It was a fairly complicated case; Judge Holland knew that from his reading of the submitted briefs. But complicated cases were nothing new to him; he faced that every day.
It was also a typical case, in that it was not even close to the public consciousness. Mentions could be found of it on the financial pages, but they focused mainly on the impact that the case would have on the stock of the parties involved.
The lawyers representing the companies were from the finest firms in the country, and Holland knew that they were worth the exorbitant fees they charged. They would prepare meticulously, and they would know every single fact and element of the law that might bear on the outcome.
But Judge Walter Holland knew certain things that the lawyers did not.
He knew that it was not important how well the lawyers were prepared, or how persuasive they would be. None of that would matter, for one simple reason.
Judge Holland already knew who was going to win.
And he knew that twenty-six people had burned to death to ensure it.
Alexander Downey is going to regret his decision.
He’s the vice president and assistant managing editor of Henderson Publishing, and after trading a few phone calls, we set up a meeting to talk about the possibility of Willie Miller writing a book about his heroic exploits.
I’m too busy with trial preparation to go to his midtown Manhattan office, and I suggested we have our discussion over the phone. But Downey wanted to meet in person, and offered to come to my office. That’s the part he’s likely to regret.
My office is located on the second floor of a three-story building on Van Houten Avenue in Paterson. Directly below us is Sofia Hernandez’s fruit stand, which is sort of the community center of the neighborhood. People from surrounding blocks come there to squeeze cantaloupes and discuss the pressing issues of the day.
Downey arrives and climbs the twenty-two creaking stairs to the office. Once inside, he runs into Edna, who reluctantly puts down her crossword puzzle to usher him into my office. She doesn’t offer him coffee, probably because if he said yes, she’d have to make some.
Downey is wearing a dark, pin-striped suit, which, if he auctioned it off, could pay our rent until the end of hockey season. He introduces himself with, “Mr. Carpenter, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m a longtime admirer.” This guy is no dummy.
I offer him a seat, and he picks the cleanest one and sits down. We exchange small talk for a while, an easy thing to do once I learn he’s a Giants fan.
I need to move this along, since I’ve got a lot of work to do, so I say, “I understand you want Willie Miller to write a book for you.”
He nods. “Very much. He’s got an amazing story to tell, and I’m sure he will tell it colorfully. He has a unique voice.”
“That he does. Until now, I’m sure you understand, that voice has been verbal. This would be Willie’s first book.”
Downey smiles. “Not a problem, we understand that he is not an established writer. We want him to speak from the heart, in his own words.”
“In his own words…” I repeat, wondering if he’s actually heard any of Willie’s words.
“Mr. Carpenter-”
“Andy.”
“Thank you, Andy,” he says. “We… I… understand Willie’s capabilities as a wordsmith. When I told him I wanted his story told truthfully and unembellished, that there was no need for anything fallacious, he said, ‘ ’Course not, man, I’m married.’”
I can’t help laughing at this recounting, and Downey joins in. From there the conversation goes smoothly, and Downey claims to have the perfect person to serve as Willie’s ghostwriter.
When I ask about compensation, he gives me a piece of paper he has prepared as a proposal, and suggests that I study it. “It calls for an advance of five hundred thousand,” he says, “but I’m confident that with royalties he will earn considerably more than that.”
We reach a basic agreement; the money is obviously good, and since Willie wants to do it, I see no reason to stand in his way. Downey says that he will prepare the contracts and send them to me. We shake hands on it, but it appears that the meeting is not yet over. He tells me that he’d like me to write a book as well.
“Willie knows much more about what happened than I do. He was there.”
“I’m not talking about that case, at least not specifically,” Downey says. “You’ve been part of quite a few high-profile cases, including Galloway. This could be the story of your life, and especially your career.”
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“There would be a substantial audience for it. We do a lot of these books, some written by the subject, some not. Some authorized, some not.”
I think the only thing I would dislike more than work is writing about work, so I say, “Let’s focus on Willie for now.”
He smiles. “Fine.”
“Thanks for coming all the way here,” I say.
“Happy to do it. I think I’ll pick up a watermelon downstairs as a remembrance.”
What if they gave a town and nobody came?
That’s what the residents of Jean, Nevada, would be asking themselves, if there were any residents of Jean, Nevada. But there are none, not a single one.
Another thing Jean obviously does not have is a city planner. Set up to be a gambling community, it stands on Highway 15, on the route into Vegas from Los Angeles. That might ordinarily be a good place to be, the theory being that anxious gamblers from L.A. might stop there to get a blackjack fix before driving on to Vegas.
The problem with that is that Primm, Nevada, is located just over the state line between California and Nevada. In fact, the original name of Primm was Stateline. Primm’s casinos are larger than Jean’s, which is just as well, since people actually go there. If they want to gamble before getting to Vegas, they stop at Primm. If not, they go on to Vegas. Either way, there’s no reason to stop at Jean.
None of this deterred Billy Klayman from making a one-o’clock-in-the-morning stop at the Gold Strike Casino in Jean. Having lost almost all of his money in a disastrous two-day trip to Vegas, Billy was driving back to his home in Anaheim a broke and hungry man. The broke part was going to be tough to solve, but the hungry part he could deal with. That’s because the sign in front of the Gold Strike was advertising “24 hour all you can eat-$6.99.” At least one of Billy’s credit cards should be able to deal with that.
So Billy parked his car in the nearly deserted lot and went in to the Gold Strike. It was a “serve yourself” buffet, utilizing small plates and difficult-to-reach entrees to deter patrons from overdoing it.
None of that had any effect on Billy, nor did the fact that the food had very little taste. He had arrived starved, and he was going to leave stuffed.
It took Billy forty-five minutes to have the meal, which included nine trips back to the buffet line. So full that he could barely get out of the chair, he left the restaurant, made a stop in the men’s room, and then another one in the bar adjacent to the casino.
He could only afford one beer, so that’s the exact number that he bought. He lingered over it for a half hour, not anxious to get back onto the road for the rest of the dreary ride home. Once he got there, he would have to explain to his wife where the rent money went, a conversation he did not relish at all.
Billy briefly considered taking a room in the hotel, but rejected the idea when he realized that it would cost money to do it. So instead he waddled out to the parking lot, and headed for his car. He was still depressed and miserable, but he was no longer hungry.
It was only about a hundred yards from the hotel entrance to Billy’s car, and Billy later remembered noticing how dark it was, and thinking that someone who left the casino flush with cash could be an easy target for a predator. Then he laughed to himself at the concept of someone leaving the Gold Strike Casino flush with cash.