"It's amazing," Ray said, trying to sound sufficiently awed. The world of yachting was one he had never been near, and he suspected that after this episode he would forever keep his distance.
"Built by the Italians," French said, tapping a railing made of some terribly expensive wood.
"Why do you stay out here, in the Gulf?" Ray asked.
"I'm an offshore kind of guy, ha, ha. If you know what I mean. Sit." French pointed, and they lowered themselves into two long deck chairs. When they were nestled in, French nodded to the shore. "You can barely see Biloxi, and this is close enough. I can do more work out here in one day than in a week at the office. Plus I'm transitioning from one house to the next. A divorce is in the works. This is where I hide."
"Sorry"
"This is the biggest yacht in Biloxi now, and most folks can spot it. The current wife thinks I've sold it, and if I get too close to the shore then her slimy little lawyer might swim out and take a picture of it. Ten miles is close enough."
The iced vodkas arrived, in tall narrow glasses, F&F engraved on the sides. Ray took a sip and the concoction burned all the way to his toes. French took a long pull and smacked his lips. "Whatta you think?" he asked proudly.
"Nice vodka," Ray said. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had one.
"Dickie brought fresh swordfish out for dinner. Sound okay?"
"Great."
"And the oysters are good now."
"I went to law school at Tulane. I had three years of fresh oysters."
"I know," French said and pulled a small radio from his shirt pocket and passed along their dinner selections to someone below. He glanced at his watch and decided they would eat in two hours.
"You went to school with Hassel Mangrum," French said.
"Yes, he was a year ahead of me."
"We share the same trainer. Hassel has done well here on the coast. Got in early with the asbestos boys."
"I haven't heard from Hassel in twenty years."
"You haven't missed much. He's a jerk now, I suspect he was a jerk in law school."
"He was. How'd you know I went to school with Mangrum?"
"Research, Ray, extensive research." He swigged the vodka again. Ray's third sip went straight to his brain.
"We spent a bunch of dough investigating Judge Atlee, and his family, and his background, his rulings, his finances, everything we could find. Nothing illegal or intrusive, mind you, but old-fashioned detective work. We knew about your divorce, what's his name, Lew the Liquidator?"
Ray just nodded. He wanted to say something derogatory about Lew Rodowski and he wanted to rebuke French for digging through his past, but for a second the vodka was blocking signals. So he nodded.
"We knew your salary as a law professor, it's public record in Virginia, you know."
"Yes it is."
"Not a bad salary, Ray, but then it's a great law school."
"It is indeed."
"Digging through your brother's past was quite an adventure."
"I'm sure it was. It's been an adventure for the family."
"We read every ruling your father issued in damage suits and wrongful death cases. There weren't many, but we picked up clues. He was conservative with his awards, but he also favored the little guy, the workingman. We knew he would follow the law, but we also knew that old chancellors often mold the law to fit their notion of fairness. I had clerks doing the grunt work, but I read every one of his important decisions. He was a brilliant man, Ray, and always fair. I never disagreed with one of his opinions."
"You picked my father for the Gibson case?"
"Yes. When we made the decision to file the case in Chancery Court and try it without a jury, we also decided we did not want a local chancellor to hear it. We have three. One is related to the Gibson family. One refuses to hear any matter other than divorces. One is eighty-four, senile, and hasn't left the house in three years. So we looked around the state and found three potential fill-ins. Fortunately, my father and your father go back sixty years, to Sewanee and then law school at Ole Miss. They weren't close friends over the years, but they kept in touch."
"Your father is still active?"
"No, he's in Florida now, retired, playing golf every day. I'm the sole owner of the firm. But my old man drove to Clanton, sat on the front porch with Judge Atlee, talked about the Civil War and Nathan Bedford Forrest. They even drove to Shiloh, walked around for two days - the hornet's nest, the bloody pond. Judge Atlee got all choked up when he stood where General Johnston fell."
"I've been there a dozen times," Ray said with a smile.
"You don't lobby a man like Judge Atlee. Earwigging is the ancient term."
"He put a lawyer in jail once for that," Ray said. "The guy came in before court began and tried to plead his case. The Judge threw him in jail for half a day."
"That was that Chadwick fella over in Oxford, wasn't it?" French said smugly, and Ray was speechless.
"Anyway, we had to impress upon Judge Atlee the importance of the Ryax litigation. We knew he wouldn't want to come to the coast and try the case, but he'd do it if he believed in the cause."
"He hated the coast."
"We knew that, believe me, it was a huge concern. But he was a man of great principle. After refighting the war up there for two days, Judge Atlee reluctantly agreed to hear the case."
"Doesn't the Supreme Court assign the special chancellors?" Ray asked. The fourth sip sort of slid down, without burning, and the vodka was tasting better.
French shrugged it off. "Sure, but there are ways. We have friends."
In Fatten French's world, anyone could be bought.
The steward was back with fresh drinks. Not that they were needed, but they were taken anyway. French was too hyper to sit still for long. "Lemme show you the boat," he said, and bounced out of his chair with no effort. Ray climbed out carefully, balancing his glass.
Chapter 31
Dinner was in the captain's galley, a mahogany-paneled dining room with walls adorned with models of ancient clippers and gunboats and maps of the New World and the Far East and even a collection of antique muskets thrown in to give the impression that the King of Torts had been around for centuries. It was on the main deck behind the bridge, just down a narrow hallway from the kitchen, where a Vietnamese chef was hard at work. The formal dining area was around an oval marble table that seated a dozen and weighed at least a ton and made Ray ask himself how, exactly, the King of Torts stayed afloat.
The captain's table sat only two this evening, and above it was a small chandelier that rocked with the sea. Ray was at one end, French at the other. The first wine of the night was a white burgundy that, following the scalding by two iced vodkas, was tasteless to Ray. Not to his host. French had knocked back three of the vodkas, had in fact drained all three glasses, and his tongue was beginning to thicken slightly. But he tasted every hint of fruit in the wine, even got a whiff of the oak barrels, and, as all wine snobs do, had to pass this useful information along to Ray "Here's to Ryax," French said, reaching forward with his glass in a delayed toast. Ray touched his glass but said nothing. It was not a night for him to say much, and he knew it. He would just listen. His host would get drunk and say enough.
"Ryax saved me, Ray," French said as he swirled his wine and admired it.
"In what way?"