by John Grisham
Mack and Liza begged them to go to the movies. Halfway through the eight o’clock show, Wes began to nod off. Mary Grace stared blankly at the screen, munching on popcorn and mentally crunching numbers related to medical expenses, pain and suffering, loss of companionship, loss of wages, loss of everything. She did not dare entertain thoughts of calculating attorneys’ fees.
__________
There were fewer suits and ties at the table Saturday morning. Even Judge Rosenthal looked quite casual in a black polo shirt under a sport coat. When the restless lawyers were in place and things were quiet, he said, with a great old voice that must have dominated many trials, “I suggest we start with the death cases and walk through them all.”
No two death cases were the same from a settlement standpoint. Children were worth much less than adults because they have no record of earning power. Young fathers were worth more because of the loss of future wages. Some of the dead folks suffered for years, others went quickly. Everyone had a different figure for medical bills. Judge Rosenthal presented another scale, arbitrary but at least a starting point, in which each case would be rated based on its value. The highest cases would get a 5, and the cheapest (children) would get a 1. Time-out was called several times as the plaintiffs’ lawyers haggled over this. When it was finally agreed upon, they began with Jeannette Baker. She was given a 10. The next case involved a fifty-four-year-old woman who worked part-time in a bakery and died after a three-year battle with leukemia. She was given a 3.
As they plowed through the list, each lawyer was allowed to present his particular case and plead for a higher rating. Through it all, there was no indication from Jared Kurtin of how much he was willing to pay for any of the death cases. Mary Grace watched him carefully when the other lawyers were talking. His face and actions revealed nothing but deep concentration.
At 2:30, they finished with Class One and moved to the longer list of those claimants who were still alive but battling cancer. Rating their cases was trickier. No one could know how long each would survive or how much each would suffer. No one could predict the likelihood of death. The lucky ones would live and become cancer-free. The discussion disintegrated into several heated arguments, and at times Judge Rosenthal was flustered and unable to suggest a compromise. Late in the day, Jared Kurtin began to show signs of strain and frustration.
As 7:00 p.m. approached and the session was mercifully winding down, Sterling Bintz could not restrain himself. “I’m not sure how much longer I can sit here and watch this little exercise,” he announced rudely as he approached the table at the far end, away from Judge Rosenthal. “I mean, I’ve been here for two days and I haven’t been allowed to speak. Which, of course, means my clients have been ignored. Enough is enough. I represent a class action of over three hundred injured people, and you all seem determined to screw them.”
Wes started a rebuke, but thought better of it. Let him ramble. They were about to adjourn anyway.
“My clients are not going to be ignored,” he practically shouted, and everyone grew still. There was a hint of madness in his voice and certainly in his eyes, and perhaps it was best to let him rant a little. “My clients have suffered greatly, and are still suffering. And you people are not concerned with them. I can’t hang around here forever. I’m due in San Francisco tomorrow afternoon for another settlement. I got eight thousand cases against Schmeltzer for their laxative pills. So, since everyone here seems quite content to chat about everything but money, let me tell you where I am.”
He had their attention. Jared Kurtin and the money boys perked up and stiffened a bit. Mary Grace watched every wrinkle in Kurtin’s face. If this nut was about to throw a figure on the table, she wanted her adversary’s reaction.
“I’m not settling my cases for less than a hundred thousand each,” Bintz said with a sneer. “Maybe more, depending on each client.”
Kurtin’s face was frozen, but then it usually was. One of his associates shook his head, another one smiled a silly smile of amusement. The two Krane executives frowned and shifted as they dismissed this as absurd.
As the notion of $30 million floated around the room, Wes did the simple math. Bintz would probably take a third, throw a few crumbs at F. Clyde Hardin, then quickly move on to the next mass tort bonanza.
F. Clyde was cowering in a far corner, the same spot he’d occupied for many hours now. The paper cup in his hand was filled with orange juice, crushed ice, and four ounces of vodka. It was, after all, almost 7:00 p.m. on a Saturday. The math was so simple he could do it in his sleep. His cut was 5 percent of the total fees, or $500,000 under the rather reasonable scheme being so boldly suggested by his co-counsel. Their arrangement also paid F. Clyde $500 per client, and with three hundred clients he should have already received $150,000. He had not. Bintz had passed along about a third of that, but seemed disinclined to discuss the rest. He was a very busy lawyer and hard to get on the phone. Surely, he would come through as promised.
F. Clyde gulped his drink as Bintz’s declaration rattled around the room.
Bintz continued. “We’re not taking peanuts and going home,” he threatened. “At some point in these negotiations, and the sooner the better, I want my clients’ cases on the table.”
“Tomorrow morning at nine,” Judge Rosenthal suddenly barked. “As for now, we are adjourned.”
__________
“A Pathetic Campaign” was the title of the lead editorial in Sunday’s Clarion-Ledger out of Jackson. Using a page out of Nat Lester’s report, the editors damned the Ron Fisk campaign for its sleazy advertising. They accused Fisk of taking millions from big business and using it to mislead the public. His ads were filled with half-truths and statements taken wholly out of context. Fear was his weapon—fear of homosexuals, fear of gun control, fear of sexual predators. He was condemned for labeling Sheila McCarthy a “liberal” when in fact her body of work, which the editors had studied, could only be considered quite moderate. They blasted Fisk for promising to vote this way or that on cases he had yet to review as a member of the court.
The editorial also decried the entire process. So much money was being raised and spent, by both candidates, that fair and unbiased decision making was in jeopardy. How could Sheila McCarthy, who had so far received over $1.5 million from trial lawyers, be expected to ignore this money when those same lawyers appeared before the supreme court?
It finished with a call to abolish judicial elections and have the judges appointed based on merit by a nonpartisan panel.
The Sun Herald from Biloxi was even nastier. It accused the Fisk campaign of outright deceit and used the Darrel Sackett mailing as its prime example. Sackett was dead, not loose and on the prowl. He’d been dead for four years, something Nat Lester had learned with a couple of quick phone calls.
The Hattiesburg American challenged the Fisk campaign to retract its negative and misleading ads and to disclose, before Election Day, its contributions from big donors outside the state. It urged both candidates to clean up the race and honor the dignity of the supreme court.
On page 3 of section A of the New York Times, Gilbert’s exposé ran with photos of Meyerchec and Spano, as well as Fisk and McCarthy. It covered the race in general, then focused on the gay marriage issue created and injected into the race by the two men from Illinois. Gilbert did a thorough job of accumulating evidence that the two men were longtime residents of Chicago and had virtually no ties to Mississippi. He did not speculate that they were being used by conservative political operatives to sabotage McCarthy. He didn’t have to. The punch line was delivered in the final paragraph. Nat Lester was quoted as saying: “These guys are a couple of stooges being used by Ron Fisk and his backers to create an issue that does not exist. Their goal is to fire up the right-wing Christians and march them down to the polls.”
__________
Ron and Doreen Fisk were at the kitchen table, ignoring their early coffee, rereading the Jackson editorial, and fuming. The campaign had gone
so smoothly. They were ahead in all the polls. Nine days to go and they could see the victory. Why, then, was Ron suddenly being described as “deceitful” and “dishonest” by the state’s largest newspaper? It was a painful, humiliating slap, one that they had no idea was coming. And it was certainly not deserved. They were honest, upstanding, clean-cut Christian people. Why this?
The phone rang and Ron grabbed it. Tony’s tired voice said, “Have you seen the Jackson paper?”
“Yes, we’re looking at it now.”
“Have you seen the one from Hattiesburg and the Sun Herald?”
“No. Why?”
“Do you read the New York Times?”
“No.”
“Check them out online. Call me in an hour.”
“Is it bad?”
“Yes.”
They read and fumed for another hour, then decided to skip church. Ron felt betrayed and embarrassed and was in no mood to leave the house. According to the latest numbers from his pollster in Atlanta, he had a comfortable lead. Now, though, he felt defeat was certain. No candidate could survive such a thrashing. He blamed the liberal press. He blamed Tony Zachary and those who controlled the campaign. And he blamed himself for being so naive. Why did he place so much trust in people he barely knew?
Doreen assured him it was not his fault. He had thrown himself so completely into the campaigning that he’d had little time to watch everything else. Any campaign is chaotic. No one can monitor the actions of all the workers and volunteers.
Ron unloaded on Tony during a lengthy and tense phone conversation. “You’ve embarrassed me,” Ron said. “You’ve humiliated me and my family to the point that I really don’t want to leave the house. I’m thinking about quitting.”
“You can’t quit, Ron, you have too much invested,” Tony replied, trying to control his panic and reassure his boy.
“That’s the problem, Tony. I’ve allowed you guys to generate too much cash, and you cannot handle it. Stop all television ads right now.”
“That’s impossible, Ron. They’re already in the pipeline.”
“So I’m not in control of my own campaign, is that what you’re telling me, Tony?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“I’m not leaving the house, Tony. Pull all the ads right now. Stop everything, and I’m calling the editors of these newspapers. I’m admitting my mistakes.”
“Ron, come on.”
“I’m the boss, Tony, it’s my campaign.”
“Yes, and you’ve got the race won. Don’t screw it up with only nine days to go.”
“Did you know that Darrel Sackett was dead?”
“Well, I really can’t—”
“Answer the question, Tony. Did you know he was dead?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You knew he was dead and you deliberately ran a false ad, didn’t you?”
“No, I—”
“You’re fired, Tony. You’re fired and I quit.”
“Don’t overreact, Ron. Settle down.”
“You’re fired.”
“I’ll be down in an hour.”
“You do that, Tony. You get down here as quick as possible, and until then you’re fired.”
“I’m leaving now. Don’t do anything until I get there.”
“I’m calling the editors right now.”
“Don’t do that, Ron. Please. Wait until I get there.”
__________
The lawyers had little time for newspapers on Sunday morning. By eight o’clock they were gathering at the hotel for what would surely be the most important day yet. There had been no indication from Jared Kurtin as to how long he might negotiate before heading back to Atlanta, but it was assumed that round one would be over on Sunday afternoon. Other than the $30 million suggestion made by Sterling Bintz the evening before, there had been no talk of money. That had to change on Sunday. Wes and Mary Grace were determined to leave that day with a general idea of how much the Class One and Class Two cases were worth.
By 8:30 all the plaintiffs’ lawyers were in place, most of them huddled in serious conversations, all of them ignoring Sterling Bintz, who in turn ignored them. His entourage was still intact. He was not speaking to the other class action lawyer from Melbourne Beach. Judge Rosenthal arrived at 8:45 and commented on the absence of everyone on the defense side. The trial lawyers finally noticed this. There was not a soul sitting opposite them. Wes punched in the number of Jared Kurtin’s cell phone, but listened to his recording.
“We did agree on 9:00 a.m., didn’t we?” asked Rosenthal, five minutes before the hour. It was unanimously agreed that nine was the magic hour. They waited, and time suddenly moved much slower.
At 9:02, Frank Sully, local counsel for Krane, walked into the room and said, somewhat sheepishly, almost in embarrassment, “My client has decided to recess these negotiations until further notice. I’ve very sorry for the inconvenience.”
“Where’s Jared Kurtin?” Judge Rosenthal demanded.
“He’s flying back to Atlanta right now.”
“When did your client make this decision?”
“I don’t know. I was informed about an hour ago. I’m very sorry, Judge. I apologize to everyone here.”
The room seemed to tilt as one side sank under the weight of this sudden turn of events. Lawyers giddy in anticipation of finally slicing up the pie dropped their pens and pencils and gaped at one another in shock. Great gasps of air were discharged. Curses were mumbled just loud enough to be heard. Shoulders sagged. They wanted to throw something at Sully, but he was just the local and they had learned a long time ago that he had no clout.
F. Clyde Hardin wiped sweat from his wet face and tried valiantly not to throw up.
There was a sudden rush to leave, to clear out. It was maddening to sit there and stare at the empty chairs, chairs once occupied by men who just might have made them rich. The trial lawyers quickly gathered stacks of papers, restuffed their briefcases, and offered brusque goodbyes.
Wes and Mary Grace said nothing as they drove to their apartment.
C H A P T E R 31
Monday morning, the Wall Street Journal broke the news of the collapse of the settlement negotiations down in Hattiesburg. The story, on page 2, was written by a reporter with some very good sources inside Krane Chemical, one of whom blamed the plaintiffs’ lawyers. “Their demands were just too unrealistic. We went in in good faith, and got nowhere.” Another anonymous source said, “It’s hopeless. Because of the verdict, every trial lawyer thinks his case is worth forty million bucks.” Mr. Watts, Krane’s CEO, said, “We are very disappointed. We wanted to get this litigation behind us and move on. Now our future is quite uncertain.”
Carl Trudeau read the story online at 4:30 in the morning in his penthouse. He laughed and rubbed his hands together in anticipation of a very profitable week.
Wes called Jared Kurtin throughout the morning, but the great man was traveling and could not be reached. His cell phone was stuck on voice mail. His secretary eventually became rude, but then so was Wes. He and Mary Grace seriously doubted if the wild demands by Sterling Bintz had frightened Krane away. In relative terms, his suggestion of $30 million would be a fraction of any workable settlement.
When the news finally arrived in Bowmore, it was received like another plague.
__________
At McCarthy headquarters, Nat Lester had worked through the night and was still wired when Sheila arrived at 8:30, her usual time. He had e-mailed the Times story to every newspaper in the district and was calling reporters and editors when she walked in with a well-rested smile and asked for a pineapple juice.
“We’ve got these clowns on the run!” he announced jubilantly. “Their dirty tricks have caught up with them.”
“Congratulations. It’s beautiful.”
“We’re sending the editorials and the Times story to every registered voter.”
“How much does that cost?”
“Who cares? Wit
h a week to go, we can’t pinch pennies. Are you ready?”
“I leave in an hour.”
The next seven days would take her to thirty-four stops in twenty counties, all made possible by the use of a King Air on loan from one trial lawyer and a small jet from another. The blitz had been coordinated by Nat and would take place with the help of schoolteachers, labor bosses, black leaders, and, of course, trial lawyers. She would not return to Jackson until after the election. While she was on the stump, her last round of television ads would flood the district.
By the time the votes were counted, her campaign would not have one dime. She was praying that it would not be in debt.
__________
Ron Fisk finally left the house on Monday morning, but he did not make his usual trip to the office. Instead, he and Doreen drove to Jackson, to the offices of Judicial Vision for another long and stressful meeting with Tony Zachary. They had slugged their way through a four-hour ordeal on Sunday afternoon in the den of the Fisk home, and they had resolved little. Ron was suspending all campaign activities until he could repair his good name. He had fired Tony at least four times, but they were still talking.
Throughout the day and into Sunday night, Tedford in Atlanta had been polling furiously, and by late Monday morning there were some results. In spite of the barrage of condemnation, Ron Fisk was still three points ahead of Sheila McCarthy. The gay marriage issue had captivated the voters, most of whom still favored the more conservative candidate.
Ron wasn’t sure if he could believe anyone who worked for his campaign, but the new poll did lighten his mood somewhat. “You’ve got this thing won, Ron,” Tony said again and again. “Don’t blow it.”
They finally reached an understanding, one that Ron insisted they sign as if they had negotiated a contract. First, Ron would stay in the race. Second, Tony would keep his job as campaign manager. Third, Ron would meet with the newspaper editors, admit his mistakes, and promise a clean race for the remaining eight days. Fourth, no campaign literature, ads, TV spots, direct mail, radio commercials, nothing would be used until it was first approved by Ron.
