The Appeal

"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.

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."