The Appeal

Kurtin ticked off the numbers like a war correspondent reporting from battle. Wes couldn’t help but grimace, nor could he suppress another vile thought about Krane Chemical.

"Anyway, we’ll start the process of going through these numbers. The goal is to arrive at one figure, then compare it with the cash my client is willing to spend."

"And what might that number be?" Wes asked with a desperate laugh.

"Not now, Wes, maybe later. I’m asking each lawyer to fill out a standardized form for each client. If we can get these back before Friday, we’ll have a head start.

I’m bringing a full team, Wes. My litigators, support staff, experts, number crunchers, and I’ll even have a guy with some spine from Krane. Plus, of course, the usual crew from the insurance companies. You might want to reserve a large room for your support people."

Reserve with what? Wes almost asked. Surely Kurtin knew about the bankruptcy.

"Good idea," he said.

"And, Wes, my client is really concerned about secrecy. There is no reason for this to be publicized. If word gets out, then the plaintiffs and their lawyers and the whole town of Bowmore will get excited. What happens then if the negotiations go nowhere? Let’s keep a lid on this."

"Sure." How ridiculous. Kurtin was about to send his letter to no fewer than twenty law firms. Babe at the coffee shop in Bowmore would know about the settlement conference before she began serving lunch.

The following morning the Wall Street Journal ran a front-page story about Krane Chemical’s settlement overtures. An anonymous source who worked for the company confirmed the truth of the rumors. Experts chimed in with varying opinions, but it was generally regarded as a positive step for the company. Large settlements can be calculated. Liabilities can be contained.

Wall Street understands hard numbers, and it hates unpredictability. There is a long history of battered companies shoring up their financial futures with massive settlements that, while costly, were effective in cleaning up litigation.

Krane opened at $12.75 and advanced $2.75 in heavy trading.

By midafternoon Wednesday, the phones were ringing nonstop at Payton amp; Payton, and many other law firms as well. Word of a settlement was out there, on the street and flying around the Internet.

Denny Ott called and talked to Mary Grace. A group of Pine Grove residents had gathered at the church to offer prayers, exchange gossip, and wait for a miracle. It was like a vigil, he said. Not surprisingly, there were different versions of the truth. A settlement had already been negotiated, and money was on the way. No, the settlement would take place on Friday, but there was no doubt that it would happen. No, there was no settlement at all, just a meeting of the lawyers. Mary Grace explained what was happening and asked Denny to pass along the truth. It quickly became apparent that either she or Wes would need to hustle over to the church and meet with their clients.

Babe’s was packed with spirited coffee drinkers, all looking for the latest word.

Would Krane be required to clean up its toxic dump? Someone claiming authority answered yes, that would be a condition of the settlement. How much would the death claims be worth? Someone else had heard the figure of $5 million each. Arguments raged.

Experts rose up and were soon shouted down.

F. Clyde Hardin walked over from his law office and immediately took center stage.

His class action had been ridiculed by many of the locals who felt he was just riding the Paytons’ coattails with a bunch of opportunistic clients. He and his good pal Sterling Bintz from Philadelphia were claiming almost three hundred "severely and permanently injured" members of their class action. Since its filing in January, it had gone nowhere. Now, however, F. Clyde had instantly gained stature. Any settlement had to include "his people." He would have a seat at the table on Friday, he explained to the silent crowd. He would be sitting there along side Wes and Mary Grace Payton.

Jeannette Baker was behind the counter of a convenience store at the south edge of Bowmore when she received the call from Mary Grace. "Do not get excited," her lawyer warned, rather sternly. "This could be a lengthy process, and the possibility of a settlement is remote." Jeannette had questions but did not know where to begin.

Mary Grace would be at the Pine Grove Church at 7:00 p.m. for a full discussion with all of her clients. Jeannette promised to be there.

With a $41 million verdict attached to it, Jeannette Baker’s case would be the first one on the table.

The settlement news was too much for Bowmore to handle. In the small offices downtown the secretaries and Realtors and insurance agents talked of nothing else. The languid human commerce along Main Street stopped dead as friends and neighbors found it impossible to pass one another without comparing gossip. The clerks in the Cary County Courthouse collected rumors, amended them, embellished some, and reduced some, then passed them along. In the schools the teachers gathered in their coffee rooms and exchanged the latest news. Pine Grove wasn’t the only church where the faithful and the hopeful met for prayer and counseling. Many of the town’s pastors spent the afternoon on the phone listening to the victims of Krane Chemical.

A settlement would close the town’s ugliest chapter, and allow it to begin again.

The infusion of money would compensate those who had suffered. The cash would be spent and re-spent and boost the dying economy. Krane would certainly be required to clean up its pollution, and once it was finally gone, perhaps the water would become safe again.

Bowmore with clean water-a dream almost impossible to believe.

The community could finally shake off the nickname Cancer County.

A settlement was a fast and final end to the nightmare. No one in the town wanted litigation that would be prolonged and ugly. No one wanted another trial like Jeannette Baker’s.

Nat Lester had been pestering newspaper editors and reporters for a month. He was furious at the misleading advertising that had drenched south Mississippi, and even angrier at the editors for not railing against it. He put together a report in which he took the Fisk ads-print, direct mail, radio, Internet, and television-and dissected them, pointing out every lie, half-truth, and manipulated word. He also estimated, based on direct mail media buys, the amount of cash that was pouring into the Fisk campaign. His figure was at least $3 million, and he predicted that the vast majority was coming from out of state. There was no way to verify this until after the election.

His report was e-mailed and sent overnight to every newspaper in the district, then followed up with aggressive phone calls. He updated it every day, then re-sent it and grew even more obnoxious on the phone. It finally paid off.

To his amazement, and great satisfaction, the three largest papers in the district informed him, separately and off the record of course, that they planned to run stinging editorials on the Fisk campaign in the upcoming Sunday editions.

And Nat’s luck continued. The same-sex marriage issue caught the attention of the New York Times, and a reporter arrived in Jackson to poke around. His name was Gilbert, and he soon made his way to the McCarthy campaign office, where Nat gave him an earful, off the record. He also gave Gilbert the phone numbers of the two g*y law students who were stalking Meyerchec and Spano.

Speaking off the record, they told Gilbert everything and showed him their file.

They had spent four days in Chicago and learned a lot. They met Meyerchec in his bar near Evanston, told him they were new to the city and looking for friends. They spent hours in the place, got roaring drunk with the regulars, and never once heard anyone mention anything about a lawsuit in Mississippi. In the photos in the Jackson paper, Meyerchec had blond hair and funky eyeglasses. In Chicago, the hair was darker and there was no eyewear. His smiling face was in one of the group photos they had taken at the bar. As for Spano, they visited the design center where he worked as a consultant for lower-end home buyers. They pretended to be new residents in an old building nearby, and they spent two hours with him. Noticing their accents, Spano at one point ask *l where they were from.