The Appeal Read Free Page B

battle scars still very fresh.
    The gas gauge showed less than a quarter of a tank, something that Wes would have barely noticed two years earlier. Now it was a much more serious matter. Back then he drove a BMW—Mary Grace had a Jaguar—and when he needed fuel, he simply pulled in to his favorite station and filled the tank with a creditcard. He never saw the bills; they were handled by his bookkeeper. Now the credit cards were gone, as were the BMW and the Jaguar, and the same bookkeeper was working at half salary and doling out a few dollars in cash to keep the Payton firm just above the waterline.
    Mary Grace glanced at the gauge, too, a recently acquired habit. She noticed and remembered the price of everything—a gallon of gas, a loaf of bread, a half gallon of milk. She was the saver and he was the spender, but not too many years ago, when the clients were calling and the cases were settling, she had relaxed a bit too much and enjoyed their success. Saving and investing had not been a priority. They were young, the firm was growing, the future had no limits.
    Whatever she had managed to put into mutual funds had long since been devoured by the
Baker
case.
    An hour earlier they had been broke, on paper, with ruinous debts far outweighing whatever flimsy assets they might list. Now things were different. The liabilities had not gone away, but the black side of their balance sheet had certainly improved.
    Or had it?
    When might they see some or all of this wonderful verdict? Might Krane now offer a settlement? How long would the appeal take? How much time could they now devote to the rest of their practice?
    Neither wanted to ponder the questions that were haunting both of them. They were simply too tired and too relieved. For an eternity they had talked of littleelse, and now they talked about nothing. Tomorrow or the next day they could begin the debriefing.
    “We’re almost out of gas,” she said.
    No retort came to his weary mind, so Wes said, “What about dinner?”
    “Macaroni and cheese with the kids.”
    The trial had not only drained them of their energy and assets; it had also burned away any excess weight they might have been carrying at the outset. Wes was down at least fifteen pounds, though he didn’t know for sure because he hadn’t stepped on the scale in months. Nor was he about to inquire into this delicate matter with his wife, but it was obvious she needed to eat. They had skipped many meals—breakfasts when they were scrambling to dress the kids and get them to school, lunches when one argued motions in Harrison’s office while the other prepared for the next cross-examination, dinners when they worked until midnight and simply forgot to eat. PowerBars and energy drinks had kept them going.
    “Sounds great,” he said, and turned left onto a street that would take them home.
    __________
    R atzlaff and two other lawyers took their seats at the sleek leather table in a corner of Mr. Trudeau’s office suite. The walls were all glass and provided magnificent views of skyscrapers packed into the financial district, though no one was in the mood for scenery. Mr. Trudeau was on the phone across the room behind hischrome desk. The lawyers waited nervously. They had talked nonstop to the eyewitnesses down in Mississippi but still had few answers.
    The boss finished his phone conversation and strode purposefully across the room. “What happened?” he snapped. “An hour ago you guys were downright cocky. Now we got our asses handed to us. What happened?” He sat down and glared at Ratzlaff.
    “Trial by jury. It’s full of risks,” Ratzlaff said.
    “I’ve been through trials, plenty of them, and I usually win. I thought we were paying the best shysters in the business. The best mouthpieces money can buy. We spared no expense, right?”
    “Oh yes. We paid dearly. Still paying.”
    Mr. Trudeau slapped the table and barked, “What went wrong?!”
    Well, Ratzlaff thought to himself and wanted