SURVIVE THE NIGHT WITHOUT AN ARREST, but with little sleep as well. At some point between five and six, I surrender to the muddled thoughts racing wildly through my mind, and get out of bed. I haven’t slept four hours in the last forty-eight.

The phone number is listed, and I punch the numbers at five minutes before six. I’m on my second cup of coffee. It rings ten times before a sleepy voice says, “Hello.”

“Barry Lancaster please,” I say.

“Speaking.”

“Barry, Rudy Baylor here.”

He clears his throat and I can see him lurching up from his bed. “What’s up?” he asks, his voice much sharper.

“Sorry to call so early, but I just wanted to mention a couple of things.”

“Like what?”

“Like the Blacks filed suit yesterday against Great Benefit. I’ll send you a copy as soon as you boys get yourselves a new office. They’ve also signed a release, so you’ve been terminated. No need to worry about them again.”

“How’d you file suit?”

“That’s really none of your business.”

“The hell it’s not.”

“I’ll send a copy of the lawsuit, you’ll figure it out. You’re a bright guy. Do you have a new address yet, or does the old one still work?”

“Our box at the post office was not damaged.”

“Righto. Anyway, I’d appreciate it if you’d leave me out of this arson business. I had nothing to do with the fire, and if you insist on implicating me, then I’ll be forced to sue your thieving ass.”

“I’m petrified.”

“I can tell. Just stop throwing my name around.” I hang up before he can respond. I watch the phone for five minutes, but he doesn’t call. What a coward.

I’m very anxious to see how the fire plays in the morning paper, so I shower, dress and leave quickly under the cover of darkness. There’s little traffic as I head south toward the airport, toward Greenway Plaza, a place that’s beginning to feel like home. I park in the same spot I left seven hours ago. Club Amber is dark and quiet, the lot littered with trash and beer cans.

The slender bay next to the bay which I think houses my office is rented by a stocky German woman named Trudy who runs a cheap coffee shop. I met her last night when I walked over for a sandwich. She told me she opened at six for coffee and doughnuts.

She’s pouring coffee as I enter. We chat for a moment as she toasts my bagel and pours my coffee. There are already a dozen men cramped around the small tables, and Trudy has things on her mind. For starters, the doughnut man is late.

I get a paper and sit at a table by the window as the sun is rising. On the front page of the Metro section is a large photo of Mr. Lake’s warehouse in full blaze. A brief arti-

cle gives a history of the building, says that it was completely destroyed, and that Mr. Lake himself estimates the loss at three million dollars. “The renovation has been a five-year love affair,” he is quoted as saying. “I’m devastated.”

Weep some more, old boy. I scan it quickly and do not see the word “arson” used. Then I read it carefully. The police are tight-lipped-the matter still under investigation, too early to speculate, no comment. The usual cop-speak.

I didn’t expect to see my name kicked about as a possible suspect, but I’m relieved nonetheless.

I’M IN MY OFFICE, trying to seem busy and wondering how in the world I’m supposed to generate a thousand dollars in fees over the next thirty days, when Bruiser barges in. He slides a piece of paper across my desk. I grab it.

“It’s a copy of a police report,” he growls, already heading for the door.

“About me?” I ask, horrified.

“Hell no! It’s an accident report. Car wreck last night at the corner of Airways and Shelby, just a few blocks from here. Maybe a drunk driver involved. Looks like he ran a red light.” He pauses and glares at me.

“Do we represent one of the-“

“Not yet! That’s what you’re for. Go get the case. Check it out. Sign it up. Investigate it. Looks like there might be some good injuries.”

I’m thoroughly confused, and he leaves me that way. The door slams and I can hear him growling his way down the hall.

The accident report is filled with information: names of drivers and passengers, addresses, telephone numbers, injuries, damage to vehicles, eyewitness accounts. There’s a

diagram of how the cop thinks it happened, and another one showing how he found the vehicles. Both drivers were injured and taken to the hospital, and the on.e who ran the red light apparently had been drinking.

Interesting reading, but what do I do now? The wreck happened at ten minutes after ten last night, and Bruiser somehow got his grubby hands on it first thing this morning. I read it again, then stare at it for a long time.

A knock on the door jolts me from my confused state. “Come in,” I say.

It cracks slowly and a slight little man sticks his head through. “Rudy?” he says, his voice high and nervous.

“Yes, come in.”

He slides through the narrow gap and sort of sneaks to the chair across my desk. “I’m Deck Shifflet,” he says, sitting without offering a handshake or a smile. “Bruiser said you had a case you wanted to talk about.” He glances over his shoulder, as if someone may have entered the room behind him and is now listening.

“Nice to meet you,” I say. It’s hard to tell if Deck is forty or fifty. Most of his hair is gone, and the few remaining streaks are heavily oiled and slicked across his wide scalp. The patches around his ears are thin and mostly gray. He wears square, wire-rimmed glasses that are quite thick and dirty. It’s also difficult to tell if his head is extra large or his body is undersized, but the two don’t fit. His forehead is divided into two round halves that meet pretty much in the center, where a deep crease joins” them then plummets to his nose.

Poor Deck is one of the most unattractive men I’ve ever seen. His face bears the ravages of teenage acne. His chin is virtually nonexistent. When he talks his nose wrinkles and his upper lip rises to reveal four large upper teeth, all the same size.

The collar of his double-pocketed and stained white

shirt is frayed. The knot on his plain red knit tie is as big as my fist.

“Yes,” I say, trying not to look at the two huge eyes studying me from behind those glasses. “It’s an insurance case. Are you one of the associates here?”

The nose and lip crunch together. The teeth shine at me. “Sort of. Not really. You see, I’m not a lawyer, yet. Been to law school and all, but I haven’t passed the bar.”

Ah, a kindred spirit. “Oh, really,” I say. “When did you finish law school?”

“Five years ago. You see, I’m having a little trouble with the bar exam. I’ve sat for it six times.”

This is not something I want to hear. “Wow,” I mumble. I honestly didn’t know a person could take the bar that many times. “Sorry to hear it.”

“When do you take it?” he asks, glancing nervously around the room. He’s sitting on the edge of his chair as if he might need to bolt at any moment. The thumb and index finger of his right hand pull at the skin on the back of his left hand.

“July. Pretty rough, huh?”

“Yeah, pretty rough. I’d say. I haven’t taken it in a year. Don’t know if I’ll ever try again.”

“Where’d you go to law school?” I ask him this because he makes me very nervous. I’m not sure I want to talk about the Black case. How does he figure in? What’s his cut going to be?

“In California,” he says with the most violent facial twitch I’ve ever seen. Eyes open and close. Eyebrows dance. Lips flutter. “Night school. I was married at the time, working fifty hours a week. Didn’t have much time to study. Took five years to finish. Wife left me. Moved out here.” His words trail off as his sentences get shorter, and for a few seconds he leaves me hanging.

“Yeah, well, how long have you worked for Bruiser?”

“Almost three years. He treats me like the rest of the associates, I find the cases, work them up, give him his cut. Everybody’s happy. He usually asks me to review insurance cases when they come in. I worked for Pacific Mutual for eighteen years. Got sick of it. Went to law school.” The words fade again.

I watch and wait. “What happens if you have to go to court?”

He grins sheepishly like he’s such a joker. “Well, I’ve gone a few times myself, actually. Haven’t got caught yet. So many lawyers here, you know, it’s impossible to keep up with us. If we have a trial, I’ll get Bruiser to go. Maybe one of the other associates.”

“Bruiser said there were five lawyers in the firm.”

“Yeah. Me, Bruiser, Nicklass, Toxer and Ridge. I wouldn’t call it a firm, though. It’s every man for himself. You’ll learn. You find your own cases and clients, and you keep a third of the gross.”

I’m taken with his frankness, so I press. “Is it a good deal for the associates?”

“Depends on what you want,” he says, jerking around as if Bruiser might be listening. “There’s a lot of competi-” tion out there. Suits me fine because I can make forty thousand a year practicing law without a license. Don’t tell anyone, though.”

I wouldn’t dream of it.

“How do you fit in with me and my insurance case?” I ask.

“Oh that. Bruiser’11 pay me if there’s a settlement. I help him with his files, but I’m the only one he’ll trust. No one else here is allowed to touch his files. He’s fired lawyers before who tried to butt in. Me, I’m harmless. I have to stay here, at least until I pass the bar exam.”

“What are the other lawyers like?”

“Okay. They come and go. He doesn’t hire the top

graduates, you know. He gets young guys off the streets. They work for a year or two, develop some clients and contacts, then they open their own shop. Lawyers are always moving.”

Tell me about it.

“Can I ask you something?” I say against my better judgment.

“Sure.”

,1 liand the accident report to him, and he skims it quickly. “Bruiser gave it to you, right?”

“Yeah, just a few minutes ago. What does he expect me to do?”

“Get the case. Find the guy who got run over, sign him up with the law firm of J. Lyman Stone, then put the case together.”

“How do I find him?”

“Well, looks like he’s in the hospital. That’s usually the best place to find them.”

“You go to the hospitals?”

“Sure. I go all the time. You see, Bruiser has some contacts at Main Precinct. Some very good contacts, guys he grew up with. They feed him these accident reports almost every morning. He’ll dole them out around the office, and he expects us to go get the cases. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist.”

“Which hospital?”

His saucerlike eyes roll and he shakes his head in disgust. “What’d they teach you in law school?”

“Not much, but they certainly didn’t teach us how to chase ambulances.”

“Then you’d better learn quick. If not, you’ll starve. Look, you see this home phone number here for the injured driver. You simply call the number, tell whoever answers that you’re with Memphis Fire Department Rescue Division, or something like that, and you need to

speak to the injured driver, whatever his name is. He can’t come to the phone because he’s in the hospital, right? Which hospital? You need it for your computer. They’ll tell you. Works every time. Use your imagination. People are gullible.”

I feel sick. “Then what?”

“Then you go to the hospital and talk to such and such. Hey, look, you’re just a rookie, okay. I’m sorry. Tell you what I’ll do. Let’s grab a sandwich, eat in the car and we’ll go to the hospital and sign this boy up.”

I really don’t want to. I’d really like to walk out of this place and never return. But at the moment I have nothing else to do. “Okay,” I say with great hesitation.

He jumps to his feet. “Meet me up front. I’ll call and find out which hospital.”

THE HOSPITAL is St. Peter’s Charity Hospital, a zoo of a place where most trauma patients are taken. It’s owned by the city and provides, among many other things, indigent care for countless patients.

Deck knows it well. We zip across town in his ragged minivan, the only asset he was awarded from the divorce, a divorce caused by years of alcohol abuse. He’s clean now, a proud member of Alcoholics Anonymous, and he’s stopped smoking too. He does like to gamble, though, he admits gravely, and the new casinos sprouting up just across the state line in Mississippi have him worried.

The ex-wife and two kids are still in California.

I get all these details in less than ten minutes as I chew on a hot dog. Deck drives with one hand, eats with the other, and twitches, jerks, grimaces and talks across half of Memphis with a glob of chicken salad stuck to the corner of his mouth. I cannot bear to look.

We actually park in the lot reserved for doctors because Deck has a parking card that identifies him as a physician.

The guard seems to be familiar with him, and waves us through.

Deck leads me straight to the information desk in the main lobby, a lobby packed with people. Within seconds he has the room number of Dan Van Landel, our prospect. Deck is pigeon-toed and has a slight limp, but I have trouble keeping up with him as he hikes to the elevators. “Don’t act like a lawyer,” he whispers under his breath as we wait in a crowd of nurses.

How could anyone suspect Deck of being a lawyer? We ride in silence to the eighth floor, and exit with a flood of people. Deck, sadly, has done this many times.

Despite the odd shape of his large head, and his gimpy gait and all his other striking features, no one notices us. We shuffle along a crowded corridor until it intersects with another at a busy nurses’ station. Deck knows exactly how to find Room 886. We veer to the left, walk past nurses and technicians and a doctor studying a chart. Gurneys without sheets line one wall. The tiled floor is worn and needs scrubbing. Four doors down on the left, and we enter, without knocking, a semiprivate room. It’s semidark. The first bed is occupied by a man with the sheets pulled tightly to his chin. He’s watching a soap opera on a tiny TV that swings over his bed.

He glances at us with horror, as if we’ve come to take a kidney, and I hate myself for being here. We have no business violating the privacy of these people in such a ruthless manner.

Deck, on the other hand, does not miss a step. It’s hard to believe that this brazen impostor is the same little weasel who slinked into my office less than an hour ago. Then he was afraid of his shadow. Now he seems utterly fearless.

We take a few steps and walk to the gap in a foldaway partition. Deck hesitates slightly to see if anyone is with

Dan Van Landel. He is alone, and Deck pushes forward. “Good afternoon, Mr. Van Landel,” he says sincerely.

Van Landel is in his late twenties, though his age is difficult to estimate because there are bandages on his face. One eye is swollen almost completely shut, the other has a laceration under it. An arm is broken, a leg is in traction.

He is awake, so mercifully we don’t have to touch him or yell at him. I stand at the foot of the bed, near the entrance, hoping mightily that no nurse or doctor or family member shows up and catches us doing this.

Deck leans closer. “Can you hear me, Mr. Van Landel?” he asks with the compassion of a priest.

Van Landel is pretty well strapped to the bed, so he can’t move. I’m sure he would like to sit up or make some adjustment, but we’ve got him pinned down. I cannot imagine the shock he must be in. One moment he’s lying here gazing at the ceiling, probably still groggy and in pain, then in a split-second he’s looking into one of the oddest faces he’s ever seen.

He blinks his eyes rapidly, trying to focus. “Who are you?” he grunts through clenched teeth. Clenched because they’re wired.

This is not fair.

Deck smiles at these words and delivers the four shining teeth. “Deck Shifflet, law firm of Lyman Stone.” He says this with remarkable assurance, as if he’s supposed to be here. “You haven’t talked to any insurance company, have you?”

Just like that, Deck establishes the bad guys. It’s certainly not us. It’s the insurance boys. He takes a giant stride in gaining confidence. Us versus them.

“No,” Van Landel grunts.

“Good. Don’t talk to them. They’re just out to screw you,” Deck says, inching closer, already dispensing advice.

“We’ve looked over the accident report. Clear case of running a red light. We’re gonna go out in about an hour,” he says, looking importantly at his watch, “and photograph the site, talk to witnesses, you know, the works. We have to do it quick before the insurance company investigators get to the witnesses. They’ve been known to bribe them for false testimony, you know, crap like that. We need to move fast, but we need your authorization. Do you have a lawyer?”

I hold my breath. If Van Landel says that his brother is a lawyer, then I’m out the door.

“No,” he says.

Deck moves in for the kill. “Well, like I said, we need to move fast. My firm handles more car wrecks than anybody in Memphis, and we get huge settlements. Insurance companies are afraid of us. And we don’t charge a dime. We take the usual one third of any recovery.” As he’s delivering the closer, he’s slowly pulling a contract from the center of a legal pad. It’s a quickie contract-one page, three paragraphs, just enough to hook him. Deck waves it in his face in such a way that Van Landel has to take it. He holds it with his good arm, tries to read it.

Bless his heart. He’s just gone through the worst night of his life, lucky to be alive, and now, bleary-eyed and punch-drunk, he’s supposed to peruse a legal document and make an intelligent decision.

“Can you wait for my wife?” he asks, almost pleading.

Are we about to get caught? I clutch the bed railing, and in doing so inadvertently hit a cable which jerks a pulley that yanks his leg up another inch. “Ahhh!” he groans.

“Sorry,” I say quickly, jerking my hands away. Deck looks at me if he could slaughter me, then regains control. “Where is your wife?” he asks.

“Ahhh!” the poor guy groans again.

“Sorry,” I repeat because I can’t help it. My nerves are shot.

Van Landel watches me fearfully. I keep both hands deep in my pockets.

“She’ll be back in a little while,” he says, pain evident with every syllable.

Deck has an answer for everything. “I’ll talk to her later, in my office. I need to get a ton of information from her.” Deck deftly slides his legal pad under the contract so the signing will be smoother, and he uncaps a pen.

Van Landel mumbles something, then takes the pen and scribbles his name. Deck slides the contract into the legal pad, and hands a business card to the new client. It identifies him as a paralegal for the firm of J. Lyman Stone.

“Now, a couple of things,” Deck says. His tone is so authoritative. “Don’t talk to anyone except your doctor. There will be insurance people bugging you, in fact, they’ll probably be here today trying to get you to sign forms and things. They might even offer you a settlement. Do not, under any circumstances, say a word to these people. Do not, under any circumstances, sign anything until I first review it. You have my number. Call me twenty-four hours a day. On the back is the number for Rudy Baylor here, and you can call him anytime. We’ll handle the case together. Any questions?”

“Good,” Deck says before he can grunt or groan. “Rudy here will be back in the morning with some paperwork. Have your wife call us this afternoon. It’s very important that we talk to her.” He pats Van Landel on his good leg. It’s time for us to go, before he changes his mind. “We’re gonna get you a bunch of money,” Deck assures him.

We say our good-byes as we backtrack and make a quick exit. Once in the hallway, Deck proudly says, “And that’s how it’s done, Rudy. Piece of cake.”

We dodge a woman in a wheelchair and we stop for a patient being taken away on a gurney. The hall is crawling with people. “What if the guy had a lawyer?” I ask, beginning to breathe normally again.

“There’s nothing to lose, Rudy. That’s what you must remember. We came here with nothing. If he ran us out of his room, for whatever reason, what have we lost?”

A little dignity, some self-respect. His reasoning is completely logical. I say nothing. My stride is long and quick, and I try not to watch him jerk and shuffle. “You see, Rudy, in law school they don’t teach you what you need to know. It’s all books and theories and these lofty notions of the practice of law as a profession, like between gentleman, you know. It’s an honorable calling, governed by pages of written ethics.”

“What’s wrong with ethics?”

“Oh, nothing, I guess. I mean, I believe a lawyer should fight for his client, refrain from stealing money, try not to lie, you know, the basics.”

Deck on Ethics. We spent hours probing ethical and moral dilemmas, and, wham, just like that, Deck has reduced the Canons of Ethics to the Big Three: Fight for your client, don’t steal, try not to lie.

We take a sudden left and enter a newer hallway. St. Peter’s is a maze of additions and annexes. Deck is in a lecturing mood. “But what they don’t teach you in law school can get you hurt. Take that guy back there, Van Landel. I get the feeling you were nervous about being in his room.”

“I was. Yes.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“But it’s unethical to solicit cases. It’s blatant ambulance chasing.”

“Right. But who cares? Better us than the next guy. I promise you that within the next twenty-four hours an-

other lawyer will contact Van Landel and try to sign him up. It’s simply the way it’s done, Rudy. It’s competition, the marketplace. There are lots of lawyers out there.”

As if I don’t know this. “Will the guy stick?” I ask.

“Probably. We’ve been lucky so far. We hit him at the right time. It’s usually fifty-fifty going in, but once they sign on the dotted line, then it’s eighty-twenty they’ll stick with us. You need to call him in a couple of hours, talk to his wife, offer to come back here tonight and discuss the case with them.”

“Me?”

“Sure. It’s easy. I’ve got some files you can go through. Doesn’t take a brain surgeon.”

“But I’m not sure-“

“Look, Rudy, take it easy. Don’t be afraid of this place. He’s our client now, okay. You have the right to visit him, and there’s nothing anybody can do. They can’t throw you out. Relax.”

WE DRINK COFFEE from plastic cups in a grill on the third floor. Deck prefers this small cafeteria because it’s near the orthopedic wing, and because it’s the result of a recent renovation and few lawyers know about it. The lawyers, he explains in a hushed tone as he examines each patient, are known to hang out in hospital cafeterias, where they prey on injured folks. He says this with a certain scorn for such behavior. Irony is lost on Deck.

Part of my job as a young associate for the law firm of J. Lyman Stone will be to hang out here and graze these pastures. There is also a large cafeteria on the main floor of Cumberland Hospital, two blocks away. And the VA Hospital has three cafeterias. Deck, of course, knows where they are, and he shares this knowledge.

He advises me to start off with St. Peter’s because it has the largest trauma unit. He draws a map on a napkin

showing me the locations of other potential hot spots- the main cafeteria, a grill near maternity on the second floor, a coffee shop near the front lobby. Nighttime is good, he says, still studying the prey, because the patients often get bored in their rooms and, assuming they’re able, like to wheel down for a snack. Not too many years ago, one of Bruiser’s lawyers was trolling in the main cafeteria at one in the morning when he hooked a kid who’d been burned. The case settled a year later for two million. Problem was, the kid had fired Bruiser and hired another lawyer.

“It got away,” Deck says like a defeated fisherman.