bankruptcy, man. There might be other creditors out there, just lurking in the bushes waiting to jump on me with papers. I can’t take it.” I slowly lie down on the sofa. Charlene’s frying bacon and the heavy aroma drifts through the tiny den.
“Where are the papers?” Booker asks.
“In the car.”
He leaves the room and returns in a minute. He sits in a chair nearby and studies the Texaco suit and the eviction notice. Charlene buzzes around the kitchen, brings me more coffee and aspirin. It’s three-thirty in the morning. The kids are finally quiet. I feel safe and warm, even loved.
My head is spinning slowly as I close my eyes and drift away.
Five
L IKE A SNAKE CREEPING THROUGH THE undergrowth, I sneak into the law school well past noon and hours after both of my scheduled classes have broken up. Sports Law and Selected Readings from the Napoleonic Code, what a joke. I hide in my little pit in the remote corner of the library’s basement floor.
Booker woke me on the sofa with the hopeful news that he’d talked to Marvin Shankle and the wheels were turning downtown. A certain captain or such was being called, and Mr. Shankle was optimistic the matter could be worked out. Mr. Shankle’s brother is a judge in one of the criminal divisions, and if the charges couldn’t get dismissed then other strings would be pulled. But there is still no word on whether the cops are looking for me. Booker would make some more calls and keep me posted.
Booker already has an office in the Shankle firm. He’s clerked there for two years, working part-time and learning more than any five of the rest of us. He calls a secretary between classes, works diligently with his appointmentbook, tells me about this client and that one. He’ll make a great lawyer.
It’s impossible to organize thoughts with a hangover. I scribble notes to myself on a legal pad, important things, like, now that I’ve made it into this building without being spotted, what next? I’ll wait a couple of hours here while the law school empties. It’s Friday afternoon, the slowest time of the week. Then I’ll ease down to the Placement Office and corner the director and spill my guts. If I’m lucky, there might be some obscure government agency which has been spurned by every other graduate and is still offering twenty thousand a year for a bright legal mind. Or maybe a small company has suddenly found the need for another in-house lawyer. At this point, there aren’t many maybes left.
There’s a legend in Memphis by the name of Jonathan Lake, a graduate of this law school who also could not find employment with the big firms downtown. Happened about twenty years ago. Lake was jilted by the established firms, so he rented some space, hung out a shingle, declared himself ready to sue. He starved for a few months, then crashed his motorcycle one night and woke up with a broken leg at St. Peter’s, the charity hospital. Not long afterward, the bed next to him was occupied by a guy who’d also crashed a motorcycle. This guy was all broken up and badly burned. His girlfriend was burned even worse, and died a couple of days later. Lake and this guy got to be friends. Lake signed up both cases. As things evolved, the driver of the Jaguar that ran the stop sign and hit the motorcycle upon which Lake’s new clients were riding just happened to be the senior partner for the third-largest law firm downtown. And he was the same guy who’d interviewed Lake six months earlier. And he was drunk when he ran the stop sign.
Lake sued with a vengeance. The drunk senior partnerhad tons of insurance, which the company immediately began throwing at Lake. Everybody wanted a quick settlement. Six months after passing the bar exam, Jonathan Lake settled the cases for two point six million. Cash, no long-term payouts. Just up-front cash.
Legend holds that the biker told Lake while they were both laid up in the hospital that since Lake was so young and just out
“Where are the papers?” Booker asks.
“In the car.”
He leaves the room and returns in a minute. He sits in a chair nearby and studies the Texaco suit and the eviction notice. Charlene buzzes around the kitchen, brings me more coffee and aspirin. It’s three-thirty in the morning. The kids are finally quiet. I feel safe and warm, even loved.
My head is spinning slowly as I close my eyes and drift away.
Five
L IKE A SNAKE CREEPING THROUGH THE undergrowth, I sneak into the law school well past noon and hours after both of my scheduled classes have broken up. Sports Law and Selected Readings from the Napoleonic Code, what a joke. I hide in my little pit in the remote corner of the library’s basement floor.
Booker woke me on the sofa with the hopeful news that he’d talked to Marvin Shankle and the wheels were turning downtown. A certain captain or such was being called, and Mr. Shankle was optimistic the matter could be worked out. Mr. Shankle’s brother is a judge in one of the criminal divisions, and if the charges couldn’t get dismissed then other strings would be pulled. But there is still no word on whether the cops are looking for me. Booker would make some more calls and keep me posted.
Booker already has an office in the Shankle firm. He’s clerked there for two years, working part-time and learning more than any five of the rest of us. He calls a secretary between classes, works diligently with his appointmentbook, tells me about this client and that one. He’ll make a great lawyer.
It’s impossible to organize thoughts with a hangover. I scribble notes to myself on a legal pad, important things, like, now that I’ve made it into this building without being spotted, what next? I’ll wait a couple of hours here while the law school empties. It’s Friday afternoon, the slowest time of the week. Then I’ll ease down to the Placement Office and corner the director and spill my guts. If I’m lucky, there might be some obscure government agency which has been spurned by every other graduate and is still offering twenty thousand a year for a bright legal mind. Or maybe a small company has suddenly found the need for another in-house lawyer. At this point, there aren’t many maybes left.
There’s a legend in Memphis by the name of Jonathan Lake, a graduate of this law school who also could not find employment with the big firms downtown. Happened about twenty years ago. Lake was jilted by the established firms, so he rented some space, hung out a shingle, declared himself ready to sue. He starved for a few months, then crashed his motorcycle one night and woke up with a broken leg at St. Peter’s, the charity hospital. Not long afterward, the bed next to him was occupied by a guy who’d also crashed a motorcycle. This guy was all broken up and badly burned. His girlfriend was burned even worse, and died a couple of days later. Lake and this guy got to be friends. Lake signed up both cases. As things evolved, the driver of the Jaguar that ran the stop sign and hit the motorcycle upon which Lake’s new clients were riding just happened to be the senior partner for the third-largest law firm downtown. And he was the same guy who’d interviewed Lake six months earlier. And he was drunk when he ran the stop sign.
Lake sued with a vengeance. The drunk senior partnerhad tons of insurance, which the company immediately began throwing at Lake. Everybody wanted a quick settlement. Six months after passing the bar exam, Jonathan Lake settled the cases for two point six million. Cash, no long-term payouts. Just up-front cash.
Legend holds that the biker told Lake while they were both laid up in the hospital that since Lake was so young and just out
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