Three Classic Thrillers (73 page)

When the world was safe again, Rudd hung up and stuck a fork into the center of his swordfish. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Damned Russians. Anyway, I want you to run, Ron. It’s important to the state. We have got to get our court in line.”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“And you have my complete support. Nothing public, mind you, but I’ll work my ass off in the background. I’ll raise serious cash. I’ll crack the whip, break some arms, the usual routine down there. It’s my game, son, trust me.”

“What if—”

“No one beats me in Mississippi. Just ask the governor. He was twenty points down with two months to go, and was trying to do it himself. Didn’t need my help. I flew down, had a prayer meeting, the boy got converted, and he won in a landslide. I don’t like to get involved down there, but I will. And this race is that important. Can you do it?”

“I think so.”

“Don’t be silly, Ron. This is a onetime chance to do something great. Think of it, you, at the age of, uh—”

“Thirty-nine.”

“Thirty-nine, damned young, but you’re on the Supreme Court of Mississippi. And once we get you there, you’ll never leave. Just think about it.”

“I’m thinking very hard, sir.”

“Good.”

The phone hummed again, probably the president. “Sorry,” Rudd said as he stuck it in his ear and took a huge bite of fish.

__________

T
he third and final stop on the tour was at the office of the Tort Reform Network on Connecticut Avenue.
With Tony back in charge, they blitzed through the introductions and short speeches. Fisk answered a few benign questions, much lighter fare than what had been served up by the religious boys that morning. Once again, he was overwhelmed by the impression that everyone was going through the motions. It was important for them to touch and hear their candidate, but there seemed to be little interest in a serious evaluation. They were relying on Tony, and since he’d found his man, then so had they.

Unknown to Ron Fisk, the entire forty-minute meeting was captured by a hidden camera and sent upstairs to a small media room where Barry Rinehart was watching carefully. He had a thick file on Fisk, one with photos and various summaries, but he was anxious to hear his voice, watch his eyes and hands, listen to his answers. Was he photogenic, telegenic, well dressed, handsome enough? Was his voice reassuring, trustworthy? Did he sound intelligent or dull? Was he nervous in front of such a group, or calm and confident? Could he be packaged and properly marketed?

After fifteen minutes, Barry was convinced. The only negative was a hint of nervousness, but then that was to be expected. Yank a man out of Brookhaven and thrust him before a strange crowd in a strange city and he’s likely to stutter a few times. Nice voice, nice face, decent suit. Barry had certainly worked with less.

He would never meet Ron Fisk, and, as in all of Barry’s campaigns, the candidate would never have the slightest clue about who was pulling the strings.

__________

F
lying home, Tony ordered a whiskey sour and tried to force a drink on Ron, who declined and stuck with coffee. It was the perfect setting for a drink—aboard a luxurious jet, with a gorgeous young lady as the bartender, at the end of a long and stressful day, with no one in the world watching and knowing.

“Just coffee,” Ron said. Regardless of the setting, he knew he was still being evaluated. Plus, he was a teetotaler anyway. The decision was easy.

Not that Tony was much of a drinker. He took a few sips of his cocktail, loosened his tie, settled deep into his seat, and eventually said, “Rumor has it that this McCarthy gal hits the booze pretty hard.”

Ron simply shrugged. The rumor had not made its way to Brookhaven. He figured that at least 50 percent of the people there couldn’t name any of the three justices from the southern district, let alone their habits, good or bad.

Another sip, and Tony kept going. “Both of her parents were heavy drinkers. Of course, they’re from the Coast, so that’s not unexpected. Her favorite hangout is a club called Tuesday’s, near the reservoir. Ever hear of it?”

“No.”

“Kind of a meat market for the middle-aged swingers, so I hear. Never been there myself.”

Fisk refused to take the bait. Such low gossip seemed to bore him. This didn’t bother Tony. In fact, he found
it admirable. Let the candidate keep the high ground. The mud would be slung by others.

“How long have you known Senator Rudd?” Fisk asked, changing the subject.

“A long time.” And for the remainder of the short trip they talked about their great senator and his colorful career.

__________

R
on raced home, still floating from such a heady encounter with power and its trappings. Doreen was waiting for the details. They ate warmed-up spaghetti while the kids finished homework and prepared for bed.

She had many questions, and Ron struggled with some of the answers. Why were so many diverse groups willing to spend so much on an unknown and thoroughly inexperienced politician? Because they were committed. Because they preferred bright, clean-cut young men with the right beliefs and without the baggage of prior service. And if Ron said no, they would find another candidate just like him. They were determined to win, to clean up the court. It was a national movement, and a critical one.

The fact that her husband had dined alone with Senator Myers Rudd was the clincher. They would take a dramatic plunge into the unknown world of politics, and they would conquer.

B
arry Rinehart took the shuttle to LaGuardia, and from there a private car to the Mercer hotel in SoHo. He checked in, showered, and changed into a heavier wool suit because snow was expected. He picked up a fax at the front desk, then walked eight blocks to a tiny Vietnamese restaurant near the Village, one that had yet to appear in the travel guides. Mr. Trudeau preferred it for discreet meetings. It was empty and he was early, so Barry settled himself onto a bar stool and ordered a drink.

__________

F
. Clyde Hardin’s cheap class action may have been small news in Mississippi, but it was a far better story in New York. The daily financial publications ran with it, and the battered shares of Krane’s common stock took another drubbing.

Mr. Trudeau had spent the day working the phones and yelling at Bobby Ratzlaff. Krane’s stock had been trading between $18.00 and $20.00, but the class action knocked it back a few bucks. It closed at $14.50, a new low, and Carl pretended to be upset. Ratzlaff, who had borrowed a million bucks from his retirement fund, seemed even more depressed.

The lower the better. Carl wanted the stock to fall as far as possible. He’d already lost a billion on paper and he could lose more, because one day it would all come roaring back. Unknown to anyone, except two bankers in Zurich, Carl was already buying Krane’s stock through a wonderfully nebulous company in Panama. He was carefully gathering shares in small lots so that his buying would not upset the downward trend. Five thousand shares on a slow day and twenty thousand on a busy one, but nothing that would draw attention. Fourth-quarter earnings were due soon, and Carl had been cooking the books since Christmas. The stock would continue to slide. Carl would continue to buy.

He sent Ratzlaff away after dark, then returned a few calls. At seven, he crawled into the backseat of his Bentley and Toliver drove him to the Vietnamese place.

Carl had not seen Rinehart since their first meeting in Boca Raton, back in November, three days after the verdict. They did not use regular mail, e-mail, faxes, overnight parcels, landlines, or standard cell phones. Each had a secure smart phone that was linked solely to the other, and once a week, when Carl had the time, he called for an update.

They were led through a bamboo curtain to a dimly lit side room with one table. A waiter brought drinks. Carl was going through the motions of cursing class actions and the lawyers who bring them. “We’re down to nosebleeds and skin rashes,” he said. “Every redneck who ever drove by the plant down there is suddenly a plaintiff. No one remembers the good old days when we paid the highest wages in south Mississippi. Now the lawyers have created a stampede and it’s a race to the courthouse.”

“It could get worse,” Barry said. “We know of another group of lawyers who are rounding up clients. If they file, then their class will be added to the first one. I wouldn’t sweat it.”

“You wouldn’t sweat it? You’re not burning cash in legal fees.”

“You’re going to get it back, Carl. Relax.” It was now Carl and Barry, first names and lots of familiarity.

“Relax. Krane closed today at $14.50. If you owned twenty-five million shares, you might find it hard to relax.”

“I would be relaxed, and I would be buying.”

Carl knocked back his scotch. “You’re getting pretty cocky.”

“I saw our boy today. He made the rounds in Washington. Nice-looking fella, so clean-cut it’s frightening. Smart, good speaker, handles himself well. Everybody was impressed.”

“Has he signed on?”

“He will tomorrow. He had lunch with Senator Rudd, and the ole boy knows how to twist arms.”

“Myers Rudd,” Carl said, shaking his head. “What a fool.”

“Indeed, but he can always be bought.”

“They can all be bought. I spent over four million last year in Washington. Sprinkled it around like Christmas candy.”

“And I’m sure Rudd got his share. You and I know he’s a moron, but the people in Mississippi don’t. He’s the king and they worship him down there. If he wants our boy to run, then the race is on.”

Carl squirmed out of his jacket and flung it across a chair. He removed his cuff links, rolled up his sleeves, and, with no one to watch, loosened his tie and slouched in his chair. He sipped his scotch. “Do you know the story about Senator Rudd and the EPA?” he asked, with full knowledge that fewer than five people knew the details.

“No,” Barry said, tugging at his own tie.

“Seven, maybe eight years ago, before the lawsuits started, the EPA came to Bowmore and started their mischief. The locals there had been complaining for years, but EPA is not known for swift action. They poked around, ran some tests, became somewhat alarmed, then got pretty agitated. We were watching all this very closely. We had people all over the place. Hell, we have people inside the EPA. Maybe we cut some corners with our waste, I don’t know, but the bureaucrats really became aggressive. They were talking about
criminal investigations, calling in the U.S. attorney, bad stuff, but still kept internal. They were on the verge of going public with all sorts of demands—a zillion-dollar cleanup, horrendous fines, maybe even a shutdown. A man named Gabbard was CEO of Krane at the time; he’s gone now, but a decent sort who knew how to persuade. I sent Gabbard to Washington with a blank check. Several blank checks. He got with our lobbyists and set up a new PAC, another one that supposedly worked to further the interests of chemical and plastics manufacturers. They mapped out a plan, the key to which was getting Senator Rudd on our side. They’re scared of him down there, and if he wants the EPA to get lost, then you can forget the EPA. Rudd’s been on the Appropriations Committee for a hundred years, and if EPA threatens to buck him, then he simply threatens to cut their funding. It’s complicated, but it’s also very simple. Plus, this is Mississippi, Rudd’s backyard, and he had more contacts and clout than anyone else. So our boys at the new PAC wined and dined Rudd, and he knew exactly what was happening. He’s a simpleton, but he’s played the game for so long he’s written most of the rules.”

Platters of shrimp and noodles arrived and were casually ignored. Another round of drinks.

“Rudd finally decided that he needed a million bucks for his campaign account, and we agreed to route it through all the dummy corporations and fronts that you guys use to hide it. Congress has made it legal, but it would otherwise be known as bribery. Then Rudd
wanted something else. Turns out he’s got this slightly retarded grandson who has some weird fixation on elephants. Kid loves elephants. Got pictures all over his walls. Watches wildlife videos. And so on. And what The Senator would really like is one of those first-class, four-star African safaris so he can take his grandson to see a bunch of elephants. No problem. Then he decides that the entire family would enjoy such a trip, so our lobbyists arrange the damned thing. Twenty-eight people, two private jets, fifteen days in the African bush drinking Dom Pérignon, eating lobster and steak, and, of course, gawking at a thousand elephants. The bill was close to three hundred grand and he never had a clue it was paid for by me.”

“A bargain.”

“An absolute bargain. He buried the EPA and they fled Bowmore. They couldn’t touch us. And, as a side benefit, Senator Rudd is now an expert on all issues dealing with Africa. AIDS, genocide, famine, human rights abuses—you name it and he’s an expert because he spent two weeks in the Kenyan outback watching wild game from the back of a Land Rover.”

They shared a laugh and made the first advance upon the noodles. “Did you ever contact him when the lawsuits started?” Barry asked.

“No. The lawyers took over with a vengeance. I remember one conversation with Gabbard about Rudd, but it was the combined wisdom back then that politics would not mix with the litigation. We were pretty confident. How wrong we were.”

They ate for a few minutes, but neither seemed thrilled with the food.

“Our boy’s name is Ron Fisk,” Barry said as he handed over a large manila envelope. “Here are the basics. Some photos, a background check, no more than eight pages, at your request.”

“Fisk?”

“That’s him.”

__________

B
rianna’s mother was in the area, her twice-yearly drop-in, and for such visits Carl insisted that they use the mansion in the Hamptons and leave him alone in the city. Her mother was two years younger than Carl and fancied herself attractive enough to catch his eye. He spent less than an hour a year in her presence, and each time caught himself practically praying that Brianna had a different set of genes. He loathed the woman. The mother of a trophy wife is not automatically a trophy mother-in-law, and she is usually much too enamored with the topic of money. Carl had loathed each of his mothers-in-law. He detested the very notion that he had a mother-in-law in the first place.