The Appeal (10 page)

From the same publication, a photo and bio of James Wesley Payton. Born in Monroe, Louisiana, lettered in football at Southern Miss, law school at Tulane, three years as an assistant prosecutor, member of all the available trial lawyer groups, Rotary Club, Civitan, and so on.

Two backwater ambulance chasers who had just orchestrated Carl’s exit from the Forbes 400 list of the richest Americans.

Two children, an illegal nanny, public schools, Episcopal church, near foreclosures on both home and office, near repossessions of two automobiles, a law practice (no other partners, just support staff) that was now ten years old and was once fairly profitable (by small-town standards) but now sought refuge in an abandoned dime store where the rent was at least three months in arrears. And then the good part—heavy debts, at least $400,000 to Second State Bank on a line of credit that is basically unsecured. No payments, not even on the interest, in five months. Second State Bank was a local outfit with ten offices in south Mississippi. Four hundred thousand dollars borrowed for the sole
purpose of financing the lawsuit against Krane Chemical.

“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.

__________

T
oliver 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.

A
t 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.”

“We’re more concerned about you,” Mary Grace added.

No one was leaving. No one was threatening.

A deal had been struck long ago, though it was not in writing. If and when the Bowmore cases paid off, the money would be shared by the entire firm. Maybe not equally, but everyone present knew they would be rewarded.

“How about the bank?” Rusty asked. There were no secrets now. They knew Huffy had stopped by the day before, and they knew how much Second State Bank was owed.

“I stiff-armed the bank,” Wes said. “If they push a little more, then we’ll file Chapter 11 and screw ’em.”

“I vote to screw the bank,” Sherman said.

It seemed to be unanimous around the room that the bank should get screwed, though everyone knew the truth. The lawsuit would not have been possible without
Huffy’s lobbying on their behalf and convincing Mr. Prickhead to raise the line of credit. They also knew that the Paytons would not rest until the bank was paid.

“We should clear twelve thousand from the
Raney
case,” Mary Grace said. “And another ten thousand from the dog bite.”

“Maybe fifteen,” Wes said.

“Then what? Where is the next settlement?” Mary Grace threw this on the table for all to consider.

“Geeter,” Sherman said. It was more of a suggestion.

Wes looked at Mary Grace. Both gave blank looks to Sherman. “Who’s Geeter?”

“Geeter happens to be a client. Slip and fall at the Kroger store. Came in about eight months ago.” There were some odd glances around the table. It was obvious that the two lawyers had forgotten one of their clients.

“I don’t recall that one,” Wes admitted.

“What’s the potential?” Mary Grace asked.

“Not much. Shaky liability. Maybe twenty thousand. I’ll review the file with you on Monday.”

“Good idea,” Mary Grace said and quickly moved on to something else. “I know the phones are ringing, and we are definitely broke, but we are not about to start taking a bunch of junk. No real estate or bankruptcies. No criminal cases unless they can pay the freight. No contested divorces—we’ll do the quickies for a thousand bucks, but everything must be agreed on. This is a personal injury firm, and if we get loaded down
with the small stuff, we won’t have time for the good cases. Any questions?”

“There’s a lot of weird stuff coming in by phone,” Tabby said. “And from all over the country.”

“Just stick to the basics,” Wes said. “We can’t handle cases in Florida or Seattle. We need quick settlements here at home, at least for the next twelve months.”

“How long will the appeals take?” Vicky asked.

“Eighteen to twenty-four months,” Mary Grace answered. “And there’s not much we can do to push things along. It’s a process, and that’s why it’s important to hunker down now and generate some fees elsewhere.”

“Which brings up another point,” Wes said. “The verdict changes the landscape dramatically. First, expectations are through the roof right now, and our other Bowmore clients will soon be pestering us. They want their day in court, their big verdict. We must be patient, but we can’t let these people drive us crazy. Second, the vultures are descending on Bowmore. Lawyers will be chasing one another looking for clients. It will be a free-for-all. Any contact from another attorney is to be reported immediately. Third, the verdict places even greater pressure on Krane. Their dirty tricks will get even dirtier. They have people watching us. Trust no one. Speak to no one. Nothing leaves this office. All papers are shredded. As soon as we can afford it, we’ll hire nighttime security. Bottom line—watch everyone and watch your backs.”

“This is fun,” Vicky said. “Like a movie.”

“Any questions?”

“Yes,” Rusty said. “Can Sherman and I start chasing ambulances again? It’s been four months, you know, since the beginning of the trial. I really miss the excitement.”

“I haven’t seen the inside of an ER in weeks,” Sherman added. “And I miss the sounds of the sirens.”

It wasn’t clear if they were joking or not, but the moment was humorous and good for a laugh. Mary Grace finally said, “I really don’t care what you do; I just don’t want to know everything.”

“Meeting adjourned,” Wes said. “And it’s Friday. Everyone has to leave at noon. We’re locking the doors. See you Monday.”

__________

T
hey picked up Mack and Liza from school, and after fast food for lunch they headed south through the countryside for an hour, until they saw the first sign for Lake Garland. The roads narrowed before finally turning to gravel. The cabin was at the dead end of a dirt trail, perched above the water on stilts and wedged into a tight spot where the woods met the shoreline. A short pier ran from the porch into the water, and beyond it the vast lake seemed to stretch for miles. There was no other sign of human activity, either on the lake or anywhere around it.

The cabin was owned by a lawyer friend in Hattiesburg, a man Wes had once worked for and who had declined to get involved in the Bowmore mess.
That decision had seemed a wise one, until about forty-eight hours ago. Now there was considerable doubt.

The original idea had been to drive a few more hours to Destin and have a long weekend on the beach. But they simply couldn’t afford it.

They unloaded the car as they roamed through the spacious cabin, an A-frame with a huge loft, which Mack surveyed and declared perfect for another night of “camping out.”