The Appeal

Enough. Her eyes were wide open.

Every thought took her back to the case, to Jeannette Baker, the trial, Krane Chemical.

She would not spend this quiet and lovely weekend dwelling on such matters. She opened her book and started to read.

For dinner, they roasted hot dogs and marshmallows over a stone pit near the water, then sat on the pier in the darkness and watched the stars. The air was clear and cool, and they huddled together under a quilt. A distant light flickered on the horizon, and after some discussion it was agreed upon that it was just a boat.

"Dad, tell us a story," Mack said. He was squeezed between his sister and his mother.

"What kind of story?"

"A ghost story. A scary one."

His first thought was about the dogs of Bowmore. For years a pack of stray dogs had roamed the outskirts of the town. Often, in the dead of night, they shrieked and yelped and made more noise than a pack of coyotes.

Legend held that the dogs were rabid and had been driven crazy because they drank the water.

But he’d had enough of Bowmore. He remembered one about a ghost who walked on water in the night, looking for his beloved wife, who’d drowned. He began to tell it, and the children squeezed closer to their parents.

Chapter 8

A uniformed guard opened the gates to the mansion, then nodded smartly to the driver as the long black Mercedes rushed by, in a hurry as always. Mr. Carl Trudeau had the rear seat, alone, already lost in the morning’s papers. It was 7:30 a.m., too early for golf or tennis and too early for Saturday morning traffic in Palm Beach.

Within minutes, the car was on Interstate 95, racing south.

Carl ignored the market reports. Thank God the week was finally over. Krane closed at $19.50 the day before and showed no signs of finding a permanent floor. Though he would be forever known as one of the very few men who’d lost a billion dollars in a day, he was already plotting his next legend. Give him a year and he’d have his billion back. In two years, he’d double all of it.

Forty minutes later he was in Boca Raton, crossing the waterway, headed for the clusters of high-rise condos and hotels packed along the beach. The office building was a shiny glass cylinder ten floors tall with a gate and a guard and not one word posted on a sign of any type. The Mercedes was waved through and stopped under a portico.

A stern-faced young man in a black suit opened the rear door and said, "Good morning, Mr. Trudeau."

"Good morning," Carl said, climbing out.

"This way, sir."

According to Carl’s hasty research, the firm of Troy-Hogan worked very hard at not being seen. It had no Web site, brochure, advertisements, listed phone number, or anything else that might attract clients. It was not a law firm, because it was not registered with the State of Florida, or any other state for that matter. It had no registered lobbyists. It was a corporation, not a limited partnership or some other variety of association. It was unclear where the name originated because there was no record of anyone named Troy or Hogan. The firm was known to provide marketing and consulting services, but there was no clue as to the nature of this business.

It was domiciled in Bermuda and had been registered in Florida for eight years. Its domestic agent was a law firm in Miami. It was privately owned, and no one knew who owned it.

The less Carl learned about the firm, the more he admired it.

The principal was one Barry Rinehart, and here the trail grew somewhat warmer. According to friends and contacts in Washington, Rinehart had passed through D.C. twenty years earlier without leaving a fingerprint. He had worked for a congressman, the Pentagon, and a couple of midsized lobbying outfits-the typical resume of a million others.

He left town for no apparent reason in 1990 and surfaced in Minnesota, where he ran the successful campaign of a political unknown who got elected to Congress. Then he went to Oregon, where he worked his magic in a Senate race. As his reputation began to rise, he abruptly quit doing campaigns and disappeared altogether. End of trail.

Rinehart was forty-eight years old, married and divorced twice, no children, no criminal record, no professional associations, no civic clubs. He had a degree in political science from the University of Maryland and a law degree from the University of Nevada.

No one seemed to know what he was doing now, but he was certainly doing it well.

His suite on the top floor of the cylinder was beautifully decorated with minimalist contemporary art and furniture. Carl, who spared no expense with his own office, was impressed.

Barry was waiting at the door of his office. The two shook hands and exchanged the usual pleasantries as they took in the details of the other’s suit, shirt, tie, shoes.

Nothing off-the-rack. No detail left undone, even though it was a Saturday morning in south Florida. Impressions were crucial, especially to Barry, who was thrilled at the prospect of snaring a new and substantial client.

Carl had half-expected a slick car salesman with a bad suit, but he was pleasantly surprised. Mr. Rinehart was dignified, soft-spoken, well-groomed, and very much at ease in the presence of such a powerful man. He was certainly not an equal, but he seemed to be comfortable with this.

A secretary asked about coffee as they stepped inside and met the ocean. From the tenth floor, beachside, the Atlantic stretched forever. Carl, who gazed at the Hudson River several times a day, was envious. "Beautiful," he said, staring from the row of ten-foot glass windows.

"Not a bad place to work," Barry said.

They settled into beige leather chairs as the coffee arrived. The secretary closed the door behind her, giving the place a nice secure feel.

"I appreciate you meeting me on a Saturday morning and with such short notice," Carl said.

"The pleasure is mine," Barry said. "It’s been a rough week."

"I’ve had better. I take it you’ve spoken personally with Senator Grott."

"Oh yes. We chat occasionally."

"He was very vague about your firm and what you do."

Barry laughed and crossed his legs. "We do campaigns. Have a look." He picked up a remote and pushed the button, and a large white screen dropped from the ceiling and covered most of a wall, then the entire nation appeared. Most of the states were in green, the rest were in a soft yellow. "Thirty-one states elect their appellate and supreme court judges. They are in green. The yellow ones have the good sense to appoint their courts.

We make our living in the green ones."

"Judicial elections."

"Yes. That’s all we do, and we do it very quietly. When our clients need help, we target a supreme court justice who is not particularly friendly, and we take him, or her, out of the picture."

"Just like that."

"Who are your clients?"

"I can’t give you the names, but they’re all on your side of the street. Big companies in energy, insurance, pharmaceuticals, chemicals, timber, all types of manufacturers, plus doctors, hospitals, nursing homes, banks. We raise tons of money and hire the people on the ground to run aggressive campaigns."

"Have you worked in Mississippi?"

"Not yet." Barry punched another button and America was back. The green states slowly turned black. "The darker states are the ones we’ve worked in. As you can see, they’re coast-to-coast. We maintain a presence in all thirty-nine."

Carl took some coffee, and nodded as if he wanted Barry to keep talking.

"We employ about fifty people here, the entire building is ours, and we accumulate enormous amounts of data. Information is power, and we know everything. We review every appellate decision in the green states. We know every appellate judge, their backgrounds, families, prior careers, divorces, bankruptcies, all the dirt. We review every decision and can predict the outcome of almost every case on appeal. We track every legislature and keep up with bills that might affect civil justice. We also monitor important civil trials."