Ratzlaff went first. A truckload of post-trial motions would be filed, nothing would change, and the case would move on to the Mississippi Supreme Court. 'The court has a history of being plaintiff-friendly, but that's changing. We have reviewed the rulings in big tort cases over the past two years, and the court usually splits 5 to 4 in favor of the plaintiff, but not always.'
'How long before the final appeal is over?' Carl asked.
'Eighteen to twenty-four months.'
Ratzlaff moved on. A hundred and forty lawsuits were on file against Krane because of the Bowmore mess, about a third of them being death cases. According to an exhaustive and ongoing study by Ratzlaff, his staff, and their lawyers in New York, Atlanta, and Mississippi, there were probably another three hundred to four hundred cases with 'legitimate' potential, meaning that they involved either death, probable death, or moderate to severe illness. There could be thousands of cases in which the claimants suffered minor ailments such as skin rashes, lesions, and nagging coughs, but for the time being, these were classified as frivolous.
Because of the difficulty and cost of proving liability, and linking it with an illness, most of the cases on file had not been pushed aggressively. This, of course, was about to change. 'I'm sure the plaintiff's lawyers down there are quite hungover this morning,' Ratzlaff said, but Carl did not crack a smile. He never did. He was always reading, never looking at the person with the floor, and missed nothing.
'How many cases do the Paytons have?' he asked.
'Around thirty. We're not sure, because they have not actually filed suit in all of them. There's a lot of waiting here.'
'One article said that the Baker case almost bankrupted them.'
'True. They hocked everything.'
'Bank loans?'
'Yes, that's the rumor.'
'Do we know which banks?'
'I'm not sure if we know that.'
'Find out. I want the loan numbers, terms, everything.'
'Got it.'
There were no good options, Ratzlaff said, working from his outline. The dam has cracked, the flood is coming. The lawyers will attack with a vengeance, and defense costs would quadruple to $100 million a year, easily. The nearest case could be ready for trial in eight months, same courtroom, same judge. Another big verdict, and, well, who knows.
Carl glanced at his watch and mumbled something about making a call. He left the table again, paced around the office, then stopped at the windows looking south.
The Trump Building caught his attention. Its address was 40 Wall Street, very near the New York Stock Exchange, where before long the common shares of Krane Chemical would be the talk of the day as investors jumped ship and speculators gawked at the roadkill. How cruel, how ironic, that he, the great Carl Trudeau, a man who had so often watched happily from above as some unfortunate company flamed out, would now be fighting off the vultures. How many times had he engineered the collapse of a stock's price so he could swoop down and buy it for pennies? His legend had been built with such ruthless tactics.
How bad would it be? That was the great question, always followed soon by number two: How long would it last?
He waited.
Chapter 5
Tom Huff put on his darkest and finest suit, and after much debate decided to arrive at work at the Second State Bank a few minutes later than usual. An earlier entry would seem too predictable, perhaps a little too cocky. And, more important, he wanted everyone in place when he arrived-the old tellers on the main floor, the cute secretaries on the second, and the vice somethings, his rivals, on the third floor. Huffy wanted a triumphant arrival with as big an audience as possible. He'd gambled bravely with the Paytons, and the moment belonged to him.
What he got instead was an overall dismissal by the tellers, a collective cold shoulder from the secretaries, and enough devious grins from his rivals to make him suspicious.
On his desk he found a message marked 'Urgent' to see Mr. Kirkhead. Something was up, and Huffy began to feel considerably less cocky. So much for a dramatic entrance.
What was the problem?
Mr. Kirkhead was in his office, waiting, with the door open, always a bad sign. The boss hated open doors, and in fact boasted of a closed-door management style. He was caustic, rude, cynical, and afraid of his shadow, and closed doors served him well.
'Sit down,' he barked, with no thought of a 'Good morning' or a 'Hello' or, heaven forbid, a 'Congratulations.' He was camped behind his pretentious desk, fat hairless head bent low as if he sniffed the spreadsheets as he read them.
'And how are you, Mr. Kirkhead?' Huffy chirped. How badly he wanted to say 'Prickhead' because he said it every other time he referred to his boss. Even the old gals on the main floor sometimes used the substitution.
'Swell. Did you bring the Payton file?'
'No, sir. I wasn't asked to bring the Payton file. Something the matter?'
'Two things, actually, now that you mention it. First, we have this disastrous loan to these people, over $400,000, past due of course and horribly under-collateralized.
By far the worst loan in the bank's portfolio.'
He said 'these people' as if Wes and Mary Grace were credit card thieves.
'This is nothing new, sir.'
'Mind if I finish? And now we have this obscene jury award, which, as the banker holding the paper, I guess I'm supposed to feel good about, but as a commercial lender and business leader in this community, I think it really sucks. What kind of message do we send to prospective industrial clients with verdicts like this?'
'Don't dump toxic waste in our state?'
Prickhead's fat jowls turned red as he swept away Huffy's retort with the wave of a hand. He cleared his throat, almost gargling with his own saliva.
'This is bad for our business climate,' he said. 'Front page all over the world this morning. I'm getting phone calls from the home office. A very bad day.'
Lots of bad days over in Bowmore, too, Huffy thought. Especially with all those funerals.
'Forty-one million bucks,' Prickhead went on. 'For a poor woman who lives in a trailer.'
'Nothing wrong with trailers, Mr. Kirkhead. Lots of good folks live in them around here. We make the loans.'
'You miss the point. It's an obscene amount of money. The whole system has gone crazy.
And why here? Why is Mississippi known as a judicial hellhole? Why do trial lawyers love our little state? Just look at some of the surveys. It's bad for business, Huff, for our business.'
'Yes, sir, but you must feel better about the Payton loan this morning.'
'I want it repaid, and soon.'
'So do I.'
'Give me a schedule. Get with these people and put together a repayment plan, one that I will approve only when it looks sensible. And do it now.'
'Yes, sir, but it might take a few months for them to get back on their feet. They've practically shut down-'
'I don't care about them, Huff. I just want this damned thing off the books.'
'Yes, sir. Is that all?'
'Yes. And no more litigation loans, you understand?'
'Don't worry.'
