I CALL JUDGE KIPLER at home with the news of the death. The funeral will be tomorrow afternoon at two, which presents a problem. The home office depositions are scheduled to begin at nine in the morning, and run for most of the week. I'm sure the suits from Cleveland are already in town, probably sitting in Drummond's office right now doing rehearsals before video cameras. That's how thorough he is.
Kipler asks me to be in court at nine anyway, and he'll handle things from there. I tell him I'm ready. I certainly should be. I've typed every possible question for each of the witnesses, and His Honor himself has made suggestions. Deck has reviewed them too.
Kipler hints that he might postpone the depositions because he has two important hearings tomorrow.
Whatever. I really don't care right now.
BY THE TIME I get to the Blacks', the whole neighborhood has come to mourn. The street and driveway are bumper to bumper with parked cars. Old men loiter in
the front yard and sit on the porch. I smile and nod and work my way inside through the crowd, where I find Dot in the kitchen, standing by the refrigerator. The house is packed with people. The kitchen table and countertops are covered with pies and casseroles and Tupperware filled with fried chicken.
Dot and I hug each other gently. I express my sympathy by simply saying that I'm sorry, and she thanks me for coming. Her eyes are red but I sense that she's tired of crying. She waves at all the food and tells me to help myself. I leave her with a group of ladies from the neighborhood.
I'm suddenly hungry. I fill a large paper plate with chicken and baked beans and coleslaw, and go to the tiny patio, where I eat in solitude. Buddy, bless his heart, is not in his car. She's probably locked him in the bedroom, where he can't embarrass her. I eat slowly, and listen to the quiet chatter emanating from the open windows of the kitchen and den. When my plate is empty, I fill it for the second time and again hide on the patio.
I'm soon joined by a young man who looks oddly familiar. "I'm Ron Black," he says, sitting in the chair next to mine. "The twin."
He's lean and fit, not very tall. "Nice to meet you," I say.
"So you're the lawyer." He's holding a canned soft drink.
"That's me. Rudy Baylor. I'm sorry about your brother."
"Thanks."
I'm very aware of how little Dot and Donny Ray talked about Ron. He left home shortly after high school, went far away and has kept his distance. I can understand this to a certain degree.
He's not in a talkative mood. His sentences are short
and forced, but we eventually get around to the bone marrow transplant. He confirms what I already believe to be true, that he was ready and willing to donate his marrow to save his brother, and that he'd been told by Dr. Kord that he was a perfect match. I explain to him that it'll be necessary for him to explain this to a jury in a few short months, and he says he'd love to. He has a few questions about the lawsuit, but never indicates any curiosity about how much money he might get from it.
I'm sure he's sad, but he handles his grief well. I open the door to their childhood and hope to hear a few warm stories all twins must share about pranks and jokes they played on others. Nothing. He grew up here, in this house and this neighborhood, and it's obvious he has no use for his past.
The funeral is tomorrow at two, and I'll bet Ron Black is on a plane back to Houston by five.
The crowd thins then swells, but the food remains. I eat two pieces of chocolate cake while Ron sips a warm soda. After two hours of sitting, I'm exhausted. I excuse myself and leave.
ON MONDAY, there's a regular throng of stem-faced and darkly dressed men sitting around Leo F. Drummond on the far side of the courtroom.
I'm ready. Scared and shaking and weary, but the questions are written and waiting. If I completely choke, I'll still be able to read the questions and make them answer.
It is amusing to see these corporate honchos cowering in fear. I can only imagine the harsh words they had for Drummond and me and Kipler and lawyers in general and this case in particular when they were informed that they had to appear en masse here today, and not only appear and give testimony, but sit and wait for hours and days until I finish with them.
Kipler takes the bench and calls our case first. We're taking the depositions next door, in a courtroom that's vacant this week, close by so His Honor can stick his head in at random and keep Drummond in line. He calls us forth because he has something to say.
I take my seat on the right. Four boys from Trent & Brent take theirs to the left.
"We don't need a record for this," Kipler tells the court reporter. This is not a scheduled hearing. "Mr. Drummond, are you aware that Donny Ray Black died yesterday morning?"
"No sir," Drummond answers gravely. "I'm very sorry."
"The funeral is this afternoon, and that poses a problem. Mr. Baylor here is a pallbearer. In fact, he should be with the family right now."
Drummond is standing, looking at me, then at Kipler.
"We're going to postpone these depositions. Have your people here next Monday, same time, same place." Kipler is glaring at Drummond, waiting for the wrong response.
The five important men from Great Benefit will be forced to rearrange and rejuggle their busy lives and travel to Memphis next week.
"Why not start tomorrow?" Drummond asks, stunned. It's a perfectly legitimate question.
"I run this court, Mr. Drummond. I control discovery, and I certainly plan to control the trial."
"But, Your Honor, if you please, and I'm not being argumentative, your presence is not necessary to the depositions. These five gentlemen have gone to great hardship to be here today. It might not be possible next week."
This is exactly what Kipler wanted to hear. "Oh, they'll be here, Mr. Drummond. They'll be right here at nine o'clock next Monday morning."
"Well, I think it's unfair, with all due respect."
"Unfair? These depositions could've been taken in
Cleveland two weeks ago, Mr. Drummond. But your client started playing games."
A judge has unbridled discretion in matters like these, and there's no way to appeal. Kipler is punishing Drummond and Great Benefit, and, in my humble opinion, I think he's a bit overboard. There will be a trial here in a few short months, and the judge is establishing himself. He's telling the hotshot lawyer that he, His Honor, will rule at trial.
Fine with me.
BEHIND A SMALL COUNTRY CHURCH, a few miles north of Memphis, Donny Ray Black is laid to rest. Because I'm one of eight pallbearers, I'm instructed to stand behind the chairs where the family is seated. It's chilly with overcast skies, a day for a burial.
The last funeral I attended was my father's, and I try desperately not to think of it.
The crowd inches together under the burgundy canopy as the young minister reads from the Bible. We stare at the gray casket with flowers around it. I can hear Dot crying softly. I can see Buddy sitting next to Ron. I stare away, trying to mentally leave this place and dream of something pleasant.
DECK IS A NERVOUS WRECK when I return to the office. His pal Butch, the private detective, is sitting on a table, his massive biceps bulging under a tight turtleneck. He's a scruffy type with red cheeks, pointed-toe boots, the look of a man who enjoys brawls. Deck introduces us, refers to Butch as a client, then hands me a legal pad with the message, "Keep talking about nothing, okay," scrawled in black felt on the top sheet.
"How was the funeral?" Deck asks, as he takes mv arm
' j
and leads me to the table where Butch is waiting.