The Appeal

He would not spend the night, because he could not afford a hundred bucks for a room.

It could be argued that he was a millionaire, in someone’s calculation, but three months after the verdict he was still squeezing every dime. Any payday from the Bowmore mess was a distant dream. Even with the verdict, he still questioned his sanity in getting involved with the litigation.

Lunch was in the grand ballroom with seating for two hundred, an impressive crowd.

As the preliminaries dragged on, Wes, from his seat on the dais, studied the crowd.

Trial lawyers, always a colorful and eclectic bunch. Cowboys, rogues, radicals, longhairs, corporate suits, flamboyant mavericks, bikers, deacons, good ole boys, street hustlers, pure ambulance chasers, faces from billboards and yellow pages and early morning television.

They were anything but boring. They fought among themselves like a violent family, yet they had the ability to stop bickering, circle the wagons, and attack their enemies. They came from the cities, where they feuded over cases and clients, and they came from the small towns, where they honed their skills before simple jurors reluctant to part with anyone’s money. Some had jets and buzzed around the country piecing together the latest class action in the latest mass tort. Others were repulsed by the mass tort game and clung proudly to the tradition of trying legitimate cases one at a time. The new breed were entrepreneurs who filed cases in bulk and settled them that way, rarely facing a jury. Others lived for the thrill of the courtroom.

A few did their work in firms where they pooled money and talent, but firms of trial lawyers were notoriously difficult to keep together. Most were lone gunmen too eccentric to keep much of a staff. Some made millions each year, others scraped by, most were in the $250,000 range. A few were broke at the moment. Many were up one year and down the next, always on the roller coaster and always willing to roll the dice.

If they shared anything, it was a streak of fierce independence and the thrill of representing David against Goliath.

On the political right, there is the establishment, the money, and big business and the myriad groups it finances. On the left, there are the minorities, labor unions, schoolteachers, and the trial lawyers. Only the trial lawyers have money, and it’s pocket change compared with big business.

Though there were times when Wes wanted to choke them as a whole, he felt at home here. These were his colleagues, his fellow warriors, and he admired them. They could be arrogant, bullish, dogmatic, and they were often their own worst enemies. But no one fought as hard for the little guy.

As they lunched on cold chicken and even colder broccoli, the chairman of the legislative affairs committee delivered a rather bleak update on various bills that were still alive over at the capitol. The tort reformers were back and pushing hard to enact measures designed to curtail liability and close courthouse doors. He was followed by the chairman of political affairs, who was more upbeat. Judicial elections were in November, and though it was too early in the year to be sure, it appeared as though their "good" judges at both the trial and the appellate levels would not draw serious opposition.

After frozen pie and coffee, Wes Payton was introduced and received a rousing welcome.

He began by apologizing for the absence of his co-counsel, the real brains behind the Bowmore litigation. She hated to miss the event but believed she was needed more at home with the kids. Wes then launched into a long recap of the Baker trial, the verdict, and the current state of other lawsuits against Krane Chemical.

Among such a crowd, a $41 million verdict was a much-revered trophy, and they couldhave listened for hours to the man who obtained it. Only a few had felt firsthand the thrill of such a victory, and all of them had swallowed the bitter pill of a bad verdict.

When he finished, there was another round of boisterous applause, then an impromptu question-and-answer session. Which experts had been effective? How much were the litigation expenses? (Wes politely refused to give the amount. Even in a room of big spenders, the sum was too painful to discuss.) What was the status of settlement talks, if any? How would the class action affect the defendant? What about the appeal?

Wes could have talked for hours and kept his audience.

Later that afternoon, during an early cocktail hour, he held court again, answering more questions, deflecting more gossip. A group that was circling a toxic dump in the northern part of the state descended on him and wheedled advice.

Would he take a look at their file? Recommend some experts? Come visit the site?

He finally escaped by going to the bar, and there he bumped into Barbara MeUinger, the savvy and battle-weary executive director of the MTA and its chief lobbyist.

"Got a minute?" she asked, and they retreated to a corner where no one could hear them.

"I’ve picked up a frightening rumor," she said, sipping gin and watching the crowd.

MeUinger had spent twenty years in the halls of the capitol and could read the terrain like no other. And she was not prone to gossip. She heard more than anyone, but when she passed along a rumor, it was usually more than just that.

"They’re coming after McCarthy," she said.

"They?" Wes was standing next to her, also watching the crowd.

"The usual suspects-Commerce Council and that group of thugs."

"They can’t beat McCarthy."

"Well, they can certainly try."

"Does she know it?" Wes had lost interest in his diet soda.

"I don’t think so. No one knows it."

"Do they have a candidate?"

"If they do, I don’t know who it is. But they have a knack for finding people to run."

What, exactly, was Wes supposed to say or do? Campaign funding was the only defense, and he couldn’t contribute a dime.

"Do these guys know?" he asked, nodding at the little pockets of conversation.

"Not yet. We’re lying low right now, waiting. McCarthy, typically, has no money in the bank. The Supremes think they’re invincible, above politics and all that, and by the time an opponent pops up, they’ve been lulled to sleep."

"You got a plan?"

"No. It’s wait and see for now. And pray that it’s only a rumor.

Two years ago, in the McElwayne race, they waited until the last minute to announce, and by then they had a million plus in the bank."

"But we won that race."

"Indeed. But tell me you were not terrified."

"Beyond terrified."

An aging hippie with a ponytail lurched forward and boomed, "Y’all kicked their assesdown there." His opening gave every impression that he would consume at least the next half hour of Wes’s life. Barbara began her escape. "To be continued," she whispered.

Driving home, Wes savored the occasion for a few miles, then slipped into a dark funk over the McCarthy rumor. He kept nothing from Mary Grace, and after dinner that night they slipped out of the apartment and went for a long walk. Ramona and the children were watching an old movie.

Like all good lawyers, they had always watched the supreme court carefully. They read and discussed every opinion, a habit they started when their partnership began and one they clung to with conviction. In the old days, membership on the court changed little. Openings were created by deaths, and the temporary appointments usually became permanent. Over the years, the governors had wisely chosen the fill-ins, and the court was respected. Noisy campaigns were unheard-of. The court took pride in keeping politics out of its agenda and rulings. But the genteel days were changing.

"But we beat them with McElwayne," she said more than once.