HE DOCUMENTS COVER FOUR RENTED folding tables wedged side by side in the front room of our offices. They’re separated in neat stacks, in chronological order, all marked, numbered, indexed and even computerized.

And memorized. I’ve studied these pieces of paper so often that I now know everything on every sheet. The documents given to me by Dot total 221 pages. The policy, for instance, will be considered as only one document at trial, but it has 30 pages. The docximents produced so far by Great Benefit total 748 pages, some of them duplicates of the Blacks’.

Deck too has spent countless hours with the paperwork. He’s written a detailed analysis of the claim file. Most of the computer work fell on him. He’ll assist me during the depositions. It’s his job to keep the documents straight and quickly find the ones we need.

He’s not exactly thrilled with this type of work, but he’s anxious to keep me happy. He’s convinced we’ve caught Great Benefit holding the smoking gun, but he’s also con-

vinced the case is not worth the effort I’m putting into it. Deck, I’m afraid, has grave concerns about my trial abilities. He knows that any twelve we pick for the jury will view fifty thousand bucks as a fortune.

I sip a beer in the office late Sunday night, and walk through the tables again and again. Something is missing here. Deck is certain that Jackie Lemancyzk, the claims handler, would not have had the authority to deny the claim outright. She did her job, then shipped the file to underwriting. There’s some interplay between claims and underwriting, interoffice memos back and forth, and this is where the paper trail breaks down.

There was a scheme to deny Donny Ray’s claim, and probably thousands of others like it. We have to unravel it.

AFTER MUCH DELIBERATION and discussion with the members of my firm, I have decided to depose M. Wilfred Keeley, CEO, first. I figure I’ll start with the biggest ego and work my way down. He’s fifty-six years old, a real hale-and-hearty type with a warm smile, even for me. He actually thanks me for allowing him to go first. He desperately needs to get back to the home office.

I poke around the fringes for the first hour. I’m on my side of the table in a pair of jeans, a flannel shirt, loafers and white socks. Thought it’d be a nice contrast to the severe shades of black so pervasive on the other side. Deck said I was being disrespectful.

Two hours into the depo, Keeley hands me a financial statement, and we talk about money for a while. Deck scours the financials and slides me one question after another. Drummond and three of his boys pass a few notes but seem completely bored. Kipler is next door presiding over a Motion Day.

Keeley knows of several other lawsuits against Great Benefit now pending across die country. We talk about

these for a while; names, courts, other lawyers, similar facts. He’s not been forced to give a deposition in any of them. I can’t wait to talk to the other lawyers who’ve sued Great Benefit. We can’compare documents and trial strategies.

The glamorous part of running an insurance company is definitely not the mundane business of selling policies and handling claims. It’s taking the premiums and investing. Keeley knows much more about the investment side, says he got his start there and worked his way up. He knows little about claims.

Since I’m not paying for these depositions, I’m in no hurry. I ask a thousand useless questions, just digging and shooting in the dark. Drummond looks bored and at times frustrated, but he wrote the book on how to conduct all-day depos, and his meter is ticking too. He’d like to object occasionally, but he knows I’ll simply run next door and tattle to Judge Kipler, who’ll rule in rny favor and admonish him.

The afternoon brings another thousand questions, and when we adjourn at five-thirty I’m physically exhausted. Keeley’s smile disappeared just after lunch, but he was . determined to answer for as long as I could ask. He again thanks me for allowing him to finish first, and thanks me for releasing him from further questions. He’s headed back to Cleveland.

THINGS PICK UP A BIT on Tuesday, partly because I’m getting tired of wasting time, partly because the witnesses either know little or can’t remember much. I start with Everett Lufkin, Vice President of Claims, a man who’ll not utter a single syllable unless it’s in response to a direct question. I make him look at some documents, and halfway through the morning he finally admits it’s company policy to do what is known as “post-claim underwriting,”

an odious but not illegal practice. When a claim is filed by an insured, the initial handler orders all medical records for the preceding five years. In our case, Great Benefit obtained records from the Black family physician who had treated Donny Ray for a nasty flu five years earlier. Dot did not list the flu on the application. The flu had nothing to do with the leukemia, but Great Benefit based one of its early denials on the fact that the flu was a preexisting condition.

I’m tempted to hammer a nail through his heart at this point, and it would be easy. It’s also unwise. Lufkin will testify at trial, and it’s best to save the brutal cross-examination until then. Some lawyers like to try their cases in deposition, but with my vast experience I know to save the good stuff for the jury. Actually, I read it in a book somewhere. Plus, it’s the strategy used by Jonathan Lake.

Kermit Aldy, Vice President of Underwriting, is as glum and noncommittal as Lufkin. Underwriting is the process of accepting and reviewing the application from the agent, and ultimately making the decision of whether or not to issue the policy. It’s a lot of paper shuffling with small rewards, and Aldy seems the perfect guy to oversee it. I finish him off in under two hours, and without inflicting any wounds.

Bradford Barnes is the Vice President of Administration, and it takes almost an hour to pin down exactly what he does. It’s early Wednesday. I’m sick of these people. I’m nauseated at the sight of the same boys from Trent & Brent sitting six feet away across the table wearing the same damned dark suits and the exact scowling smirks they’ve had for months now. I even despise the court reporter. Barnes knows nothing about anything. I jab, he ducks, not a glove is laid on him. He will not testify at trial because he’s clueless.

Wednesday afternoon I call the last witness, Richard

Pellrod, the senior claims examiner who wrote at least two letters of denial to the Blacks. He’s been sitting in the hallway since Monday morning, so he hates my guts. He barks at me a few times during the early questions, and this reinvigorates me. I show him his letters of denial, and things get testy. It’s his position, and the position still maintained by Great Benefit, that bone marrow transplants are simply too experimental to be taken seriously as a method of treatment. But he denied once on the grounds that Donny Ray had failed to disclose a preexisting condition. He blames this on someone else, just an oversight. He’s a lying bastard, and I decide to make him suffer. I slide a stack of documents in front of me, and we go through them one by one. I make him explain them, and take responsibility for each. He was, after all, in charge of supervising Jackie Lemancyzk, who, of course, is no longer with us. He says he thinks she moved back to her hometown somewhere in southern Indiana. Periodically, I ask pointed questions about her departure, and this really irritates Pellrod. More documents. More blame shifted to others. I’m relentless. I can ask anything anytime I want, and he never knows what’s coming. After four hours of a nonstop barrage, he asks for a break.

WE FINISH PELLROD at seven-thirty Wednesday night, and the corporate depos are over. Three days, seventeen hours, probably a thousand pages of testimony. The depos, like the documents, will have to be read a dozen times.

As his boys stuff their briefcases, Leo F. Drummond pulls me to one side. “Nice job, Rudy,” he says in a low voice, as if he’s really impressed with my performance but would rather keep his evaluation quiet.

“Thanks.”

He breathes deeply. We’re both exhausted, and tired of looking at each other.

“So who do we have left?” he asks.

“I’m through,” I say, and I really cannot think of anyone else I want to depose.

“What about Dr. Kord?”

“He’ll testify at trial.”

This is a surprise. He studies me carefully, no doubt wondering how I can afford to have the doc do it live for the jury.

“What’s he gonna say?”

“Ron Black was a perfect match for his twin. Bone marrow is routine treatment. The boy could’ve been saved. Your client killed him.”

He takes this well, and it’s obvious it’s not a surprise.

“We’ll probably depose him,” he says.

“Five hundred an hour.”

“Yeah, I know. Look, Rudy, could we have a drink? There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

“What?” I can’t think of anything worse at this moment than having a drink with Drummond.

“Business. Settlement possibilities. Could you run by my office, say, fifteen minutes from now? We’re just around the corner, you know.”

The word “settlement” has a nice ring to it. Plus, I’ve always wanted to see their offices. “It’ll have to be quick,” I say, as if there are beautiful and important women waiting for me.

“Sure. Let’s go now.”

I tell Deck to wait at the corner, and Drummond and I walk three blocks to the tallest building in Memphis. We chat about the weather as we ride to the fortieth floor. The suite is all brass and marble, filled with people as if it were the middle of the day. It’s a tastefully appointed

factory. I look for my old pal Loyd Beck, the thug from Broadnax and Speer, and hope I don’t see him.

Drummond’s office is smartly decorated but not exceptionally large. This building has the highest rent in town, and the space is used efficiently. “What would you like to drink?” he asks, tossing his briefcase and jacket on his desk.

I don’t care for hard liquor, and I’m so tired I’m afraid one drink might knock me out. “Just a Coke,” I say, and this disappoints him for a second. He mixes himself a drink at a small wet bar in the corner, scotch and water.

There’s a knock on the door, and, much to my surprise, Mr. M. Wilfred Keeley steps in. We haven’t seen each other since I grilled him for eight hours on Monday. He acts like he’s delighted to see me again. We shake hands, say hello like old buddies. He goes to the bar and mixes himself a drink.

They sip their whiskey as we sit around a small, round table in a corner. For Keeley to return here so soon means only one thing. They want to settle this case. I’m all ears.

I cleared six hundred dollars last month from my struggling practice, Drummond makes at least a million a year. Keeley runs a company with a billion in sales, and probably gets paid more than his lawyer. And they want to talk business with me.

“Judge Kipler concerns me a great deal,” Drummond says abruptly.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Keeley is quick to add.

Drummond is famous for his immaculate preparation, and I’m sure this little duet has been well rehearsed.

“To be honest, Rudy, I’m afraid of what he might do at trial,” Drummond says.

“We’re being railroaded,” Keeley says, shaking his head in disbelief.

Kipler is a legitimate cause for their concern, but they’re swearing blood because they’ve been caught red-handed. They’ve killed a young man, and their murderous deed is about to be exposed. I decide to be nice, let them say what they want.

They sip in unison, then Drummond says, “We’d like to settle this thing, Rudy. We feel good about our defense, and I mean that sincerely. Given an even playing field, we’re ready to tee it up tomorrow. I haven’t lost in eleven years. I love a good courtroom brawl. But this judge is so biased it’s frightening.”

“How much?” I ask, cutting off the drivel.

They squirm in perfect hemorrhoidal harmony. A moment of pain, then Drummond says, “We’ll double it. A hundred and fifty thousand. You get fifty or so, your client gets a-“

“I can do the math,” I say. It’s none of his business how much my fee will be. He knows I’m broke, and fifty thousand will make me rich.

Fifty thousand dollars!

“What am I supposed to do with this offer?” I ask.

They exchange puzzled looks.

“My client is dead. His mother buried him last week, and now you expect me to tell her there’s some more money on the table.”

“Ethically, you’re obligated to tell her-“

“Don’t lecture me about ethics, Leo. I’ll tell her. I’ll convey the offer, and I’ll bet she says no.”

“We’re very sorry about his death,” Keeley says sadly.

“I can tell you’re really broken up, Mr. Keeley. I’ll pass along your condolences to the family.”

“Look, Rudy, we’re making a good-faith effort to settle here,” Drummond says.

“Your timing is terrible.”

There’s a pause as we all take a drink. Drummond starts smiling first. “What does the lady want? Tell us, Rudy, what will it take to make her happy?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“There’s nothing you can do. He’s dead, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“So why are we going to trial?”

“To expose what you’ve done.”

More squirming. More pained expressions. More whiskey being gulped.

“She wants to expose you, then she wants to break you,” I say.

“We’re too big,” Keeley says smugly.

“We’ll see.” I stand and pick up my briefcase. “I’ll find my way out,” I say, and leave them sitting there.