by John Grisham
Ron had already learned that most of the court’s gossip was created and spread by the network of clerks, all of them.
“I don’t know,” he said. Thirty minutes later, he was back at the hospital.
C H A P T E R 38
Eight days later, on a rainy Sunday morning, Josh Fisk was loaded into an ambulance for the drive to Brookhaven. Once there, he would be placed in a room at the hospital five minutes from home. He would be watched closely for a week or so, then, hopefully, released.
Doreen rode with him in the ambulance.
Ron drove to the Gartin building and went to his office on the fourth floor. There was no sign of anyone there, which was precisely what he wanted. For the third or fourth time, he read Calligan’s opinion reversing the verdict in Baker v. Krane Chemical, and though he had once agreed with it completely, he now had doubts. It could have been written by Jared Kurtin himself. Calligan found fault with virtually all of Baker’s expert testimony. He criticized Judge Harrison for admitting most of it. His sharpest language condemned the expert who linked the carcinogenic by-products to the actual cancers, calling it “speculative at best.” He imposed an impossible standard that would require clear proof that the toxins in the Bowmore water caused the cancers that killed Pete and Chad Baker. As always, he caterwauled at the sheer size of the shocking verdict, and blamed it on the undue passion created by Baker’s attorneys that inflamed the jurors.
Ron read again the opinion by McElwayne, and it, too, sounded much different.
It was time to vote, to make his decision, and he simply had no stomach for it. He was tired of the case, tired of the pressure, tired of the anger at being used like a pawn by powerful forces he should have recognized. He was exhausted from Josh’s ordeal and just wanted to go home. He had no confidence in his ability to do what was right, and he wasn’t sure what that was anymore. He had prayed until he was tired of praying. He had tried to explain his misgivings to Doreen, but she was as distracted and unstable as he was.
If he reversed the verdict, he would betray his true feelings. But his feelings were changing, were they not? How could he, as a detached jurist, suddenly swap sides because of his family’s tragedy?
If he upheld the verdict, he would betray those who had elected him. Fifty-three percent of the people had voted for Ron Fisk because they believed in his platform. Or did they? Perhaps they had voted for him because he was so well marketed.
Would it be fair to all the Aarons out there for Ron to selfishly change his judicial philosophy because of his own son?
He hated these questions. They exhausted him even more. He paced around his office, more confused than ever, and he thought of leaving again. Just run, he told himself. But he was tired of running and pacing and talking to the walls.
He typed his opinion: “I concur and agree with Justice Calligan, but I do so with grave misgivings. This court, with my complicity and especially because of my presence, has rapidly become a blind protector of those who wish to severely restrict liability in all areas of personal injury law. It is a dangerous course.”
In the nursing home case, he typed his second opinion: “I concur with Justice Albritton and uphold the verdict rendered in the Circuit Court of Webster County. The actions of the nursing home fall far short of the standard of care our laws require.”
Then he typed a memo to the court that read: “For the next thirty days, I will be on a leave of absence from the court’s business. I am needed at home.”
__________
The Supreme Court of Mississippi posts its rulings on its Web site each Thursday at noon.
And each Thursday at noon quite a few lawyers either sat before their computers in nervous anticipation or made sure someone did so for them. Jared Kurtin kept an associate on guard. Sterling Bintz watched his smart phone at that precise hour, regardless of where in the world he happened to be. F. Clyde Hardin, still a caveman with technology, sat in the darkness of his locked office, drank his lunch, and waited. Every trial lawyer with a Bowmore case kept watch.
The anticipation was shared by a few nonlawyers as well. Tony Zachary and Barry Rinehart made it a point to be on the phone with each other when the opinions came down. Carl Trudeau counted the minutes each week. In lower and mid-Manhattan dozens of securities analysts monitored the Web site. Denny Ott had a sandwich with his wife in the office at the church. The parsonage next door did not have a computer.
And nowhere was the magical hour more dreaded and anticipated than within the shabby confines of Payton & Payton. The entire firm gathered in The Pit, at the always cluttered worktable, and had lunch as Sherman stared at his laptop. On the first Thursday in May, at 12:15, he announced, “Here it is.” Food was shoved aside. The air grew thinner, and breathing became more difficult. Wes refused to look at Mary Grace, and she refused to look at him. Indeed, no one in the room made eye contact with anyone else.
“The opinion is written by Justice Arlon Calligan,” Sherman continued. “I’ll just skim along here. Five pages, ten pages, fifteen pages, let’s see, a majority opinion that’s twenty-one pages long, joined by Romano, Bateman, Ross, Fisk. Reversed and rendered. Final judgment entered for the defendant, Krane Chemical.”
Sherman continued: “Romano concurs with four pages of his usual drivel. Fisk concurs briefly.” A pause as he kept scrolling. “And then a twelve-page dissent by McElwayne with Albritton concurring. That’s all I need to know. I won’t read this piece of shit for at least a month.” He stood and left the room.
“It’s not exactly a surprise,” Wes said. No one responded.
__________
F. Clyde Hardin wept at his desk. This disaster had been looming for months, but it still crushed him. His one chance to strike it rich was gone, and with it all of his dreams. He cursed Sterling Bintz and his harebrained class action. He cursed Ron Fisk and the other four clowns in his majority. He cursed the blind sheep in Cary County and throughout the rest of south Mississippi who had been hoodwinked into voting against Sheila McCarthy. He fixed 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 Krane 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 Krane. 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.
C H A P T E R 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 moth-balled 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 climbed the steps to the fourth level, and on a small elevated deck found his favorite spot on this fabulous new toy of his. It was an observation post, the ship’s highest point above the water.
As the cool wind blew his hair, he gripped the brass railing and stared at the mammoth towers in the financial district. He caught a glimpse of his building, and his office, forty-five floors up.
Everything was up. Krane common stock was just under $50 a share. Its earnings were through the roof. His net worth was over $3 billion and rising steadily.
Some of those idiots out there had been laughing eighteen months earlier. Krane is finished. Trudeau is a fool. How can a man lose a billion dollars in one day? they howled.
Where was their laughter now?
Where were all those experts now?
The great Carl Trudeau had outfoxed them again. He’d cleaned up the Bowmore mess and saved his company. He’d driven its stock into the ground, bought it cheap at a fire sale, and now owned virtually all of it. It was making him even richer.
He was destined to move up the Forbes 400 list, and as Carl sailed along the Hudson at the very top of his extraordinary ship, and gazed with smug satisfaction at the gleaming towers packed around Wall Street, he admitted to himself that nothing else mattered.
Now that he had three billion, he really wanted six.
TO PROFESSOR ROBERT C. KHAYAT
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I am compelled to defend my native state, and do so with this flurry of disclaimers. All characters herein are purely fictional. Any similarity to a real person is coincidental. There is no Cary County, no town of Bowmore, no Krane Chemical, and no product such as pillamar 5. Bichloronylene, aklar, and cartolyx do not exist, as far as I know. The Mississippi Supreme Court has nine elected
members, none of whom were used as models or inspiration for anyone mentioned or described in the preceding pages. None of the organizations, associations, groups, nonprofits, think tanks, churches, casinos, or corporations are real. I just made them up. Some of the towns and cities can be found on a map, others cannot. The campaign is a figment of my imagination. The lawsuit is borrowed from several actual cases. A few of the buildings really do exist, but I’m not altogether sure which ones.
In another life, I served as a member of the Mississippi House of Representatives, and in that capacity had a role in making laws. In this book, some of those laws have been amended, modified, ignored, and even outright butchered. Writing fiction sometimes requires this.
A few of the laws, especially those dealing with casino gambling, survive without tampering on my part.
Now that I have impugned my own work, I must say that there is a lot of truth in this story. As long as private money is allowed in judicial elections we will see competing interests fight for seats on the bench. The issues are fairly common. Most of the warring factions are adequately described. The tactics are all too familiar. The results are not far off the mark.
As always, I leaned on others for advice and expertise. Thanks to Mark Lee, Jim Craig, Neal Kassell, Bobby Moak, David Gernert, Mike Ratliff, Ty, Bert Colley, and John Sherman. Stephen Rubin published this book, Doubleday’s twentieth, and the gang there—John Fontana, Rebecca Holland, John Pitts, Kathy Trager, Alison Rich, and Suzanne Herz—again made it happen.
And thanks to Renee for her usual patience and abundance of editorial comments.
John Grisham
October 1, 2007
THE CHAMBER
A Dell Book
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
