newspapers to arrange on Mr. Trudeau’s desk, and was in the midst of an Internet search for stories about the verdict. Carl barely acknowledged his presence.
In his office, Stu took his jacket, poured his coffee, and was told to hurry along with the bagel and juice.
Carl settled into his aerodynamic designer chair, cracked his knuckles, rolled himself up to his desk, took a deep breath, and picked up the
New York Times
. Front page, left column. Not front page of the Business section, but the front page of the whole damned paper!! Right up there with a bad war, a scandal in Congress, dead bodies in Gaza.
The front page. “Krane Chemical Held Liable in Toxic Deaths,” read the headline, and Carl’s clenched jaw began to slacken. Byline, Hattiesburg, Mississippi: “A state court jury awarded a young widow $3 million in actual damages and $38 million in punitive damages in her wrongful-death claims against Krane Chemical.” Carl read quickly—he knew the wretched details. The
Times
got most of them right. Every quote from the lawyers was so predictable. Blah, blah, blah.
But why the front page?
He took it as a cheap shot, and was soon hit with another on page 2 of Business, where an analyst of some variety held forth on Krane’s other legal problems, to wit, hundreds of potential lawsuits claiming pretty much the same thing Jeannette Baker had claimed. According to the expert, a name Carl had never seen, which was unusual, Krane’s exposure could be “several billion” in cash, and since Krane, with its “questionable policies regarding liability insurance,” was practically “naked,” such exposure could be “catastrophic.”
Carl was cursing when Stu hurried in with juice and a bagel. “Anything else, sir?” he asked.
“No, now close the door.”
Carl rallied briefly in the Arts section. On the front page beneath the fold there was a story about last night’s MuAb event, the highlight of which had been a spirited bidding war, and so on. In the bottom right-hand corner was a decent-sized color photo of Mr. and Mrs. Carl Trudeau posing with their newest acquisition. Brianna, ever photogenic, as she damned well should be, emanated glamour. Carl looked rich, thin, and young, he thought, and
Imelda
was as baffling in print as she was in person. Was she really a work of art? Or was she just a hodgepodge of bronze and cement thrown together by some confused soul working hard to appear tortured?
The latter, according to a
Times
art critic, the same pleasant gentleman Carl had chatted with before dinner. When asked by the reporter if Mr. Trudeau’s $18 million purchase was a prudent investment, the critic answered, “No, but it is certainly a boost for the museum’s capital campaign.” He then went on to explain that the market for abstract sculpture had been stagnant for over a decade and wasn’t likely to improve, at least in his opinion. He saw little future for
Imelda
. The story concluded on page 7 with two paragraphs and a photo of the sculptor, Pablo, smiling at the camera and looking very much alive and, well, sane.
Nevertheless, Carl was pleased, if only for a moment. The story was positive. He appeared unfazed by the verdict, resilient, in command of his universe. The good press was worth something, though he knew itsvalue was somewhere far south of $18 million. He crunched the bagel without tasting it.
Back to the carnage. It was splashed across the front pages of the
Wall Street Journal
, the
Financial Times
, and
USA Today
. After four newspapers, he was tired of reading the same quotes from the lawyers and the same predictions from the experts. He rolled back from his desk, sipped his coffee, and reminded himself of exactly how much he loathed reporters. But he was still alive. The battering by the press was brutal, and it would continue, but he, the great Carl Trudeau, was taking their best shots and still on his feet.
This would be the worst day of his professional life, but tomorrow
In his office, Stu took his jacket, poured his coffee, and was told to hurry along with the bagel and juice.
Carl settled into his aerodynamic designer chair, cracked his knuckles, rolled himself up to his desk, took a deep breath, and picked up the
New York Times
. Front page, left column. Not front page of the Business section, but the front page of the whole damned paper!! Right up there with a bad war, a scandal in Congress, dead bodies in Gaza.
The front page. “Krane Chemical Held Liable in Toxic Deaths,” read the headline, and Carl’s clenched jaw began to slacken. Byline, Hattiesburg, Mississippi: “A state court jury awarded a young widow $3 million in actual damages and $38 million in punitive damages in her wrongful-death claims against Krane Chemical.” Carl read quickly—he knew the wretched details. The
Times
got most of them right. Every quote from the lawyers was so predictable. Blah, blah, blah.
But why the front page?
He took it as a cheap shot, and was soon hit with another on page 2 of Business, where an analyst of some variety held forth on Krane’s other legal problems, to wit, hundreds of potential lawsuits claiming pretty much the same thing Jeannette Baker had claimed. According to the expert, a name Carl had never seen, which was unusual, Krane’s exposure could be “several billion” in cash, and since Krane, with its “questionable policies regarding liability insurance,” was practically “naked,” such exposure could be “catastrophic.”
Carl was cursing when Stu hurried in with juice and a bagel. “Anything else, sir?” he asked.
“No, now close the door.”
Carl rallied briefly in the Arts section. On the front page beneath the fold there was a story about last night’s MuAb event, the highlight of which had been a spirited bidding war, and so on. In the bottom right-hand corner was a decent-sized color photo of Mr. and Mrs. Carl Trudeau posing with their newest acquisition. Brianna, ever photogenic, as she damned well should be, emanated glamour. Carl looked rich, thin, and young, he thought, and
Imelda
was as baffling in print as she was in person. Was she really a work of art? Or was she just a hodgepodge of bronze and cement thrown together by some confused soul working hard to appear tortured?
The latter, according to a
Times
art critic, the same pleasant gentleman Carl had chatted with before dinner. When asked by the reporter if Mr. Trudeau’s $18 million purchase was a prudent investment, the critic answered, “No, but it is certainly a boost for the museum’s capital campaign.” He then went on to explain that the market for abstract sculpture had been stagnant for over a decade and wasn’t likely to improve, at least in his opinion. He saw little future for
Imelda
. The story concluded on page 7 with two paragraphs and a photo of the sculptor, Pablo, smiling at the camera and looking very much alive and, well, sane.
Nevertheless, Carl was pleased, if only for a moment. The story was positive. He appeared unfazed by the verdict, resilient, in command of his universe. The good press was worth something, though he knew itsvalue was somewhere far south of $18 million. He crunched the bagel without tasting it.
Back to the carnage. It was splashed across the front pages of the
Wall Street Journal
, the
Financial Times
, and
USA Today
. After four newspapers, he was tired of reading the same quotes from the lawyers and the same predictions from the experts. He rolled back from his desk, sipped his coffee, and reminded himself of exactly how much he loathed reporters. But he was still alive. The battering by the press was brutal, and it would continue, but he, the great Carl Trudeau, was taking their best shots and still on his feet.
This would be the worst day of his professional life, but tomorrow
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