The Appeal by John Grisham Page A

inevitable, Krane fled to Mexico. The employees were given three days’ notice and $500 in severance pay; many of them had worked here for thirty years. It was an incredibly stupid way to leave town, because some of their former workers were our best witnesses during the trial. The bitterness was, and is, astounding. If Krane had any friends in Bowmore, it lost every one of them when it screwed its employees.”
    A photographer working with Shepard met them at the front gate and began snapping away. They strolled along the fence, with Mary Grace directing the brief tour. “For years, this place was unlocked. It was routinely vandalized. Teenagers hung out here, drinking and doing drugs. Now people stay as far away as possible. The gates and fences are really not needed. No one wants to get near this place.”
    From the north side, a long row of thick metal cylinders was visible in the midst of the plant. Mary Grace pointed and explained, “That’s known as Extraction Unit Two. The bichloronylene was reduced as a byproduct and stored in those tanks. From there, some was shipped away for a proper disposal, but most was taken into the woods there, farther back on the property, and simply dumped into a ravine.”
    “Proctor’s Pit?”
    “Yes, Mr. Proctor was the supervisor in charge ofdisposal. He died of cancer before we could subpoena him.” They walked twenty yards along the fence. “We really can’t see from here, but there are three ravines in there, deep in the woods, where they simply hauled the tanks and covered them with dirt and mud. Over the years, they began to leak—they were not even sealed properly—and the chemicals soaked into the earth. This went on for years, tons and tons of bichloronylene and cartolyx and aklar and other proven carcinogens. If you can believe our experts, and the jury evidently did, the poisons finally contaminated the aquifer from which Bowmore pumps its water.”
    A security detail in a golf cart approached on the other side of the fence. Two overweight guards with guns stopped and stared. “Just ignore them,” Mary Grace whispered.
    “What’re you lookin’ for?” a guard asked.
    “We’re on the right side of the fence,” she answered.
    “What’re you lookin’ for?” he repeated.
    “I’m Mary Grace Payton, one of the attorneys. You boys move along.”
    Both nodded at once, and then slowly drove away.
    She glanced at her watch. “I really need to be going.”
    “When can we meet again?”
    “We’ll see. No promises. Things are quite hectic right now.”
    They drove back to the Pine Grove Church and said goodbye. When Shepard was gone, Mary Grace walked three blocks to Jeannette’s trailer. Bette was atwork, the place was quiet. For an hour, she sat with her client under a small tree and drank bottled lemonade. No tears, no tissues, just girl talk about life and families and the past four months together in that awful courtroom.

C H A P T E R 6
    W ith an hour to go before trading closed, Krane bottomed at $18 a share, then began a rather feeble rally, if it could be called that. It nibbled around $20 a share for half an hour before finding some traction at that price.
    To add to the catastrophe, investors for some reason chose to exact revenge on the rest of Carl’s empire. His Trudeau Group owned 45 percent of Krane and smaller chunks of six other public companies—three chemical companies, an oil exploration firm, an auto parts maker, and a chain of hotels. Shortly after lunch, the common shares of the other six began slipping as well. It made no sense whatsoever, but then the market often cannot be explained. Misery is contagious on Wall Street. Panic is common and rarely understood.
    Mr. Trudeau did not see the chain reaction coming, nor did Felix Bard, his savvy financial wizard. As the minutes dragged by, they watched in horror as a billiondollars in market value slipped away from the Trudeau Group.
    Blame was rampant. Obviously, it all went back to the