Three Classic Thrillers

by John Grisham

  A wide smile, and Carl said, “Gentlemen, this is not a very good day. One which I’m sure we’ll remember for a long time.” His voice was pleasant, just another friendly little drop-in from the man at the top.

  “But today is now over, thankfully, and we are still standing. Tomorrow, we start kicking ass.”

  A few nervous looks, maybe a smile or two. Most were expecting to be sacked on the spot.

  He continued: “I want you to remember three things that I’m about to say on this historic occasion. First, no one in this room is losing his job. Second, Krane Chemical will survive this miscarriage of justice. And third, I do not intend to lose this fight.”

  He was the epitome of the confident leader, the captain rallying his troops in their foxholes. A victory sign and long cigar and he could’ve been Churchill in his finest hour. He ordered chins up, backs to the wall, and so on.

  Even Bobby Ratzlaff began to feel better.

  __________

  Two hours later, Ratzlaff and Bard were finally dismissed and sent home. Carl wanted time to reflect, to lick his wounds, to clear his head. To help matters, he fixed himself a scotch and took off his shoes. The sun was setting somewhere beyond New Jersey, and he said good riddance to such an unforgettable day.

  He glanced at his computer and checked the day’s phone calls. Brianna had called four times, nothing urgent. If she had an important matter, Carl’s secretary logged it as “Your Wife” and not “Brianna.” He’d call her later. He was in no mood for the summary of her daily workouts.

  There were over forty calls, and number twenty-eight caught his attention. Senator Grott had checked in from Washington. Carl barely knew him personally, but every serious corporate player knew of The Senator. Grott had served three terms in the U.S. Senate from New York before he retired, voluntarily, and joined a powerful law firm to make his fortune. He was Mr. Washington, the ultimate insider, the seasoned counselor and adviser with offices on Wall Street, Pennsylvania Avenue, and anywhere else he chose. Senator Grott had more contacts than anyone, often golfed with whoever happened to occupy the White House, traveled the world in search of more contacts, offered advice only to the powerful, and was generally regarded as the top connection between big corporate America and big government. If The Senator called, you called him back, even though you’d just lost a billion dollars. The Senator knew exactly how much you had lost and was concerned about it.

  Carl dialed the private number. After eight rings a gruff voice said, “Grott.”

  “Senator Grott, Carl Trudeau here,” Carl said politely. He was deferential to very few people, but The Senator demanded and deserved respect.

  “Oh yes, Carl,” came the reply, as if they had played golf many times. Just a couple of old pals. Carl heard the voice and thought of the countless times he’d seen The Senator on the news. “How is Amos?” he asked.

  The contact, the name that linked both men to this call. “Great. Had lunch with him last month.” A lie. Amos was the managing partner of the corporate law firm Carl had been using for a decade. Not The Senator’s firm, not even close. But Amos was a substantial person, certainly big enough to be mentioned by The Senator.

  “Give him my regards.”

  “Certainly.” Now get on with it, Carl was thinking.

  “Listen, I know it’s been a long day, so I won’t keep you.” A pause. “There is a man in Boca Raton that you should see, name is Rinehart, Barry Rinehart. He’s a consultant of sorts, though you’ll never find him in the phone book. His firm specializes in elections.”

  A long pause, and Carl had to say something. So he said, “Okay. I’m listening.”

  “He is extremely competent, smart, discreet, successful, and expensive. And if anyone can fix this verdict, Mr. Rinehart is your man.”

  “Fix this verdict,” Carl repeated.

  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.

  C H A P T E R 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.

  Sherman and Rusty, the other paralegal, wore jeans, sweatshirts, no socks. Working in what was once a dime store, who could care about a dress code? Tabby and Vicky, the other receptionist, had abandoned nice clothes when both snagged dresses on the hand-me-down furniture. Only Olivia, the matronly bookkeeper, turned herself out each day in proper office attire.

  They sat around the plywood table, sipping the same bad coffee they were now addicted to, and listened with smiles as Mary Grace did her recap. “There will be the usual post-trial motions,” she was saying. “Judge Harrison has scheduled a hearing in thirty days, but we expect no surprises.”

  “Here’s to Judge Harrison,” Sherman said, and they toasted him with their coffee.

  It had become a very democratic firm. Everyone present felt like an equal. Anyone could speak whenever he or she felt like it. Only first names were used. Poverty is a great equalizer.

  Mary Grace continued: “For the next few months, Sherman and I will handle the Baker case as it moves forward, and we will keep the other Bowmore cases current. Wes and Rusty will take everything else and start generating some cash.”

  Applause.

  “Here’s to cash,” Sherman said, another toast. He possessed a law degree from a night school but had not been able to pass the bar exam. He was now in his mid-forties, a career paralegal who knew more law than most lawyers. Rusty was twenty years younger and contemplating med school.

  “While we’re on the subject,” Mary Grace continued, “Olivia has given me the latest red-ink summary. Always a pleasure.” She picked up a sheet of paper and looked at the numbers. “We are now officially three months behind in rent, for a total of $4,500.”

  “Oh, please evict us,” Rusty said.

  “But the landlord is still our client and he’s not worried. All other bills are at least two months past due, except, of course, the phones and electricity. Salaries have not been paid in four weeks—”

  “Five,” Sherman said.

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “As of today. Today is payday, or at least it used to be.”

  “Sorry, five weeks past due. We should have some cash in a week if we can settle the Raney case. We’ll try to catch up.”

  “We’re surviving,” Tabby said. She was the only single person in the firm. All others had spouses with jobs. Though budgets were painfully tight, they were determined to survive.

  “How about the Payton family?” Vicky asked.

  “We’re fine,” Wes said. “I know you’re concerned, thank you, but we’re getting by just like you. I’ve said this a hundred times, but I’ll say it again. Mary Grace and I will pay you as soon as we possibly can. Things are about to improve.”

  “We’re more concerned about you,” Mary Grace added.

  No one was leaving. No one was threatening.

  A deal had been struck long ago, though it was not in writing. If and when the Bowmore cases paid off, the money would be shared by the entire firm. Maybe not equally, but everyone present knew they would be rewarded.

  “How about the bank?” Rusty asked. There were no secrets now. They knew Huffy had stopped by the day before, and they knew how much Second State Bank was owed.

  “I stiff-armed the bank,” Wes said. “If they push a little more, then we’ll file Chapter 11 and screw ’em.”

  “I vote to screw the bank,” Sherman said.

  It seemed to be unanimous around the room that the bank should get screwed, though everyone knew the truth. The lawsuit would not have been possible without Huffy’s lobbying on their behalf and convincing Mr. Prickhead to raise the line of credit. They also knew that the Paytons would not rest until the bank was paid.

  “We should clear twelve thousand from the Raney case,” Mary Grace said. “And another ten thousand from the dog bite.”

  “Maybe fifteen,” Wes said.

  “Then what? Where is the next settlement?” Mary Grace threw this on the table for all to consider.

  “Geeter,” Sherman said. It was more of a suggestion.

  Wes looked at Mary Grace. Both gave blank looks to Sherman. “Who’s Geeter?”

  “Geeter happens to be a client. Slip and fall at the Kroger store. Came in about eight months ago.” There were some odd glances around the table. It was obvious that the two lawyers had forgotten one of their clients.

  “I don’t recall that one,” Wes admitted.

  “What’s the potential?” Mary Grace asked.

  “Not much. Shaky liability. Maybe twenty thousand. I’ll review the file with you on Monday.”

  “Good idea,” Mary Grace said and quickly moved on to something else. “I know the phones are ringing, and we are definitely broke, but we are not about to start taking a bunch of junk. No real estate or b
ankruptcies. No criminal cases unless they can pay the freight. No contested divorces—we’ll do the quickies for a thousand bucks, but everything must be agreed on. This is a personal injury firm, and if we get loaded down with the small stuff, we won’t have time for the good cases. Any questions?”

  “There’s a lot of weird stuff coming in by phone,” Tabby said. “And from all over the country.”

  “Just stick to the basics,” Wes said. “We can’t handle cases in Florida or Seattle. We need quick settlements here at home, at least for the next twelve months.”

  “How long will the appeals take?” Vicky asked.

  “Eighteen to twenty-four months,” Mary Grace answered. “And there’s not much we can do to push things along. It’s a process, and that’s why it’s important to hunker down now and generate some fees elsewhere.”

  “Which brings up another point,” Wes said. “The verdict changes the landscape dramatically. First, expectations are through the roof right now, and our other Bowmore clients will soon be pestering us. They want their day in court, their big verdict. We must be patient, but we can’t let these people drive us crazy. Second, the vultures are descending on Bowmore. Lawyers will be chasing one another looking for clients. It will be a free-for-all. Any contact from another attorney is to be reported immediately. Third, the verdict places even greater pressure on Krane. Their dirty tricks will get even dirtier. They have people watching us. Trust no one. Speak to no one. Nothing leaves this office. All papers are shredded. As soon as we can afford it, we’ll hire nighttime security. Bottom line—watch everyone and watch your backs.”