A Time for Mercy (Jake Brigance #3) - John Grisham Page 0,130

monthly nut of twenty-five hundred bucks.”

“I know that and it’s no problem.”

“The house ain’t worth it, Jake. You’re in Clanton, not north Jackson.”

He knew that too.

“Plus taxes and insurance and you’re looking at three thousand. I mean, hell, Jake, that’s a big mortgage for anybody in this town.”

“Herb, I know that, and I can swing it.” Such a number made him nauseous and he suspected he wasn’t faking it very well. For the month of May his quiet little office had grossed less than $2,000. June was on track to see even less.

“Well, I need to see some proof. Financials, tax returns, the like. Not sure I can trust them because I damned sure don’t trust your appraisal. What’s your gross gonna be this year?”

The indignity was overwhelming. Suffering at the whim of another banker who wanted to poke through his books. “You know how it is, Herb, in this business. You can’t predict what’ll walk in the door. I’ll probably do a hundred and fifty.”

Half of that would be a bonanza at the current rate.

“Well, I don’t know. Put together some financials and I’ll take a look. What’s in the pipeline now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, Jake, I deal with lawyers all the time. What’s the best case in your office?”

“The Smallwood wrongful deaths, against the railroad.”

“Oh really? I heard that one blew up in your face.”

“Not at all. Judge Noose will give us a new trial date later in the fall. We’re on track, so to speak.”

“Ha, ha. What’s the next-best case?”

There wasn’t one. Jesse Turnipseed’s mother slipped on some pickle juice on the floor at the grocery store and broke her arm. It healed perfectly. The insurance company was offering $7,000. Jake couldn’t threaten it with a trial because she had a habit of falling in well-insured stores when no one was around. “The usual assortment of car wrecks and such,” he said with a discernible lack of conviction.

“Junk. Anything of value?”

“Not really. Not now anyway.”

“What about other assets. I mean, anything worth a shit?”

Oh, how he hated bankers. His paltry savings account had been demolished to pay Stan. “Some savings, couple of cars, you know?”

“I know, I know. What about other debts? You in hock up to your ears like most lawyers around here?”

Credit cards, the monthly note on Carla’s vehicle. He wouldn’t dare mention the litigation loan because Herb would blow a gasket. The very idea of borrowing that much money to fund a lawsuit. At that moment, it did indeed seem foolish. “The usual, nothing serious, nothing I’m not taking care of.”

“Look, let’s cut to the chase here, Jake. Get some numbers together and I’ll take a look, but I gotta tell you, three hundred won’t work. Hell, I’m not sure two-fifty ain’t too much.”

“Will do. Thanks, Herb. See you around.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Jake bolted from the office, his hatred of banks refortified. He left thoroughly defeated and slinked back to his office.

* * *

—

THE NEXT MEETING would be even more painful. Three hours later, Harry Rex stomped up his stairs, cracked the door, and said, “Let’s go.”

They made the same walk Jake had made earlier in the day, but stopped at the Sullivan law firm. A pretty secretary led them to a large, majestic conference room with people waiting. On one side of the table, Walter Sullivan sat with Sean Gilder and one of his many associates. The two railroad lawyers were with them. The handshaking took a while and everybody was polite. A court reporter sat at one end, next to the chair reserved for the witness.

On cue, Mr. Neal Nickel walked in and said hello. The court reporter swore him to tell the truth and he took his seat. It was Gilder’s deposition and he quickly took charge with instructions for the witness and a long list of preliminary questions. Since he worked by the hour, he was slow and meticulous.

Jake studied Nickel’s face and felt as though he knew him well. He had seen him so many times in the photos at the accident scene. He was still wearing a dark suit and was articulate, educated, and not the least bit intimidated.

The ugly truth came out soon enough. On the night of the crash, he was following an old pickup truck that was barely staying on the road. Swerving from one shoulder to the other. Nickel gave it plenty of room. As he topped a hill, he saw the red crossing lights flashing at the bottom. A train was passing. The