pin down. I question him at length about the affiliations and connections of the three companies that call this place home, and it becomes hopelessly confused. We talk for an hour about the corporate structure, starting with the CEO on down. We talk about products, sales, markets, divisions, personnel, all interesting to a point but mostly useless. He produces two letters of resignation from the missing witnesses, and assures me their departures had absolutely nothing to do with this case.



I grill him for three hours, then quit. I had resigned myself to the reality of spending at least three days in Cleveland, enclosed in a room with the boys from Trent & Brent, wrangling with one hostile witness after another, and plowing through reams of documents at night.



But I leave this place just before two, never to return,



loaded with fresh documents for Deck to scour, secure in the knowledge that now these assholes will be forced to come to my turf and give their depositions in my courtroom, with my judge nearby.



The bus ride back to Memphis seems much faster.