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
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
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