Before adjourning, Tony urged secrecy, a vital element of the campaign. "If the trial lawyers find out now that we have a horse in the race, they will crank up their fund-raising machine. They beat you the last time."
They were irked by this second reference to "their" loss in the last race, as if they would've won if only they'd had Tony. But everyone let it pass.
The mere mention of the trial lawyers immediately refocused their attention.
They were too excited about the race to bicker.
The class action claimed to include "over three hundred" victims injured in various ways by the gross negligence of Krane Chemical at its Bow-more plant. Only twenty were named as plaintiffs, and of these twenty perhaps half had significant afflictions.
Whether their ailments were linked to polluted groundwater would be a question for another day.
It was filed in Hattiesburg at the federal courthouse, a good stone's throw from the Forrest County Circuit Court building, where Dr. Leona Rocha and her jury had rendered its verdict barely two months earlier. Lawyers Sterling Bintz of Philadelphia and F. Clyde Hardin of Bowmore were on hand to do the filing, and also to chat with any reporters who'd responded to their prefiling press alert. Sadly, there were no television cameras, only a couple of green print reporters. At least for F. Clyde, though, it was an adventure. He hadn't been near a federal courthouse in over thirty years.
For Mr. Bintz, the pathetic lack of recognition was appalling. He had dreamed of huge headlines and long stories with splendid photographs. He had filed many important class actions and had usually managed to get them adequately covered by the media.
What was wrong with the rural Mississippians?
F. Clyde hurried back to Bowmore, to his office, where Miriam was lingering to see how things went. "What channel?" she asked.
"None."
"What?" It was without a doubt the biggest day in the history of the firm of F. Clyde Hardin amp; Associates, and Miriam couldn't wait to watch it all on television.
"We decided not to deal with those reporters. Can't trust them," F. Clyde explained as he glanced at his watch. It was a quarter after five, past time for Miriam to leave the office. "No need to stick around," he said, flinging his jacket. "I've got things under control here."
She quickly left, disappointed, and F. Clyde went straight for the office bottle.
The chilled, thick vodka soothed him immediately, and he began to replay his big day. With a bit of luck, the Hattiesburg paper would include his photo.
Bintz was claiming three hundred clients. At $500 each, F. Clyde was due a nice referral fee. So far he'd been paid only $3,500, most of which he used for back taxes.
He poured a second drink and said what the hell. Bintz wouldn't screw him, because he needed him. He, F. Clyde Hardin, was now an attorney of record in one of the most important class action cases in the country. All roads ran through Bowmore, and F. Clyde was the man.
Chapter 13
It was explained to his firm that Mr. Fisk would be in Jackson for the entire day, something to do with personal business. In other words, don't ask. As a partner he had earned the right to come and go as he pleased, though Fisk was so disciplined and organized that anyone in the firm could usually find him within five minutes.
He left Doreen on the front steps at dawn. She was invited to make the trip, but with a job and three kids it simply wasn't possible, not with such short notice.
Ron left the house without breakfast, not that time was a factor. Tony Zachary had said, "We'll eat on the plane," and this was enough to entice Ron to skip his bran flakes.
The Brookhaven airstrip was too small for the jet, so Ron happily agreed to rush off to the airport in Jackson. He had never been within a hundred yards of a private jet, and had never given much thought to flying on one. Tony Zachary was waiting at the general aviation terminal with a hearty handshake and a vigorous "Good morning, Your Honor." They walked purposefully across the tarmac, past a few old turboprops and pistons-smaller, inferior vessels. Waiting in the distance was a magnificent carrier, as sleek and exotic as a spaceship. Its navigation lights were flickering. Its handsome stairway was extended down, a splendid invitation to its special passengers. Ron followed Tony up the steps to the landing, where a pretty flight attendant in a short skirt welcomed them aboard, took their jackets, and showed them their selection of seats.
"Ever been on a Gulfstream before?" Tony asked as they settled in. One of the pilots said hello as he pushed a button to retract the stairway.
"No," Ron said, gawking at the polished mahogany and soft leather and gold trimmings.
"This is a G5, the Mercedes of private jets. This one could take us to Paris, nonstop."
Then let's go to Paris instead of Washington, Ron thought as he leaned into the aisle to absorb the length and size of the airplane. A quick count revealed seating for at least a dozen pampered folks. "It's beautiful," he said. He wanted to ask who owned it. Who was paying for the trip? Who was behind this gold-plated recruitment?
But to inquire would be rude, he told himself. Just relax, enjoy the trip, enjoy the day, and remember all the details because Doreen will want to hear them.
The flight attendant was back. She explained emergency procedures, then asked what they might like for breakfast. Tony wanted scrambled eggs, bacon, and hash browns.
Ron ordered the same.
"Bathroom and kitchen are in the back," Tony said, as if he traveled by G5 every day. "The sofa pulls out if you need a nap." Coffee arrived as they began to taxi.
The flight attendant offered a variety of newspapers. Tony grabbed one, yanked it open, waited a few seconds, then asked, "You keeping up with that Bowmore litigation?"
Ron pretended to look at a newspaper as he continued to soak in the luxury of the jet. "Somewhat," he said.
"They filed a class action yesterday," Tony said in disgust. "One of those national tort firms out of Philadelphia. I guess the vultures have arrived." It was his first comment to Ron on the subject, but it definitely would not be his last.
The G5 took off. It was one of three owned by various entities controlled by the Trudeau Group, and leased through a separate charter company that made it impossible to track the true owner. Ron watched the city of Jackson disappear below him. Minutes later, when they leveled off at forty-one thousand feet, he could smell the rich aroma of bacon in the skillet.
At Dulles general aviation, they were whisked into the rear of a long black limo, and forty minutes later they were in the District, on K Street. Tony explained enroute that they had a 10:00 a.m. meeting with one group of potential backers, then a quiet lunch, then a 2:00 p.m. meeting with another group. Ron would be home in time for dinner. He was almost dizzy from the excitement of such luxurious travel and feeling so important.
On the seventh floor of a new building, they stepped into the rather plain lobby of the American Family Alliance and spoke to an even plainer receptionist. Tony's summary on the jet had been: "This group is perhaps the most powerful of all the conservative Christian advocates. Lots of members, lots of cash, lots of clout. The Washington politicians love them and fear them. Run by a man named Walter Utley, a former congressman who got fed up with all the liberals in Congress and left to form his own group."
Fisk had heard of Walter Udey and his American Family Alliance.
They were escorted into a large conference room where Mr. Utley himself was waiting with a warm smile and handshake and several introductions to other men, all of whom had been included in Tony's briefing on the jet. They represented such groups as Prayer