The Brethren by John Grisham Page A

Spicer only tolerated his.
    “Got a call last night from the brother of Jeff Daggett,” Trevor said. “The kid from Coral Gables.”
    “I know him,” Spicer said, finally lowering his newspaper because money was on the horizon. “He got twelve years in a drug conspiracy.”
    “Yep. His brother says that there’s this ex-federal judge inside Trumble who’s looked over his papers and thinks he might be able to knock off a few years. This judge wants a fee, so Daggett calls his brother, who calls me.” Trevor removed his rumpled blue seersucker jacket and flung it on a chair. Spicer hated his bow tie.
    “How much can they pay?”
    “Have you guys quoted a fee?” Trevor asked.
    “Beech may have, I don’t know. We try to get fivethousand for a two-two-five-five reduction.” Spicer said this as if he had practiced criminal law in the federal courts for years. Truth was, the only time he’d actually seen a federal courtroom was the day he was sentenced.
    “I know,” Trevor said. “I’m not sure they can pay five thousand. The kid had a public defender for a lawyer.”
    “Then squeeze whatever you can, but get at least a thousand up front. He’s not a bad kid.”
    “You’re getting soft, Joe Roy.”
    “No. I’m getting meaner.”
    And in fact he was. Joe Roy was the managing partner of the Brethren. Yarber and Beech had the talent and the training, but they’d been too humiliated by their fall to have any ambition. Spicer, with no training and little talent, possessed enough manipulative skills to keep his colleagues on track. While they brooded, he dreamed of his comeback.
    Joe Roy opened a file and withdrew a check. “Here’s a thousand bucks to deposit. Came from a pen pal in Texas named Curtis.”
    “What’s his potential?”
    “Very good, I think. We’re ready to bust Quince in Iowa.” Joe Roy withdrew a pretty lavender envelope, tightly sealed and addressed to Quince Garbe in Bakers, Iowa.
    “How much?” Trevor asked, taking the envelope.
    “A hundred thousand.”
    “Wow.”
    “He’s got it, and he’ll pay it. I’ve given him the wiring instructions. Alert the bank.”
    In twenty-three years of practicing law, Trevor had never earned a fee anywhere close to $33,000. Suddenly, he could see it, touch it, and, though he tried not to, he began spending it—$33,000 for doing nothing but shuttling mail.
    “You really think this will work?” he asked, mentally paying off the tab at Pete’s Bar and telling MasterCard to take this check and shove it. He’d keep the same car, his beloved Beetle, but he might spring for an air conditioner.
    “Of course it will,” Spicer said, without a trace of doubt.
    He had two more letters, both written by Justice Yarber posing as young Percy in rehab. Trevor took them with anticipation.
    “Arkansas is at Kentucky tonight,” Spicer said, returning to his newspaper. “The line is fourteen. Whatta you think?”
    “Much closer than that. Kentucky is very tough at home.”
    “Are you in?”
    “Are you?”
    Trevor had a bookie at Pete’s Bar, and though he gambled little he had learned to follow the lead of Justice Spicer.
    “I’ll put a hundred on Arkansas,” Spicer said.
    “I think I will too.”
    They played blackjack for half an hour, with Link occasionally glancing in and frowning his disapproval. Cards were prohibited during visitation, but who cared? Joe Roy played the game hard because he was training for his next career. Poker and gin rummywere the favorites in the rec room, and Spicer often had trouble finding a blackjack opponent.
    Trevor wasn’t particularly good, but he was always willing to play. It was, in Spicer’s opinion, his only redeeming quality.

FIVE
    T he announcement had the festive air of a victory party, with red, white, and blue banners and bunting draped from the ceiling and parade music blasting through the hangar. Every D-L Trilling employee was required to be present, all four thousand of them, and to heighten