John Grisham: The Appeal

The Trudeaus' stateroom was larger than their bedroom back on land. And, in the formal dining room on the third level, Carl had finally found the permanent place for Abused Imelda. Never again would she greet him in the foyer of his penthouse after a hard day at the office.

As a string quartet played on the main deck, the Brianna shoved off and turned south on the Hudson. It was dusk, a beautiful sunset, and the view of lower Manhattan from the river was breathtaking. The city shook with its frenetic energy, which was fascinating to watch from the deck of such a fine boat. The champagne and caviar also helped the view. Those on ferries and smaller vessels couldn't help but gawk as Brianna moved by, her twin 2,000-horsepower Caterpillar diesels churning a quiet wake.

A small army of black-tied waiters moved deftly about the decks, hauling drinks on silver trays and finger food too pretty to eat. Carl ignored most of his guests and spent his time with those he controlled, one way or another. Brianna was the perfect hostess, gliding from group to group, kissing all the men and all the women, making sure everyone got the chance to see her.

The captain circled wide so the guests could have a nice view of Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty, then turned north in the direction of the Battery, at the southern tip of Manhattan. It was dark now, and the rows of skyscrapers lit up the financial district. Under the Brooklyn Bridge, under the Manhattan Bridge, under the Williamsburg Bridge, the Brianna sailed up the East River in all its majesty. The string quartet retired, and the best of Billy Joel boomed through the ship's elaborate sound system. Dancing erupted on the second-level deck. Someone got shoved into a pool. Others followed, and clothing soon became optional. It was the younger crowd.

As per Carl's instructions, the captain turned around at the United Nations building and increased speed, though it was not noticed. Carl, at that moment, was giving an interview in his sweeping office on the third deck.

At precisely 10:30, on schedule, the Brianna docked at Pier 60, and the guests began their slow departures. Mr. and Mrs. Trudeau saw them off, hugging, kissing, waving, wishing they would all hurry along now. A midnight dinner was waiting. Fourteen remained behind, seven lucky couples who would cruise south to Palm Beach for a few days. They changed into more casual clothing and met in the formal dining room for yet another drink while the chef finalized the first course.

Carl whispered to the first mate that it was now time to leave, and fifteen minutes later the Brianna pushed off again from Pier 60. While the guests were being charmed by his wife, he excused himself for a few minutes. He climbed the steps to the fourth level, and on a small elevated deck found his favorite spot on this fabulous new toy of his. It was an observation post, the ship's highest point above the water.

As the cool wind blew his hair, he gripped the brass railing and stared at the mammoth towers in the financial district. He caught a glimpse of his building, and his office, forty-five floors up.

Everything was up. Krane common stock was just under $50 a share. Its earnings were through the roof. His net worth was over $3 billion and rising steadily.

Some of those idiots out there had been laughing eighteen months earlier. Krane is finished. Trudeau is a fool. How can a man lose a billion dollars in one day? they howled.

Where was their laughter now?

Where were all those experts now?

The great Carl Trudeau had outfoxed them again. He'd cleaned up the Bowmore mess and saved his company. He'd driven its stock into the ground, bought it cheap at a fire sale, and now owned virtually all of it. It was making him even richer.

He was destined to move up the Forbes 400 list, and as Carl sailed along the Hudson at the very top of his extraordinary ship, and gazed with smug satisfaction at the gleaming towers packed around Wall Street, he admitted to himself that nothing else mattered.

Now that he had three billion, he really wanted six.

I am compelled to defend my native state, and do so with this flurry of disclaimers.

All characters herein are purely fictional. Any similarity to a real person is coincidental.

There is no Cary County, no town of Bow-more, no Krane Chemical, and no product such as pillamar 5. Bi-chloronylene, aklar, and cartolyx do not exist, as far as I know.

The Mississippi Supreme Court has nine elected members, none of whom were used as models or inspiration for anyone mentioned or described in the preceding pages. None of the organizations, associations, groups, nonprofits, think tanks, churches, casinos, or corporations are real. I just made them up. Some of the towns and cities can be found on a map, others cannot. The campaign is a figment of my imagination. The lawsuit is borrowed from several actual cases. A few of the buildings really do exist, but I'm not altogether sure which ones.

In another life, I served as a member of the Mississippi House of Representatives, and in that capacity had a role in making laws. In this book, some of those laws have been amended, modified, ignored, and even outright butchered. Writing fiction sometimes requires this.

A few of the laws, especially those dealing with casino gambling, * survive without tampering on my part.

Now that I have impugned my own work, I must say that there is a lot of truth in this story. As long as private money is allowed in judicial elections we will see competing interests fight for seats on the bench. The issues are fairly common. Most of the warring factions are adequately described. The tactics are all too familiar.

The results are not far off the mark.

As always, I leaned on others for advice and expertise. Thanks to Mark Lee, Jim Craig, Neal Kassell, Bobby Moak, David Gernert, Mike Ratliff, Ty, Bert Colley and John Sherman.

Stephen Rubin published this book, Doubleday's twentieth, and the gang there-John Fontana, Rebecca Holland, John Pitts, Kathy Trager, Alison Rich, and Suzanne Herz-again made it happen.

And thanks to Renee for her usual patience and abundance of editorial comments.

John Grisham October 1,2007