The Appeal by John Grisham

dumping around the plant. A lot of folks who worked there got sick. I remember coming home from college after my sophomore year and hearing people talk about how bad the water was. We lived a mile outside of town and had our own well, so it was never a problem for us. But things got worse in town. Over the years, the rumors of dumping grew and grew until everyone came to believe them. At the same time, the water turned into a putrid liquid that was undrinkable. Then the cancer hit—liver, kidney, urinary tract, stomach, bladder, lots of leukemia. I was in church one Sunday with my parents, and I could see four slick, shiny bald heads. Chemo. I thought I was in a horror movie.”
    “Have you regretted the litigation?”
    “No, never. We’ve lost a lot, but then so has my hometown. Hopefully, the losing is over now. Wes and I are young; we’ll survive. But many of these folks are either dead or deathly ill.”
    “Do you think about the money?”
    “What money? The appeal will take eighteen months, and right now that seems like an eternity. You have to see the big picture.”
    “Which is?”
    “Five years from now. In five years, the toxic dump will be cleaned up and gone forever and no one will ever be hurt by it again. There will be a settlement, one big massive settlement where Krane Chemical, and its insurers, are finally brought to the table with their very deep pockets and are forced to compensate the families they have ruined. Everybody gets their share of damages.”
    “Including the lawyers.”
    “Absolutely. If not for the lawyers, Krane would still be here manufacturing pillamar 5 and dumping its byproducts in the pits behind the plant, and no one could hold them accountable.”
    “Instead, they are now in Mexico—”
    “Oh yes, manufacturing pillamar 5 and dumping its by-products in the pits behind the plants. And nobody gives a damn. They don’t have these trials down there.”
    “What are your chances on appeal?”
    She sipped the stale and heavily sugared coffee and was about to answer when an insurance agent stopped by, shook her hand, hugged her, said thanks several times, and appeared to be on the verge of tears when he walked away. Then Mr. Greenwood, her junior high principal, now retired, spotted her as he entered and practically crushed her in a bear hug. He ignored Shepard while rambling on about how proud he wasof her. He thanked her, promised to keep praying for her, asked about her family, and so on. As he withdrew in a windy farewell, Babe, the owner, came over for a hug and another lengthy round of congratulations.
    Shepard finally stood and eased out the door. A few minutes later, Mary Grace made her exit. “Sorry about that,” she said. “It’s a big moment for the town.”
    “They are very proud.”
    “Let’s go see the plant.”
    The Krane Chemical Bowmore Plant Number Two, as it was officially known, was in an abandoned industrial park on the east side of the city limits. The plant was a series of flat-roofed cinder-block buildings, connected by massive piping and conveyors. Water towers and storage silos rose behind the buildings. Everything was overgrown with kudzu and weeds. Because of the litigation, the company had secured the facility with miles of twelve-foot chain-link fencing, topped with glistening razor wire. Heavy gates were chained and padlocked. Like a prison, where bad things happened, the plant shut out the world and kept its secrets buried within.
    Mary Grace had visited the plant at least a dozen times during the litigation, but always with a mob—other lawyers, engineers, former Krane employees, security guards, even Judge Harrison. The last visit had been two months earlier when the jurors were given a tour.
    She and Shepard stopped at the main gate andexamined the padlocks. A large, decaying sign identified the plant and its owner. As they stared through the chain-link fence, Mary Grace said, “Six years ago, when it became apparent that litigation was