another vodka, then cursed and drank and cursed and drank until he passed out with his head on his desk.
Seven doors down, Babe took a phone call and got the news. Her coffee shop was soon packed with the Main Street crowd looking for answers and gossip and support. For many, the news was incomprehensible. There would be no cleanup, no recovery, no compensation, no apologies. Krane Chemical was walking free and thumbing its nose at the town and its victims.
Denny Ott received a call from Mary Grace. She gave a quick summary and stressed that the litigation was over. They had no viable options. The only avenue left was an appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court, and they would, of course, file the obligatory paperwork. But there was no chance that the Court would agree to consider such a case. She and Wes would be down in a few days to meet with their clients.
Denny and his wife opened the fellowship hall, pulled out some cookies and bottled water, and waited for their people to arrive for consoling.
Late in the afternoon, Mary Grace walked into Wes's office and closed the door. She had two sheets of paper, and she handed one to him. It was a letter to their Bowmore clients. 'Take a look,' she said, and sat down to read it herself. It read:
Dear Client:
Today the Supreme Court of Mississippi ruled in favor of Krone Chemical. Jeannette Baker's appeal was reversed and rendered, which means that it cannot be retried or re-filed. We intend to ask the court for a rehearing, which is customary, but also a waste of time. We will also appeal her case to the U.S. Supreme Court, but this, too, is a mere formality. That Court rarely considers state court cases such as this.
Today's ruling, and we will send you a full copy next week, makes it impossible to proceed with your case against Krone. The court applied a standard of proof that makes it impossible to pin liability on the company. And it's painfully obvious what would happen to another verdict when presented to the same court.
Words cannot express our disappointment and frustration. We have fought this battle for five years against enormous odds, and we have lost in many ways.
But our losses are nothing compared to yours. We will continue to think of you, pray for you, and talk to you whenever you need us. We have been honored by your trust.
God bless you.
'Very nice,' Wes said. 'Let's get 'em in the mail.'
Krane Chemical roared to life in the afternoon's trading. It gained $4.75 a share and closed at $38.50. Mr. Trudeau had now regained the billion he lost, and more was on the way.
He gathered Bobby Ratzlaff, Felix Bard, and two other confidants in his office for a little party. They sipped Cristal champagne, smoked Cuban cigars, and congratulated themselves on their stunning turnaround. They now considered Carl a true genius, a visionary. Even in the darkest days, he never wavered. His mantra had been 'Buy the stock. Buy the stock.'
He reminded Bobby of his promise on the day of the verdict. Not one dime of his hard-earned profits would ever be handed over to those ignorant people and their slimy lawyers.
Chapter 39
The guests ranged from hard-core Wall Street types like Carl himself all the way down to Brianna's hair colorist and two semi-employed Broadway actors. There were bankers with their aging though nicely sculpted wives, and moguls with their superbly starved trophies.
There were Trudeau Group executives who would rather have been anywhere else, and struggling painters from the MuAb crowd who were thrilled at the rare chance to mingle with the jet set. There were a few models, number 388 on the Forbes 400 list, a running back who played for the Jets, a reporter from the Times along with a photographer to record it all, and a reporter from the Journal who would report none of it but didn't want to miss the party. About a hundred guests, all in all a very rich crowd, but no one at the party had ever seen a yacht like the Brianna.
It was docked on the Hudson at the Chelsea Piers, and the only vessel larger at that moment was a mothballed aircraft carrier a quarter of a mile to the north. In the rarefied world of obscenely expensive boating, the Brianna was classified as a mega-yacht, which was larger than a super-yacht but not in the same league as a giga-yacht. The latter, so far, had been the exclusive domain of a handful of software zillionaires, Saudi princes, and Russian oil thugs.
The invitation read: 'Please join Mr. and Mrs. Carl Trudeau on the maiden voyage of their mega-yacht, Brianna, on Wednesday, May 26, at 6 p.m., at Pier 60.'
It was 192 feet long, which ranked it number twenty-one on the list of the largest yachts registered in America. Carl paid $60 million for it two weeks after Ron Fisk was elected, then spent another $15 million on renovations, upgrades, and toys.
Now it was time to show it off, and to display one of the more dramatic comebacks in recent corporate history. The crew of eighteen gave tours as the guests arrived and took their glasses of champagne. With four decks above water, the ship could comfortably accommodate thirty pampered friends for a month at sea, not that Carl ever intended to have that many people living so close to him. Those lucky enough to be chosen for an extended cruise would have access to a gym with a trainer, a spa with a masseuse, six Jacuzzis, and a chef on call around the clock. They would dine at one of four tables scattered throughout the boat, the smallest with ten seats and the largest with forty. When they felt like playing, there was scuba gear, clear-bottom kayaks, a thirty-foot catamaran, Jet Skis, and fishing gear, and, of course, no mega-yacht is complete without a helicopter. Other luxuries included a movie theater, four fireplaces, a sky lounge, heated tile floors in the bathrooms, a private pool for nude sunbathing, and miles of mahogany and brass and Italian marble.
The Trudeaus' stateroom was larger than their bedroom back on land. And, in the formal dining room on the third level, Carl had finally found the permanent place for Abused Imelda. Never again would she greet him in the foyer of his penthouse after a hard day at the office.
As a string quartet played on the main deck, the Brianna shoved off and turned south on the Hudson. It was dusk, a beautiful sunset, and the view of lower Manhattan from the river was breathtaking. The city shook with its frenetic energy, which was fascinating to watch from the deck of such a fine boat. The champagne and caviar also helped the view. Those on ferries and smaller vessels couldn't help but gawk as Brianna moved by, her twin 2,000-horsepower Caterpillar diesels churning a quiet wake.
A small army of black-tied waiters moved deftly about the decks, hauling drinks on silver trays and finger food too pretty to eat. Carl ignored most of his guests and spent his time with those he controlled, one way or another. Brianna was the perfect hostess, gliding from group to group, kissing all the men and all the women, making sure everyone got the chance to see her.
The captain circled wide so the guests could have a nice view of Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty, then turned north in the direction of the Battery, at the southern tip of Manhattan. It was dark now, and the rows of skyscrapers lit up the financial district. Under the Brooklyn Bridge, under the Manhattan Bridge, under the Williamsburg Bridge, the Brianna sailed up the East River in all its majesty. The string quartet retired, and the best of Billy Joel boomed through the ship's elaborate sound system. Dancing erupted on the second-level deck. Someone got shoved into a pool. Others followed, and clothing soon became optional. It was the younger crowd.
As per Carl's instructions, the captain turned around at the United Nations building and increased speed, though it was not noticed. Carl, at that moment, was giving an interview in his sweeping office on the third deck.
At precisely 10:30, on schedule, the Brianna docked at Pier 60, and the guests began their slow departures. Mr. and Mrs. Trudeau saw them off, hugging, kissing, waving, wishing they would all hurry along now. A midnight dinner was waiting. Fourteen remained behind, seven lucky couples who would cruise south to Palm Beach for a few days. They changed into more casual clothing and met in the formal dining room for yet another drink while the chef finalized the first course.
Carl whispered to the first mate that it was now time to leave, and fifteen minutes later the Brianna pushed off again from Pier 60. While the guests were being charmed by his wife, he excused himself for a few minutes. He
