He would not be wasting time and power writing about Julie, and her affair with Luke. As horrible as that was, it took a distant backseat right now.
There would be time to hash that out later.
Or not.
It wasn’t the way Edward Holland had charted his career.
The plan had been to go to a top law school, join a big New York law firm, become very powerful, and make a fortune.
And for a while everything seemed on track. Holland went to NYU, for both undergraduate and law school, and finished in the top quarter of his class. Big law firms came calling, as they are wont to do at the better schools, and Holland had no trouble getting placed at one of the biggest and best.
The beginning of his work career was less than auspicious, though predictably so. Like every other newcomer to large firms, he worked like a dog, sometimes logging sixteen-hour days. And it was grunt work, behind-the-scenes research so that the partners could look good and well prepared, and so clients could hide their wealth from US taxes in financially friendly countries. But in terms of power, Holland couldn’t imagine having less.
He was an indentured servant, albeit a well-paid one. But even though the pay was very good by normal standards, New York was an expensive place to live, and Holland was certainly not getting rich.
After the fourth year, he took stock of his future, and wasn’t crazy about what he saw. There was the possibility, perhaps even the likelihood, that he would make partner after eight or nine years. That would provide him with an excellent income, though he would never be mega-wealthy. And while he would be respected, he would not be powerful. That was basically reserved for the clients, at least some of them.
So he made a career move that was outside the box, way outside. The Mayor of Brayton, New York, Holland’s hometown, was retiring after serving eleven three-year terms. Over drinks one night, a high school buddy, active in town politics, suggested that Holland could have the job for the asking.
So he asked. He talked to the local power players, who were impressed with his resume, and he secured a slot on the ballot. The fact that he ran unopposed reduced the number of election promises he had to make, and within eight months of the drinks in the bar Edward Holland was the Mayor of Brayton.
He took a seventy-five percent pay cut from his previous job, not the typical path to the Forbes list of wealthiest Americans. But the mayoralty was not going to be the highest rung he hit on the political ladder, and you could count the number of successful, but poor, national politicians on very few fingers.
In terms of power, that would come down the road, but even now they were calling him “Your Honor,” which had a nice ring to it. And he was confident that before long the power would grow greater; there was no reason they wouldn’t someday be calling him “Mr. President.”
The responsibilities of the Mayor of Brayton are not exactly awesome. There’s no 3 AM phone call requiring momentous decisions, and very little crisis management. Deciding whether to install a traffic light a block from the grammar school is more typical of the day-to-day crises the Mayor must confront.
And then, suddenly, a serious and very significant issue dropped into his lap.
Carlton Auto Parts was by far the largest employer in the town. Richard Carlton represented the fourth generation of leadership in the family-owned manufacturing company and wholesaler, but to that point he had presided over, if not a debacle, then a gradual decline in fortunes.
Facing daunting competition from larger US companies, and even larger foreign ones, Carlton had not weathered the recession well. Profits were down, and layoffs followed, as they inevitably do. But the town was getting by, and for the most part people were employed.
Carlton was not only the largest employer; it was also the largest landowner. Brayton was a large community geographically, and Carlton owned a lot of it. Additionally, it had recently purchased huge tracts of land from the town of Brayton. It was land that was adjacent to the town but so far mostly unoccupied, and its assessed value was reflected in the very low price that Carlton paid.
And then, suddenly, the discovery of enormous pockets of shale on the land changed everything. A process called fracking might be able to extract natural gas from the shale, depending on the type and formation of the rock. Natural gas was starting to be seen as the key to America’s energy independence, and if fracking could be used on the Carlton land, the financial rewards would be mind-boggling.
But it seems as if energy development always comes with an environmental price, and fracking was the rule, rather than the exception. There were very serious concerns about its effects on nearby water supply, as well as air quality. Lawsuits were springing up around the country, with aggrieved citizens pointing to examples, some substantive and some anecdotal, of disease clusters that they felt were the result of the fracking residue.
It was a perfect opportunity for Holland. Not only could he rally the townspeople and get significant publicity throughout the state in his role as the Mayor, but he also was able to parley his legal stature into even greater prominence. Rather than forcing the impoverished town to hire outside counsel, he took on the job himself.
Win or lose, it would be a win for Holland. He could play up the heroic nature of the situation, putting it all on the line for the sake of the town. He would get great publicity, an invaluable boost to his political future.
Holland was all too aware, if no one else seemed to be, that he could not represent the town as well as a big-time firm could. The case was a long shot anyway; while fracking lawsuits around the country were finding mixed results, the majority favored the energy companies.
So Brayton lost at trial, and then subsequently appealed. Even with Holland in the counsel chair, the expenses were significant. If they lost on appeal, it would be unlikely that they would have the financial resources to go to the Supreme Court, especially if the Appeals Court made them post a bond, as they would likely do.
The arguments were made before the Second Circuit panel that included Judge Susan Dembeck. She was to be replaced by Judge Danny Brennan, but his nomination was held up in committee. If that changed before a decision was announced, then the case would have to be reargued.
Of course, Judge Brennan, murdered in his garage, wouldn’t be hearing any more cases.
A media story is like a campfire.
It reaches a full blaze quickly, and then gradually starts to die down. But as you add fuel, it flares up again.
The story of the Brennan murder, and my shooting of Steven Gallagher, was running out of fuel. That was mostly because we found Gallagher so quickly, and because his death meant there was no trial to look forward to. Had the crime not been solved, or if there was a manhunt, the story could have burned for weeks.
Much was already known about Gallagher, his difficult upbringing, his subsequent descent into addiction, and his Marine hero brother, Chris. Chris had not been heard from, though it was known that he was back in the states on leave.
A funeral was being planned for Judge Brennan for two days later, to give time for the large crowd who would surely attend to make arrangements. Messages of outrage and horror had already been chronicled, and published accounts revealed how many respected legal and business leaders actually used Twitter.
Judge Susan Dembeck had not yet announced whether she would stay in her post until a replacement for Judge Brennan was appointed and confirmed. It was expected that she would, though this represented something of a hardship for her, since her husband had a serious illness and she was retiring to help care for him.