The Appeal (32 page)

After losing sleep for almost a week, he finally forced himself to confront the devil again. He stepped in front of the massive desk, swallowed hard, and said, “Some bad news, sir.”

“Where’s the money?” Mr. Kirkhead demanded.

“It’s not going to happen, sir. Their settlement fell through.”

Forgoing curse words, Mr. Prickhead said, “We’re calling the loan. Do it now.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“We can’t do that. They’ve been paying two thousand a month.”

“Super. That doesn’t even cover the interest. Call the loan. Now.”

“But why?”

“Just a couple of small reasons, Huffy. Number one, it’s been in default for at least a year. Number two, it’s grossly under-collateralized. As a banker, certainly you can understand these small problems.”

“But they’re trying.”

“Call the loan. Do it now, and if you don’t, then you’ll be either reassigned or dismissed.”

“That’s obscene.”

“I don’t care what you think.” Then he relented a bit and said, “It’s not my decision, Huffy. We have new ownership, and I have been ordered to call the loan.”

“But why?”

Kirkhead picked up the phone and offered it. “You want to call the man in Dallas?”

“This will bankrupt them.”

“They’ve been bankrupt for a long time. Now they can make it official.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“Talking to me, son?”

Huffy glared at the fat hairless head, then said, “Not really. More to that son of a bitch in Dallas.”

“We’ll keep that here, okay?”

Huffy returned to his office, slammed the door, and watched the walls while an hour passed. Prickhead would stop by soon for the follow-up.

__________

W
es was in a deposition downtown. Mary Grace was at her desk and took the call.

She admired Huffy for his bravery in extending much more credit than anyone had thought possible, but the sound of his voice always rattled her. “Good morning, Tom,” she said pleasantly.

“It’s not a good morning, Mary Grace,” he began. “It’s a bad morning, an awful morning, one of the worst ever.”

A heavy pause. “I’m listening.”

“The bank, not the bank you’ve been dealing with but another bank now, one owned by some people I’ve met only once and never care to see again, has decided that it can no longer wait to be paid. The bank, not me, is calling the loan.”

Mary Grace emitted a strange guttural sound that could have passed for an expletive but really wasn’t a word at all. Her first thought was of her father. Other than the Paytons’ signatures, the only security for the loan was a two-hundred-acre tract of farmland her father had owned for many years. It was near Bowmore, and it did not include the forty acres and family home. The bank would foreclose on the property.

“Any particular reason, Huffy?” she asked coolly.

“None whatsoever. The decision was not made in Hattiesburg. Second State sold out to the devil, if you will recall.”

“This doesn’t make sense.”

“I agree.”

“You’ll force us into bankruptcy, and the bank will get nothing.”

“Except for the farm.”

“So you’ll foreclose on the farm?”

“Someone will. I hope not me.”

“Smart move, Huffy, because when they foreclose on the courthouse steps in Bowmore there might be a killing.”

“Maybe they’ll get ole Prickhead.”

“Are you in your office?”

“Yes, with the door locked.”

“Wes is downtown. He’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Unlock the door.”

“No.”

__________

F
ifteen minutes later, Wes charged into Huffy’s office, his cheeks red with anger, his hands ready to strangle. “Where’s Prickhead?” he demanded.

Huffy jumped to his feet behind his desk and placed both hands in the air. “Be cool, Wes.”

“Where’s Prickhead?”

“Right now he’s in his car, driving to an urgent meeting, one that suddenly materialized ten minutes ago. Sit down, Wes.”

Wes took a deep breath, then slowly eased into a chair. Huffy watched him, then returned to his own chair. “It’s not his fault, Wes,” Huffy said. “Technically, the loan has been in default for almost two years. He could have done this months ago, but he didn’t. I know you don’t like him. I don’t like him. His wife doesn’t like him. But he’s been very patient. This was a decision made in the home office.”

“Give me a name at the home office.”

Huffy slid across a letter he’d received by fax. It was addressed to the Paytons, on New Vista Bank letterhead, and signed by a Mr. F. Patterson Duvall, vice president. “This arrived thirty minutes ago,” Huffy said. “I don’t know Mr. Duvall. I’ve called his office twice, but he’s in a very important meeting, one that I’m sure will last until we stop calling. It’s a waste of time, Wes.”

The letter demanded payment in full of $414,656.22, with daily interest kicking in at $83.50. Pursuant to the terms of the loan agreement, the Paytons had forty-eight hours to pay, or collection and foreclosure proceedings would commence. Of course, the resulting attorneys’ fees and court costs would also be tacked on to the amount due.

Wes read it slowly as he continued to cool down. He placed it back on the desk. “Mary Grace and I talk about this loan every day, Huffy. It’s a part of our marriage. We talk about the kids, the office, the debt to the bank, what’s for dinner. It’s always there, and we’ve busted our asses to pay off all other obligations so we
can bust our asses to pay off the bank. We came very close to giving you fifty thousand last week. We vowed to work ourselves ragged until this bank is out of our lives. Now this stunt. Now some moron in Dallas has decided he’s tired of seeing this past-due loan on his daily rap sheet, and he wants to get rid of it. You know what, Huffy—”

“What?”

“The bank just screwed itself. We’ll file for bankruptcy, and when you try to foreclose on my father-in-law’s property, I’ll put him in bankruptcy. And when we work our way out of bankruptcy, and we’re back on our feet, guess who ain’t getting paid.”

“The moron in Dallas?”

“You got it. The bank gets nothing. It’ll be wonderful. We can keep the $400,000 when we earn it.”

__________

L
ate that afternoon, Wes and Mary Grace called a firm meeting in The Pit. Other than the humiliation of filing for bankruptcy, which seemed to bother no one, there was little to worry about. In fact, the bank’s actions would give the firm some breathing room. The $2,000 monthly payments would cease, and the cash could certainly be used elsewhere.

The concern, of course, was the land owned by Mr. Shelby, Mary Grace’s father. Wes had a plan. He would find a friendly buyer who would appear at the foreclosure and write a check. Title would pass, and it would be held in “a handshake trust” until the Paytons could
buy it back, hopefully within a year. Neither Wes nor Mary Grace could stomach the idea of asking her father to join them at the bankruptcy court.

Forty-eight hours passed with no payment. Sticking to its word, the bank filed suit. Its lawyer, a local gentleman the Paytons knew well, called ahead of time and apologized. He’d represented the bank for years and could not afford to lose it as a client. Mary Grace accepted his apology and gave him her blessing to sue them.

The next day the Paytons filed for bankruptcy, both individually and as Payton & Payton, Attorneys-at-Law. They listed combined assets of $35,000—two old cars, furniture, office equipment—all of which was protected. They listed debts of $420,000. The filing effectively stayed the lawsuit, and would eventually render it useless. The
Hattiesburg American
reported it on its second page the following day.

Carl Trudeau read about it online and laughed out loud. “Sue me again,” he said with great satisfaction.

Within a week, three Hattiesburg law firms informed ole Prickhead that they were withdrawing their funds, closing their accounts, and moving their business down the street. There were at least eight other banks in town.

A wealthy trial lawyer named Jim McMay called Wes and offered assistance. The two had been friends for many years and had collaborated twice on product liability cases. McMay represented four Bowmore families in the Krane litigation, but had not pushed the cases
aggressively. Like the other trial lawyers suing Krane, he was waiting for the outcome of
Baker
and hoping to hit the jackpot if and when there was a settlement.

They met for breakfast at Nanny’s, and over biscuits and country ham McMay readily agreed to rescue the two hundred acres at foreclosure and keep the title until the Paytons could buy it back. Farmland in Cancer County wasn’t exactly selling at a premium, and Wes speculated that the Shelby property would fetch around $100,000, the only money the bank would collect from its foolish maneuver.

S
heila McCarthy was enduring the morning’s torture on the treadmill when she hit the stop button and gawked at the television in disbelief. The ad ran at 7:29, smack in the middle of the local news. It began with the provocative sight of two well-dressed young men kissing passionately while a minister of some variety smiled behind them. A husky voice-over announced, “Same-sex marriages are sweeping the country. In places like Massachusetts, New York, and California, laws are being challenged. Advocates of gay and lesbian marriages are pushing hard to force their lifestyles on the rest of our society.” A still photo of a wedding couple—male and female—at the altar was suddenly desecrated with a bold black X. “Liberal judges are sympathetic to the rights of same-sex marriages.” The photo was replaced with a video of a group of happy lesbians waiting to tie the knot in a mass ceremony. “Our families are under
attack from homosexual activists and the liberal judges who support them.” Next was a quick video of a mob burning an American flag. The voice said, “Liberal judges have approved the burning of our flag.” Then a quick shot of a magazine rack lined with copies of
Hustler
. “Liberal judges see nothing wrong with pornography.” Then a photo of a smiling family, mother and father and four children. “Will liberal judges destroy our families?” the narrator inquired ominously, leaving little doubt that they would if given half a chance. The family photo was ripped apart into two jagged pieces. Suddenly the handsome but serious face of Ron Fisk appeared. He looked sincerely at the camera and said, “Not in Mississippi. One man. One woman. I’m Ron Fisk, candidate for the supreme court. And I approved this ad.”

Dripping with sweat, her heart pounding even faster, Sheila sat on the floor and tried to think. The weatherman was prattling on, but she didn’t hear him. She lay down on her back, stretched out her arms and legs, and took deep breaths.

Gay marriage was a dead issue in Mississippi and would remain so forever. No one with an audience or a following had dared to suggest that the laws be changed to allow it. Every member of the state legislature could be expected to rail against it. Only one judge in the entire state—Phil Shingleton—had addressed it, and he had dismissed the Meyerchec/Spano lawsuit in record speed. The supreme court would probably deal with that case in a year or so, but Sheila expected a rather
terse review followed by a quick 9–0 vote affirming Judge Shingleton.

How, exactly, had she now been cast as a liberal judge who supported gay marriage?

The room was spinning. At a commercial break, she tensed and waited for another assault, but there was nothing but the squawking of a car dealer and frantic urgings of a discount-furniture retailer.

Fifteen minutes later, though, the ad was back. She lifted her head and watched in disbelief as the same images followed the same voice.

Her phone was ringing. Caller ID told her not to answer. She showered and dressed in a hurry and at 8:30 walked into her headquarters with a wide smile and warm “Good morning.” The four volunteers were subdued. Three televisions were running three different programs. Nat was in his office yelling at someone on the phone. He slammed the phone down, waved her inside, then closed the door behind her.

“You’ve seen it?” he said.

“Twice,” she said softly. On the surface, she seemed unfazed. Everyone else was rattled, and it was important to at least try to appear calm.

“Total saturation,” he said. “Jackson, Gulf Coast, Hattiesburg, Laurel, every fifteen minutes on all stations. Plus radio.”

“What kind of juice do you have?”

“Carrot,” he said and opened his small refrigerator. “They’re burning money, which, of course, means they’re raking it in by the truckload. Typical ambush.
Wait until October 1, then push the button and start printing cash. They did it last year in Illinois and Alabama. Two years ago in Ohio and Texas.” He poured two cups as he spoke.

“Sit down and relax, Nat,” she said. He did not.

“Attack ads must be answered in kind,” he said. “And quickly.”

“I’m not sure this is an attack ad. He never mentions my name.”

“He doesn’t have to. How many liberal judges are running against Mr. Fisk?”

“None that I know of.”

“As of this morning, dear, you are now officially a liberal judge.”

“Really? I don’t feel any different.”

“We have to answer this, Sheila.”

“I’m not getting dragged into a mudslinging fight over gay marriage.”

Nat finally wiggled himself into his chair and shut up. He drank his juice, stared at the floor, and waited for his breathing to relax.

She took a sip of carrot juice, then said with a smile, “This is deadly, isn’t it?”

“The juice?”

“The ad.”

“Potentially, yes. But I’m working on something.” He reached into a pile of rubble next to his desk and pulled out a thin file. He opened it and lifted three sheets of paper clipped together. “Listen to this. Mr. Meyerchec and Mr. Spano leased an apartment on
April 1 of this year. We have a copy of the lease. They waited thirty days, as required by law, then registered to vote. The next day, May 2, they applied for Mississippi driver’s licenses, took the exam, and passed. The Department of Public Safety issued licenses on May 4. A couple of months passed, during which there is no record of employment, business licenses, nothing official to indicate they were working here. Remember, they claim to be self-employed illustrators, whatever the hell that is.” He was riffling through the papers, checking facts here and there. “A survey of the illustrators who advertise various services in the yellow pages revealed that no one knows Meyerchec or Spano. Their apartment is in a big complex, lots of units, lots of neighbors, none of whom can remember seeing them. In gay circles, not a single person who was contacted has ever met them.”