The Senator continued: 'If you're interested, I'll give him a call, open the door.'
'Well, yes, I'd certainly be interested.'
Fix this verdict. It was music.
'Good, I'll be in touch.'
'Thank you.'
And with that the conversation was over. So typical of The Senator. A favor here, the payback there. All contacts running to and fro, everybody's back getting properly scratched. The call was free, but one day The Senator would be paid.
Carl stirred his scotch with a finger and looked at the rest of his calls. Nothing but misery.
Fix this verdict, he kept repeating.
In the center of his immaculate desk was a memo marked 'CONFIDENTIAL.' Weren't all of his memos confidential? On the cover sheet someone had scrawled with a black marker the name 'PAYTON.' Carl picked it up, arranged both feet on his desk, and flipped through it. There were photos, the first from yesterday's trial when Mr. and Mrs. Payton were leaving the courthouse, walking hand in hand in glorious triumph. There was an earlier one of Mary Grace from a bar publication, with a quick bio. Born in Bowmore, college at Millsaps, law school at Ole Miss, two years in a federal clerkship, two in a public defender's office, past president of the county bar association, certified trial lawyer, school board, member of the state Democratic Party and a few tree-hugger groups.
From the same publication, a photo and bio of James Wesley Payton. Born in Monroe, Louisiana, lettered in football at Southern Miss, law school at Tulane, three years as an assistant prosecutor, member of all the available trial lawyer groups, Rotary Club, Civitan, and so on.
Two backwater ambulance chasers who had just orchestrated Carl's exit from the Forbes 400 list of the richest Americans.
Two children, an illegal nanny, public schools, Episcopal church, near foreclosures on both home and office, near repossessions of two automobiles, a law practice (no other partners, just support staff) that was now ten years old and was once fairly profitable (by small-town standards) but now sought refuge in an abandoned dime store where the rent was at least three months in arrears. And then the good part-heavy debts, at least $400,000 to Second State Bank on a line of credit that is basically unsecured.
No payments, not even on the interest, in five months. Second State Bank was a local outfit with ten offices in south Mississippi. Four hundred thousand dollars borrowed for the sole purpose of financing the lawsuit against Krane Chemical.
'Four hundred thousand dollars,' Carl mumbled. So far he'd paid almost $14 million to defend the damned thing.
Bank accounts are empty. Credit cards no longer in use. Other clients (non-Bowmore variety) rumored to be frustrated by lack of attention.
No other substantial verdicts to speak of. Nothing close to $ 1 million.
Summary: These people are heavily in debt and hanging on by their fingernails. A little push, and they're over the edge. Strategy: Drag out the appeals, delay, delay.
Crank up pressure from the bank. Possible buyout of Second State, then call the loan.
Bankruptcy would be the only course. Huge distraction as appeals rage on. Also, Paytons would be unable to pursue their other thirty (or so) cases versus Krane and would probably decline more clients.
Bottom line: this little law firm can be destroyed.
The memo was unsigned, which was no surprise, but Carl knew it was written by one of two hatchet men working in Ratzlaff's office. He'd find out which one and give the boy a raise. Good work.
The great Carl Trudeau had dismantled large conglomerates, taken over hostile boards of directors, fired celebrity CEOs, upset entire industries, fleeced bankers, manipulated stock prices, and destroyed the careers of dozens of his enemies.
He could certainly ruin a garden-variety mom-and-pop law firm in Hattiesburg, Mississippi.
Toliver delivered him home shortly after 9:00 p.m., a time selected by Carl because Sadler would be in bed and he would not be forced to dote on a child he had no interest in. The other child could not be avoided. Brianna was waiting, dutifully, for him.
They would dine by the fire.
When he walked through the door, he came face-to-face with Imelda, already permanently ensconced in the foyer and looking more abused than the night before. He couldn't help but gawk at the sculpture. Did the pile of brass rods really resemble a young girl? Where was the torso? Where were the limbs? Where was her head?
Had he really paid that much money for such an abstract mess?
And how long might she haunt him in his own penthouse?
As his valet took his coat and briefcase, Carl stared sadly at his masterpiece, then heard the dreaded words 'Hello, darling.' Brianna swept into the room, a flowing red gown trailing after her. They pecked cheeks.
'Isn't it stunning?' she gushed, flopping an arm at Imelda.
'Stunning is the word,' he said.
He looked at Brianna, then he looked at Imelda, and he wanted to choke both of them.
But the moment passed. He could never admit defeat.
'Dinner is ready, darling,' she cooed.
'I'm not hungry. Let's have a drink.'
'But Claudelle has fixed your favorite-grilled sole.'
'No appetite, dear,' he said, yanking off his tie and tossing it to his valet.
'Today was awful, I know,' she said. 'A scotch?'
'Yes.'
'Will you tell me about it?' she asked.
'I'd love to.'
Brianna's private money manager, a woman unknown to Carl, had called throughout the day with updates on the collapse. Brianna knew the numbers, and she had heard the reports that her husband was down a billion or so.
She dismissed the kitchen staff, then changed into a much more revealing nightgown.
They met by the fire and chatted until he fell asleep.
Chapter 7
At 10:00 a.m. Friday, two days post-verdict, the Payton firm met in The Pit, a large open space with unpainted Sheetrock walls lined with homemade bookshelves and cluttered with a heavy collage of aerial photos, medical summaries, juror profiles, expert-witness reports, and a hundred other trial documents and exhibits. In the center of the room was a table of sorts-four large pieces of inch-thick plywood mounted on sawhorses and surrounded with a sad collection of metal and wooden chairs, almost all of which were missing a piece or two.
The table had obviously been the center of the storm for the past four months, with piles of papers and stacks of law books. Sherman, a paralegal, had spent most of the previous day hauling out coffee cups, pizza boxes, Chinese food containers, and empty water bottles.
He'd also swept the concrete floors, though no one could tell.
Their previous office, a three-story building on Main Street, had been beautifully decorated, well-appointed, and spruced up each night by a cleaning service. Appearance and neatness were important back then.
Now they were just trying to survive.
In spite of the dismal surroundings, the mood was light, and for obvious reasons.
The marathon was over. The incredible verdict was still hard to believe. United by sweat and hardship, the tight-knit little firm had taken on the beast and won a big one for the good guys.
Mary Grace called the meeting to order. The phones were put on hold because Tabby, the receptionist, was very much a part of the firm and was expected to participate in the discussion. Thankfully, the phones were beginning to ring again.
