The Appeal (5 page)

Brianna found her soul mate, another anorexic trophy with the same unusual body—everything superbly starved but the ridiculous breasts. Carl went straight for the bar, and almost made it before he was practically tackled by the one jerk he hoped to avoid. “Carl, ole boy, bad news down south I hear,” the man boomed as loudly as possible.

“Yes, very bad,” Carl said in a much lower voice as he grabbed a champagne flute and began to drain it.

Pete Flint was number 228 on the
Forbes
list of the 400 richest Americans. Carl was number 310, and each man knew exactly where the other fit on the roster. Numbers 87 and 141 were also in the crowd, along with a host of unranked contenders.

“Thought your boys had things under control,” Flint pressed on, slurping a tall glass full of either scotch or bourbon. He somehow managed a frown while working hard to conceal his delight.

“Yes, we thought so, too,” Carl said, wishing he could slap the fat jowls twelve inches away.

“What about the appeal?” Flint asked gravely.

“We’re in great shape.”

At last year’s auction, Flint had valiantly hung on to the frenzied end and walked away with the
Brain After Gunshot
, a $6 million artistic waste but one that
launched the MuAb’s current capital campaign. No doubt he would be in the hunt for tonight’s grand prize.

“Good thing we shorted Krane last week,” he said.

Carl started to curse him but kept his cool. Flint ran a hedge fund famous for its daring. Had he really shorted Krane Chemical in anticipation of a bad verdict? Carl’s puzzled glare concealed nothing.

“Oh yes,” Flint went on, pulling on his glass and smacking his lips. “Our man down there said you were screwed.”

“We’ll never pay a dime,” Carl said gamely.

“You’ll pay in the morning, ole boy. We’re betting Krane’s stock drops 20 percent.” And with that he turned and walked away, leaving Carl to finish off his drink and lunge for another. Twenty percent? Carl’s laser-quick mind did the math. He owned 45 percent of the outstanding common shares of Krane Chemical, a company with a market value of $3.2 billion, based on the day’s closing price. A 20 percent decline would cost him $280 million, on paper. No real cash losses, of course, but still a rough day around the office.

Ten percent was more like it, he thought. The boys in finance agreed with him.

Could Flint’s hedge fund short a significant chunk of Krane’s stock without Carl knowing about it? He stared at a confused bartender and pondered the question. Yes, it was possible, but not likely. Flint was simply rubbing a little salt.

The museum’s director appeared from nowhere,
and Carl was delighted to see him. He would never mention the verdict, if he in fact knew about it. He would say only nice things to Carl, and of course he would comment on how fabulous Brianna looked. He would ask about Sadler and inquire into the renovation of their home in the Hamptons.

They chatted about such things as they carried their drinks through the crowded lobby, dodging little pockets of dangerous conversations, and settled themselves before
Abused Imelda
. “Magnificent, isn’t it?” the director mused.

“Beautiful,” Carl said, glancing to his left as number 141 happened by. “What will it go for?”

“We’ve been debating that all day around here. Who knows with this crowd. I say at least five million.”

“And what’s it worth?”

The director smiled as a photographer snapped their picture. “Now, that’s an entirely different issue, isn’t it? The sculptor’s last major work was sold to a Japanese gentleman for around two million. Of course, the Japanese gentleman was not donating large sums of money to our little museum.”

Carl took another sip and acknowledged the game. MuAb’s campaign goal was $100 million over five years. According to Brianna, they were about halfway there and needed a big boost from the evening’s auction.

An art critic with the
Times
introduced himself and joined their conversation. Wonder if he knows about the verdict, Carl thought. The critic and the director
discussed the Argentine sculptor and his mental problems as Carl studied
Imelda
and asked himself if he really wanted it permanently situated in the foyer of his luxurious penthouse. His wife certainly did.

T
he Paytons’ temporary home was a three-bedroom apartment on the second level of an old complex near the university. Wes had lived nearby in his college days and still found it hard to believe he was back in the neighborhood. But there had been so many drastic changes it was difficult to dwell on just one.

How temporary? That was the great question between husband and wife, though the issue hadn’t been discussed in weeks, nor would it be discussed now. Maybe in a day or two, when the fatigue and the shock wore off and they could steal a quiet moment and talk about the future. Wes eased the car through the parking lot, passing an overfilled Dumpster with debris littered around it. Mainly beer cans and broken bottles. The college boys humored themselves by hurling their empties from the upper floors, across the lot, above the cars, in the general direction of the Dumpster. When the
bottles crashed, the noise boomed through the complex and the students were amused. Others were not. For the two sleep-deprived Paytons, the racket was at times unbearable.

The owner, an old client, was widely considered the worst slumlord in town, by the students anyway. He offered the place to the Paytons, and their handshake deal called for a thousand bucks a month in rent. They had lived there for seven months, paid for three, and the landlord insisted he was not worried. He was patiently waiting in line with many other creditors. The law firm of Payton & Payton had once proven it could attract clients and generate fees, and its two partners were certainly capable of a dramatic comeback.

Try this comeback, Wes thought as he turned in to a parking place. Is a verdict of $41 million drama enough? For a moment he felt feisty, then he was tired again.

Slaves to a dreadful habit, both got out of the car and grabbed their briefcases in the rear seat. “No,” Mary Grace announced suddenly. “We are not working tonight. Leave these in the car.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

They hustled up the stairs, loud raunchy rap spilling from a window nearby. Mary Grace rattled the keys and unlocked the door, and suddenly they were inside, where both children were watching television with Ramona, their Honduran nanny. Liza, the nine-year-old, rushed forth yelling, “Mommy, we won, we won!”
Mary Grace lifted her in the air and clutched her tightly.

“Yes, dear, we won.”

“Forty billion!”

“Millions, dear, not billions.”

Mack, the five-year-old, ran to his father, who yanked him up, and for a long moment they stood in the narrow foyer and squeezed their children. For the first time since the verdict, Wes saw tears in his wife’s eyes.

“We saw you on TV,” Liza was saying.

“You looked tired,” Mack said.

“I am tired,” Wes said.

Ramona watched from a distance, a tight smile barely visible. She wasn’t sure what the verdict meant, but she understood enough to be pleased with the news.

Overcoats and shoes were removed, and the little Payton family fell onto the sofa, a very nice thick leather one, where they hugged and tickled and talked about school. Wes and Mary Grace had managed to keep most of their furnishings, and the shabby apartment was decorated with fine things that not only reminded them of the past but, more important, reminded them of the future. This was just a stop, an unexpected layover.

The den floor was covered with notebooks and papers, clear evidence that the homework had been done before the television was turned on.

“I’m starving,” Mack announced as he tried in vain to undo his father’s tie.

“Mom says we’re having macaroni and cheese,” Wes said.

“All right!” Both kids voiced their approval, and Ramona eased into the kitchen.

“Does this mean we get a new house?” Liza asked.

“I thought you liked this place,” Wes said.

“I do, but we’re still looking for a new house, right?”

“Of course we are.”

They had been careful with the children. They had explained the basics of the lawsuit to Liza—a bad company polluted water that harmed many people—and she quickly declared that she didn’t like the company, either. And if the family had to move into an apartment to fight the company, then she was all for it.

But leaving their fine new home had been traumatic. Liza’s last bedroom was pink and white and had everything a little girl could want. Now she shared a smaller room with her brother, and though she didn’t complain, she was curious about how long the arrangement might last. Mack was generally too preoccupied with full-day kindergarten to worry about living quarters.

Both kids missed the old neighborhood, where the homes were large and the backyards had pools and gym sets. Friends were next door or just around the corner. The school was private and secure. Church was a block away and they knew everyone there.

Now they attended a city elementary school where there were far more black faces than white, and they worshipped in a downtown Episcopal church that welcomed everyone.

“We won’t move anytime soon,” Mary Grace said. “But maybe we can start looking.”

“I’m starving,” Mack said again.

The topic of housing was routinely avoided when one of the kids raised it, and Mary Grace finally rose to her feet. “Let’s go cook,” she said to Liza. Wes found the remote and said to Mack, “Let’s watch
SportsCenter.”
Anything but local news.

“Sure.”

Ramona was boiling water and dicing a tomato. Mary Grace hugged her quickly and said, “A good day?” Yes, a good day, she agreed. No problems at school. Homework was already finished. Liza drifted off to her bedroom. She had yet to show any interest in kitchen matters.

“A good day for you?” Ramona asked.

“Yes, very good. Let’s use the white cheddar.” She found a block of it in the fridge and began grating it.

“You can relax now?” Ramona asked.

“Yes, for a few days anyway.” Through a friend at church, they had found Ramona hiding and half-starved in a shelter in Baton Rouge, sleeping on a cot and eating boxed food sent south for hurricane victims. She had survived a harrowing three-month journey from Central America, through Mexico, then Texas, and on to Louisiana, where none of the things she had been promised materialized. No job, no host family, no paperwork, no one to take care of her.

Under normal circumstances, hiring an illegal and unnaturalized nanny had never occurred to the Paytons.
They quickly adopted her, taught her to drive but only on a few selected streets, taught her the basics of the cell phone, computer, and kitchen appliances, and pressed her to learn English. She had a good foundation from a Catholic school back home, and she spent her daytime hours holed up in the apartment cleaning and mimicking the voices on television. In eight months, her progress was impressive. She preferred to listen, though, especially to Mary Grace, who needed someone to unload on. During the past four months, on the rare nights when Mary Grace prepared dinner, she chatted nonstop while Ramona absorbed every word. It was wonderful therapy, especially after a brutal day in a courtroom crowded with high-strung men.

“No trouble with the car?” Mary Grace asked the same question every night. Their second car was an old Honda Accord that Ramona had yet to damage. For many good reasons, they were terrified of turning loose on the streets of Hattiesburg an illegal, unlicensed, and quite uninsured alien in a Honda with a zillion miles and their two happy little children in the rear seat. They had trained Ramona to travel a memorized route through the backstreets, to the school, to the grocery, and, if necessary, to their office. If the police stopped her, they planned to beg the cops, the prosecutor, and the judge. They knew them well.

Wes knew for a fact that the presiding city judge had his own illegal pulling his weeds and cutting his grass.

“A good day,” Ramona said. “No problem. Everything is fine.”

A good day indeed, Mary Grace thought to herself as she began melting cheese.

The phone rang and Wes reluctantly picked up the receiver. The number was unlisted because a crackpot had made threats. They used their cell phones for virtually everything. He listened, said something, hung up, and walked to the stove to disrupt the cooking.

“Who was it?” Mary Grace asked with concern. Every call to the apartment was greeted with suspicion.

“Sherman, at the office. Says there are some reporters hanging around, looking for the stars.” Sherman was one of the paralegals.

“Why is he at the office?” Mary Grace asked.

“Just can’t get enough, I guess. Do we have any olives for the salad?”

“No. What did you tell him?”

“I told him to shoot at one of them and the rest’ll disappear.”

“Toss the salad, please,” she said to Ramona.

They huddled over a card table wedged in a corner of the kitchen, all five of them. They held hands as Wes prayed and gave thanks for the good things of life, for family and friends and school. And for the food. He was also thankful for a wise and generous jury and a fantastic result, but he would save that for later. The salad was passed first, then the macaroni and cheese.

“Hey, Dad, can we camp out?” Mack blurted, after he’d swallowed.

“Of course!” Wes said, his back suddenly aching. Camping out in the apartment meant layering the den
floor with blankets and quilts and pillows and sleeping there, usually with the television on late at night, usually on Friday nights. It worked only if Mom and Dad joined the fun. Ramona was always invited but wisely declined.

“Same bedtime, though,” Mary Grace said. “This is a school night.”

“Ten o’clock,” said Liza, the negotiator.

“Nine,” said Mary Grace, a thirty-minute add-on that made both kids smile.

Mary Grace was knee to knee with her children, savoring the moment and happy that the fatigue might soon be over. Maybe she could rest now, and take them to school, visit their classes, and eat lunch with them. She longed to be a mother, nothing more, and it would be a gloomy day when she was forced to reenter a courtroom.