Ground Truth (6 page)

Chapter 11

June 13

8:30 a.m.

SITTING IN HIS office at S & S with the door closed, Jack was still rocked by the filthy scenario involving his father that Calder had dumped on him, the same father who had always berated him, had never found him good enough.

He’d read the article in the morning
Chronicle
, so he wasn’t surprised when the call came summoning him to Sinclair’s office. He walked slowly down the corridor. When he arrived, Mrs. Pounders nodded curtly, and he entered.

Sinclair, seated behind his desk, looked up, eyes narrow over his glasses. “Hell of a thing. Couldn’t be more damaging.” He held up the front section of the
Chronicle
between two fingers, as if he’d just pulled it from the garbage bin. He didn’t invite Jack to sit.

“This is the worst thing I’ve ever gone through,” Jack said.

“I meant for the firm. I had a call today from a guy I haven’t heard from since the Berlin Wall came down. And from a French son-of-a-bitch I knew in . . . well, doesn’t matter. Just a shame that my firm’s name was mentioned so prominently. I’ll make Rick Calder wish he hadn’t dragged me into this.”

“The fallout will be bad for a few days, but then—”

“You have no idea how bad,” Sinclair interrupted, angry. “It’s
my
name on the door.” He slammed his hand on his desk.

Sinclair’s office door opened. Stan Simms stood framed in the doorway, filling it side-to-side. He shook his head, giving Jack a menacing look. “For Christ’s sake, why is Strider still here? I said—”

“Hold on, Stan. I’m just finishing a discussion with him. I’ll bring you up to date in a few minutes. Getting excited is bad for your—” He gestured at Simms’ huge body. “—everything.”

“I’m not kidding about this,” Simms shot back and closed the door behind him loudly enough to register his disapproval.

When he looked back, Sinclair’s face showed his exasperation. “That’s a sample of what I’ve been getting this morning, Jack. Your presence in the firm is killing me.”

“That article is about Peck, not me. And you knew about his problems when you hired me.”

“Just a damn minute,” Sinclair snarled. “I knew nothing about the scandal delivered to my breakfast table this morning—child whores, HIV, and all the rest. Simms has called a meeting of the senior members of the firm to move that we fire you. He thinks he can scare up enough votes from old farts worried about protecting their fat bonuses.”

Suddenly the walls were closing in.
He’d walked away from Stanford Law. Now Simms was trying to get him fired. This time he’d fight. If he didn’t, everything he’d worked so damned hard for would go up in smoke.

“I can tell from your face,” Sinclair said, “that you’re thinking about going to war with us over this. Not only would that be a bad mistake, but it won’t be necessary. I’m the managing partner, and I won’t be stampeded by Stan Simms or anyone else. But I have to give Stan something, so I’ve come up with a solution that will satisfy everyone.”

Jack doubted that any solution that worked for him would be acceptable to Stan Simms. He waited for Sinclair to continue.

“One of our overseas offices might be the place for you. I thought maybe the Paris office.”

Sinclair’s hard eyes warned him that nothing was open for debate. If he didn’t accept, Sinclair was ready for an execution. Besides, Paris wasn’t exactly a hardship post.

“That might be best all around,” Jack agreed.

“Good, good. I was sure you’d see it my way. As I said, I had the Paris branch in mind, but then I had a better idea. When I bought a law firm in Buenos Aires a few years ago, I got its field office in Mexico City as part of the deal. I’ve steered a lot of clients to them, Americans doing business in Mexico, but I don’t trust the managing partner. That’s where I’m sending you.”

The corner of Sinclair’s mouth lifted slightly, and Jack mentally cursed him. Sinclair had trapped him, dangling Paris to get his agreement, and then switching to Mexico City.

“So it’s settled. Now here’s the situation. One of our biggest clients, Palmer Industries, has its main hazardous waste treatment plant in Juarez, Mexico. Right now they could be headed for big trouble. A Mexican government agency is hell-bent on putting them out of business, locking the doors. That makes me so mad I’d like to go down there and kick some ass.” He shook his right fist. “Then, after I saw the morning paper I realized that you’re the right man to protect that plant, to stop the bureaucrats cold. Your ‘brand’ as an environmentalist has taken a hit around here, but should still be okay down there.”

“Sounds like you’re sending me into exile,” Jack stated tightly.

“Not at all. Your environmental credentials are money in the bank for that client.” Sinclair stood. “I’ll send the files to your office and set up a meeting right away with Arthur Palmer. Oh, and I’ll tell him to bring his brother Edward.”

“How soon will I be transferred to Mexico City?”

“Immediately. You’ll be working out of that office, but it won’t exactly be a transfer. You’ll be on assignment to pull Palmer Industries out of the ditch. You’ll report only to me.”

Another crossroads. Maybe it really was time to walk away.

Before he could open his mouth, Sinclair said, “Jack, your future is in your own hands. Pull off a big win for Palmer Industries, and I’ll stash you in the Mexico City office for a year or so until the climate is less toxic around here. Then I’ll bring you back. I could even make you head of a new department dealing with water and environmental issues. But I want to be clear about one thing. If you blow this, we go our separate ways.”

He came from behind his desk and put a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Remember, you owe me a big one.”

For what, being manipulated like a puck in a pinball machine?
On the other hand, despite all the heat, instead of firing him outright Sinclair had found him a safe haven.

“All right, we’re done here. Mrs. Pounders will send you the details.”

As Jack reached the door, Sinclair called after him. “By the way, you know the judicial appointment that twit in the governor’s office talked to you about? Well, that’s off the table now. Tough break.” Sinclair turned away and reached for the phone.

How in God’s name had Sinclair known about that?

Chapter 12

June 16

3:00 p.m.

JACK HAD FOUND plenty of work to do during the couple of days after his meeting with Sinclair, but he now had only one client who mattered, Palmer Industries. Until he could meet the Palmer brothers, he felt like he was treading water. Finally, the call had come to join Sinclair in his office.

Minutes after Jack seated himself in Sinclair’s office, Mrs. Pounders entered and announced quietly, “Sir, Mr. Arthur Palmer and Mr. Edward Palmer have arrived.”

She was a buxom lady wearing a gray tailored blouse. Silver hair in a tight bun, Mrs. Pounders had the air of a woman who never used her first name. She looked only at Sinclair and paid no more attention to Jack than she would to a floor lamp.

Sinclair, from behind his desk, glanced at her over the top of his half-glasses. “Invite the gentlemen to join us.”

Arthur Palmer walked in first, keen eyes scanning the room like a hawk alert to the possibility of a pigeon within reach. An expensive black suit failed to disguise his lanky frame. He nodded at Sinclair, squinted at Jack without a greeting, and strode directly to the great expanse of window-wall. “Storm coming,” he said sourly.

Edward came in smiling broadly, suit coat open, revealing a bulging belly. The crown of his head looked more than bald. It looked polished.

Sinclair stood and gestured toward Arthur. “Jack Strider, meet Arthur Palmer, head of Palmer Industries. His brother Edward here is Chief Financial Officer.”

Edward stepped up to pump Jack’s hand.

“Strider,” Arthur grunted and walked over to a long bookcase. When he pulled on the spine of a volume in a row of Pacific Law Reporters, a chest-high three-foot long section of false casebook covers swung out, revealing a well-stocked bar. “I need a damn drink,” he announced. Choosing Glenlivet, he poured a tall glass half-full, tossed in three ice cubes, looked at the glass, and fished one out.

Jack had inferred from reading the files that Arthur Palmer provided the high-octane energy that powered the corporate motor. Edward was the cautious mechanic who kept the motor tuned. Their need for legal counsel over the years had been similar to that of most major corporations except in one important way. The company had been cited repeatedly for violations of federal and state environmental protection laws and had paid hundreds of thousands of dollars in legal fees to defeat enforcement. They were environmental barbarians he’d rather see prosecuted.

But the cold reality was that to keep his Supreme Court dream alive, he needed the job at S & S, and that meant working with Arthur Palmer, even if the man had a personality like a T-Rex. Jack would give Palmer Industries the best defense he could, as long as he could change the company in the process. It was the only way to get his career back on track.

Was he rationalizing? Selling out? Doing something he’d regret? No, he had the tools to turn this into a win-win.

Mrs. Pounders returned, setting a sterling tea service on an oval table and adding two ginger cookies beside each teacup. She backed away, closing the door with no audible click.

“Come over here, gentlemen. We’ll sit around this old table of mine.” Sinclair gestured with a casual courtliness that made Jack think of President Kennedy inviting guests to be seated in the Oval Office. As they settled in Chippendale chairs, Edward’s chair creaked in protest. “Don’t worry, Edward, that chair has supported you for years. It won’t let you down now, and neither will I.”

“I need all the support I can get.” Edward’s smile showed he took no offense at the joke at his expense. “Our problems in Mexico have pegged my blood pressure in the red zone.”

“As I told you on the phone, I’ve assigned Jack to deal with those problems.”

Arthur’s mouth looked like he’d bitten an unripe persimmon. “Hold on, Justin, this guy Strider isn’t even on your letterhead. I don’t need some goddamn amateur giving me advice.”

Sinclair chuckled. “Always ready to give a man the benefit of the doubt, eh, Arthur? As for Jack being an amateur, in one sense you’re right. As a Stanford undergraduate, Jack rowed single shell in the Olympics. A damned good amateur I’d say.”

“I don’t care if he paddled around the goddamn planet,” Arthur said. “The Mexican government didn’t challenge us to a canoe race. They’re trying to shut down our goddamn plant.”

Sinclair was unperturbed. “As I was about to say, Jack clerked for Chief Judge Warner on the Eighth Circuit, then taught international business law, riparian rights—that means water law, in case you don’t know—and environmental policy. Youngest person to win a Distinguished Professor award.”

That almost persuaded Jack that Sinclair respected him, but not quite.

Arthur took a drink and banged his glass down hard on the table. “All very nice, but his father was a . . . well, we all read the paper. It would look like hell for someone named Strider to represent Palmer Industries.”

Sinclair’s glance at Jack conveyed the message that Arthur’s reaction was exactly what he’d predicted. Peck was a millstone around Jack’s neck, and a negative for the firm. Then Sinclair surprised him.

“Forget what his father did,” Sinclair said. “Jack will be working in Mexico, far away from the
San Francisco Chronicle
. And let’s not be hypocritical, Arthur, there’re no saints in this room.”

“All right, damn it, I’ll go along . . . for now.” Arthur took a long swallow of Glenlivet. “Strider, guys like you always do their homework, so you know we moved our plant to Mexico because the union went on strike at our main operation in Concord. That piled up tons of carcinogenic and toxic waste we treat for manufacturing plants from Boston to San Diego. We were looking at a dozen lawsuits, maybe even—” Arthur practically spat the word. “—bankruptcy.”

“Even Justin,” Edward said, “couldn’t come up with any more legal rabbits to pull out of his hat.”

Arthur continued. “At the last minute, Tom Montana, one of our VPs, convinced us to move our operations to Juarez, Mexico. His plan saved the company and tripled the profits of our best year.”

Jack remembered a memo written by the S & S lawyer handling Palmer Industries prior to the move. It outlined the strict Mexican environmental protection laws governing the handling of hazardous waste. A handwritten note attached to the file copy said that the decision to move to Mexico had been made with Justin Sinclair’s full support.

“So that’s how we wound up being a—what the hell is that word, Edward?”

“Maquiladora.
It’s time for you to remember it.”

“You know what that word means, Strider?” Arthur challenged.

What a condescending bastard.
“It originally referred to plants along the U.S.-Mexico border that assembled products for companies based in other countries. Now it includes operations like yours that provide mostly services.” He couldn’t resist adding, “By the way, most people call them
maquilas.”

Arthur shrugged that off. “Anyway, Montana located an 800-acre site on the outskirts of Juarez, across the Rio Grande from El Paso. We bought the site from PEMEX, the giant Mexican oil company, along with a dozen warehouses and the tanks they used to store oil. Montana greased the deal through the bureaucrats, all the way to the top.” He took another drink. “Then we invested millions in equipping the plant to treat the most toxic waste known to man. Montana even got a special water line run from the city to the plant site. That’s why I take good care of Montana. I reward people who get things done no matter what it takes. That’s also why four hundred union pricks who used to work for us are now playing pinochle all day out in Concord.” He lifted his glass in a mocking toast.

Four hundred fired. Wonder if the people who pushed passage of NAFTA saw that coming?

“For quite a while, things were fine,” Edward said. “Suddenly we’re being hassled, just like with the unions, except this time we’re buried in citations.”

“What we have is a sweet deal we’re damn sure going to protect,” Arthur broke in. “Profits are piling up faster than we can get to the bank. And that, dear brother, is what it’s all about.”

Edward struggled to his feet. Light from the chandelier outlined tension lines around his eyes. “We make money, sure, but Montana swore we’d have no problems in Mexico. Now the government is trying to shut us down. How much money will we make if that happens?”

“Calm down, Edward,” Sinclair cut in. “I think it’s time to get some input from the front lines. I’ll tell Mrs. Pounders to set up Montana for a video conference on that monitor in the corner.”

Within three minutes, Jack was looking at Tom Montana on a 30-inch screen. The man was leaning back in a leather chair, one elbow hooked over its back. He had the air of a minor movie star—deep set eyes, thick eyebrows, sleek black hair swept back without a part. His unlined face gave no clue to his age.

He’d obviously adapted to his Mexican environment. He wore a
guayabera
shirt designed not to be tucked in, white with yellow stallions embroidered on it, and unbuttoned half way down his bare chest.

Without a greeting, Arthur took control. “For God’s sake, tell Edward there is nothing to worry about down there.”

“Just a few bureaucratic flunkies jerking us around,” Montana said. “I’ve told you that the people at the top know the Mexican economy lives or dies on the money
maquilas
bring in. I’ll take care of this.”

“You always say that,” Edward said. “But when I ask you questions, you give me the shortest answer you can get away with.” He grumbled under his breath, “I want our company back.”

“Relax,” Arthur said. “Tom keeps me posted on everything.”

Edward’s round face flushed. “That’s what I’m saying. You’ve cut me out of the loop.”

“I’m sure there’s no conspiracy here.” Sinclair projected his calm voice between them. “Tom, Jack Strider is here with us. He’s familiar with Palmer Industries’ business, and he’ll be in our Mexico City office to work with me on this problem. Jack, do you have any questions for Tom?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack caught Sinclair watching him with an appraising look, waiting to see how he’d deal with the situation.

“Good afternoon, Tom. Do you know what provoked the government into going after the company?”

“No mystery there. Either some sleazy competitor made ridiculous charges, or it’s a bureaucrat looking for a payoff.”

“Listen, Justin—” Arthur looked disgusted. “—this is wasting my time. It’s Montana’s job to keep the plant operating. He’s doing that and has my full support, whatever it takes. I don’t need Strider’s help.”

“And I don’t want any outsiders down here,” Montana added. “We take care of our own problems.”

“Whether you want his help or not,” Sinclair said, “you
need
it.”

“I may be able to turn this into a win for Palmer Industries,” Jack said. “If it’s harassment, I can try to stop it. If the problem is more than that, a rational compromise with regulatory authorities usually works out better than defending against injunctions and lawsuits. A cost benefit analysis could show that in the long term—”

“Long term, my ass,” Arthur growled.

“All right, gentlemen,” Sinclair broke in, “let’s wrap this up. Arthur, you pay me to protect you. That’s what I’m doing. Tom, Jack will give you a call in a few days to get whatever he needs.” Before Montana could respond, Sinclair touched a button. The monitor went black.

“I’ll tell you again,” Edward glared at his brother, “we made a big mistake caving in to that sweetheart bonus deal he demanded.”

“He doesn’t have a chance in hell of meeting the terms we set. He’ll never collect one dime of that bonus,” Arthur said. “We outsmarted him.”

“But if he does meet the terms, we have to pay him millions.”

“Edward,” Arthur said, “I’m fed up with you looking at a peach and calling it a damned lemon. Leave it alone.”

“Montana’s a loose cannon. We can go to jail for condoning what he’s doing.”

“You can’t condone what you don’t know about, so butt out.”

“But we
do
know about it. When we first went into business down there, the border guards stopped our trucks and buried us in paperwork and fines. Suddenly, the problems stopped. There’s only one way Montana could have pulled that off. By ignoring it, we sent him a message. This time it’s not some penny ante border guards. He’ll try to bribe the federal government.”

Sinclair held up his hand to stop the bickering, then took off his glasses and slowly polished each lens with a handkerchief, a telltale sign he was losing patience. “Then it’s settled,” he said. “Worst case, we go to court or a Hearing and kick their ass. If everything else fails, there are still a few heavyweights in Washington willing to do a favor for an old man. In the meantime, Jack goes to Mexico City. His pro-environment reputation is exactly what you need right now.”

Arthur said, nodding at Jack, “Is he one of those goddamn environmental nuts?”

“Of course not.”

“All right, goddamn it, but on one condition.” Arthur shook his finger at Jack. “Leave Montana alone. Period. And remember that the client is always right.” He stood and headed for the door, followed by Sinclair. Edward hurried to catch up.

Jack sat in silence, waiting for Sinclair to return. The meeting had been a disaster. Sinclair was a master at creating an illusion, so maybe he had a strategy he’d chosen not to reveal to the Palmers. If he didn’t have something clever up his sleeve, Jack’s job prospects would swirl down the toilet bowl.

Sinclair walked back in. “Arthur’s a hothead, so stay in bounds.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Sounds as if Montana is effectively running the company.”

“I’m sure he keeps Arthur informed, at least about anything he wants to hear.”

“Then Edward was right. They’ve cut him out.”