KERRI'S WAR: VOLUME THREE OF THE KING TRILOGY

by Stephen Douglass

  As always, Jamie had spared no expense in the party preparations and the decoration of his massive stone mansion on The Bridle Path, one of Toronto’s most coveted addresses. Numerous bars and food stations had been erected, staffed, and strategically placed, to ensure that absolutely no guest would be compelled to walk too far to eat or drink. Generously endowed young females, wearing tight red leotards and red cashmere sweaters, mingled with the guests offering trays filled with exotic finger foods. MaxAire, Toronto’s own and finest jazz quintet, provided the music.

  Jamie, behaving as all of his friends had come to expect, as if nothing negative had ever happened in his life, stood near the massive glass and wrought iron twin doors to his mansion, anxious to greet his guests. Thrilled by her promotion from squeeze du jour to significant other, Vicky Anchutz stood by his side. To celebrate the occasion, Jamie wore a fire engine red suit with matching bow tie. He held his usual oversized tumbler of scotch. Vicky wore a low cut, form fitting dress which appeared to have been cut from the same cloth. Jamie flashed his patented commercial smile as he hurried to hug Karen. “Great to see you again, Karen,” he said, then stepped back to examine every inch of her. “You’re still the most beautiful woman in Toronto.”

  “You’re still the best liar in Toronto,” Karen responded, then smiled and blew a kiss to her host. She reached for Mike’s hand. “You remember my husband, Mike?”

  Jamie’s smile disappeared, causing Mike to wonder if there was the slightest chance that Jamie had made the connection and had placed some of the blame on his daughter, Kerri for the horrendous demise of Christine’s marriage to Steve Monteith. He nodded and extended his hand to Mike. “Nice to see you again,” he said without expression, then quickly turned to greet another arriving couple.

  Mike and Karen proceeded to the nearest bar and ordered drinks, shiraz for Karen and scotch for Mike. “Do you think Jamie knows what happened to Steve?” Karen asked.

  “I have no idea, but I’m sure he’d be delighted to know.”

  She gave Mike an admonishing frown. “That’s an absolutely cruel thing to say.”

  Mike was about to respond to his wife’s dagger when he glanced over her shoulder and focused on Christine, holding hands with a tall, handsome dark haired man, either her date for the evening, her new boyfriend, or both. The two were surrounded by adoring guests. Christine was once again featuring her million dollar smile, and like her father, was behaving as if nothing negative had ever happened in her life. “I wonder if she knows what happened to Steve,” he said.

  Karen turned to see Christine, looking stunning in her full-length red satin dress, a glass of champagne and a long cigarette in one hand, her boy friend’s hand in the other. She turned again to face Mike and grinned. “I’m sure she’d be delighted to know.”

  Mike smirked. “You’re merciless,” he said, then pointed in Christine’s direction. “Let’s wish her well.”

  Christine, showing no sign of sadness or remorse, hugged both, at least pretending to be delighted to see them. She pulled her male companion closer. “I’d like both of you to meet Todd White, a colleague of mine from Anderson, McPherson and White,” she said, then faced White. “Todd, please meet Mike and Karen King. Karen’s father was a very close friend of dad’s.”

  The three shared handshakes, then Christine, never one to shy away from sensitive subjects, demonstrated humility. “The first thing I want to do is to apologize to both of you for the ordeal I put you through last month in Naples. I hope you’ll find it in your hearts to forgive me.”

  Stunned by Christine’s comment, both Mike and Karen were temporarily speechless, struggling to compose an appropriate response… “Both of us were very sorry to see it turn out the way it did. As far as we’re concerned, there’s nothing to forgive,” Karen said. “I’m sure you and…”

  “It’s over and I’m over it,” Christine interrupted. “Steve made his decision and I’ve learned to live with it… Have you seen him since the wedding?”

  Christine’s question suggested that she was still unaware of Steve’s accident. “I thought someone would have told you,” Mike said.

  “Told me what?” Christine asked, frowning, her veneer of strength showing a perceptible weakening.

  “He was involved in a serious accident. He’s in St. Michael’s Hospital, still in a coma.”

  “Oh my God! How did it happen?”

  “I don’t have all the details, but his mother told me he was driving south from his construction project on Lake Joseph last month. His truck was hit by a tractor-trailer at the intersection of Highways Sixty-nine and One Sixty-nine. Steve survived, but the tractor driver was killed.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Christine said with no apparent emotion, then, as if a switch had been flicked, her expression turned cold, angry. “That construction project doesn’t belong to him any more. My father did a power of sale on it this month.” She turned to Todd. “I need another drink,” she said, then grasped his hand and dragged him to the nearest bar.

  CHAPTER 52

  Toronto. Saturday, February 10, 2002.

  Kerri had flown to Toronto the previous day for a meeting with Jason Abramson, the managing director of Iacardi’s Canadian division, and later, dinner with her father and Karen at their large and lovely North York home. She left by taxi the next morning to pick up Helen Monteith and take her to St. Michael’s Hospital.

  The two entered Steve’s room at shortly after ten. Kerri carried a basket of yellow cymbidium and roses for which she could find no available surface space. All of it was covered to near overflowing with an astonishing array of flowers from family and friends. Helen marched directly to her son’s bedside, grasped his cold limp left hand, and kissed his forehead. “It’s your mother, Stephen. It’s time to wake up. You’ve slept in too long,” she said with the tone of a mother admonishing an adolescent child.

  No response.

  She turned to Kerri. “He looks so weak,” she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I’m so afraid we’re going to lose him.”

  Kerri moved close to Steve’s mother and hugged her. “That’s not going to happen, Helen. Steve’s far too strong. He’s a fighter,” she said, anxious to fortify Helen’s spirits, but fully aware that her son might not recover. Doctor Graham had told them that most coma victims who do recover, do so within two to four weeks of their injury or illness. He added that it takes that time for healthy brain cells to assume the function of those that were destroyed. Kerri worried that Steve’s coma had lasted for almost six weeks.

  “I have to use Steve’s washroom. Would you mind watching him until I get back?” Helen said, as if her son needed someone to watch over him in her absence.

  Instead of doing what Helen had asked, Kerri did what she had wanted to do since the day she met Steve. Taking care not to disturb any of the tubes and wires connected to his body, she lowered herself slowly to lie beside him, then leaned over and kissed his lips. “I miss you, Steve. I need a friend, and I don’t want to lose you,” she said. She remained still for several seconds, waiting for a reaction, then lifted herself to a sitting position, still on the bed. She squeezed his right hand. “Did you hear me?” she asked loudly. “Squeeze my hand if you did.” A bolt of shock and surprise shot through her hand and arm to her brain when she felt Steve’s fingers pressing against the back of her hand. To prove to herself the sensation was not just her imagination, she squeezed his hand again. “Steve, squeeze my hand if you can hear me,” she said. He squeezed, this time harder.

  Helen returned from the washroom expecting to continue her visit in the same fashion as she had done so faithfully for six disappointing weeks.

  “He’s coming back,” Kerri said, close to bursting with excitement. “He responded to me. I held his hand and asked him to squeeze it if could hear me. He did it. At first I thought it might have been my imagination, so I tried it again. He squeezed it harder. He proved that he can hear me and make his fingers move.


  Helen grasped her son’s left hand. “Steve, it’s your mother. I’m holding your left hand. I want you to squeeze my hand if you can hear me. Her doubting frown was transformed into a radiant smile as she experienced the pressure of his fingers pressing hard against the top of her hand. She leaned over and kissed his forehead. “Welcome back you big lug. I missed you so much.” Steve squeezed her hand again and opened his eyes.

  “Helen, stay here. I’m going to get somebody. Hopefully I can find Doctor Graham.”

  The more than an hour wait for the doctor passed quickly. To Kerri and Helen, witnessing a loved one returning from a long journey into the abyss of a coma, was like watching an unfolding miracle. It was worth every precious minute, watching him, attempting to communicate with him as he moved in and out of consciousness, opening and closing his eyes as if he was also trying to communicate.

  Doctor Graham entered, shook hands with both visitors, then proceeded to the foot of Steve’s bed. “Let’s see what we have here,” he said as he exposed both of Steve’s feet. “Steve, my name is Paul Graham. I’m your doctor. You’re in St. Michael’s Hospital in Toronto. You were in an accident in Muskoka six weeks ago. You received a serious head injury. I’m going to press a pointed instrument against the bottoms of your feet. I want you to blink twice if you can feel it,” he said, then removed a stainless steel instrument from his white lab coat and used it to jab Steve’s left heel pad.

  Steve blinked twice, inducing immediate smiles from all three members of his audience.

  “Very good. Now I’m going to do the same thing to your right foot.”

  Two more blinks from Steve was sufficient encouragement for Graham to test both hands. He did so successfully and smiled. “Thank you, Steve. You are indeed on your way back.” He turned to Helen and Kerri. “This is a good day. It’s an impressive start for Steve. Obviously, he has feeling in his extremities and he responds to commands. I’m optimistic, but at this point I can’t promise you anything. It’s important for you to understand that emerging from a coma is a gradual process. It’s going to take time and a lot of effort from both of you and our staff. As he improves, he might become confused, angry and loud. Don’t let that worry you. These reactions are normal and usually temporary.” He paused to glance at his watch. “I must go and I think you should too. Steve’s had enough stimulation for now. Please stop at the nurse’s station on your way out. I’ve asked them to give both of you our brochure. It’s essentially a manual on how to deal with an emerging coma victim. Please read it and refer to it often. Both of you can be enormously helpful in Steve’s recovery.”

  CHAPTER 53

  New York. Friday, February 15, 2002.

  When Kerri commissioned the construction and furnishing of the boardroom on the second floor of Iacardi’s new headquarters on Park Street, she could not have imagined the purpose for which it was to be used on this day. Instead of being the centerpiece of the emergence of Iacardi from the ashes of The World Trade Center, as she had intended, it was ground zero in a bitter battle for control of the company. On one one side of the long polished mahogany table sat four representatives of The Plaintiff: Peter Tavaris, Walter Deaks, Billy Dukes, and Sydney Mortimer. On the opposite side sat Kerri King, The Defendant, and her attorney, Marsha Cooper.

  In her preparations for the meeting, Marsha had faxed copies of her proposed agenda, complete with background information, to all of the attendees. She sent an additional copy to Vice-Chancellor William McCarthy, who acknowledged receipt and fully endorsed the meeting. All four representatives of the The Plaintiff had done their homework, had their game faces on, and were ready to do battle. The atmosphere could best be described as tense.

  “Thanks to all of you for coming,” Marsha said. “You have your copies of my proposed agenda, so you know why I called this meeting. I’m happy to tell you that Judge McCarthy has given his blessing to this gathering. He did so because he’s satisfied that in addition to the items on my agenda, my sincere desire is to encourage The Parties to attempt to find common ground in this case, thereby avoiding expensive court time and needless legal expenses.” She paused, took a sip of her coffee, and gave the other side an opportunity to comment.

  “Your agenda says that your client has made a decision with respect to Judge McCarthy’s comments,” Mortimer said, his combative stare riveted on his colleague. “Perhaps we can hear that now, so we know how to behave.”

  “Even though Judge McCarthy has strongly suggested that the least worst option for my client is for her to sign the Enerco Offer to Purchase, she has, for reasons that both Judge McCarthy and I laud, elected not to do so.”

  “Then we’ll see you in court,” Mortimer said without hesitation. “This meeting is over.” He stood, gathered his papers, and jammed them into his briefcase.

  “Sit down, Sydney!” Marsha ordered. “This meeting is not over.”

  Respecting Marsha’s authoritative order and her reputation, Mortimer sat.

  “Thank you, Sydney. Now we can continue… In his remarks on February second, Judge McCarthy made it perfectly clear that, barring any further arguments from either of The Parties, he would likely rule for The Plaintiff. Sydney, you were there. Is that your understanding?”

  “It sure as shit is.”

  “Fine. It is now also my client’s understanding. Accordingly, she is prepared to plead nolo contendere in this case.”

  “Then have her write us a check for a billion dollars, plus costs, and we’ll all go home,” Mortimer said.

  “That isn’t going to happen. It’s precisely why I said this meeting isn’t over… Since my client doesn’t have an extra billion in her bank account, she will have no alternative but to declare personal bankruptcy, in which case The Plaintiff will win the case but receive nothing.”

  Marsha’s declaration hit three of the four representatives of The Plaintiff like a tsunami. They appeared as if they had suddenly been deprived of oxygen. It was obvious that none had anticipated this development. Silence prevailed as all four exchanged glances and contemplated the implications. Tavaris, dressed in his usual black pin striped suit, stroked his stubble as his mood descended from hostility to indignation and rage. He had entered the meeting totally confident that Kerri would accede to Judge McCarthy’s recommendation, and that his dream of wealth and power in the Enerco empire would at last be a reality. He turned to Mortimer. “Forgive me, Sydney. I have to say this.”

  Mortimer nodded.

  Tavaris stood. “I have been in this business for my entire adult life. During that time I have been witness to some unbelievably crazy things… This one tops ’em all. I don’t even know what’s in second place.” He paused for effect, then pointed an accusing finger at Kerri, his expression oozing contempt. “This woman is in way over her head. She has never been academically qualified to run a company as large and valuable as Iacardi & Sons. How on earth could she be qualified to bring it back from the near mortal wound it sustained on September eleventh? It is my opinion that with her in charge, the Iacardi shareholders are at risk of losing everything. As fortune would have it, Enerco, a great company, stepped up to the plate and offered to purchase the company, and to pay three billion dollars to the shareholders for the right to do that… Who’s standing in their way?” Again he pointed an accusing finger at Kerri. “That woman, the holder of a paltry three percent of the company’s stock. I don’t know of an instance in business history in which three percent controlled the hopes and aspirations of the other ninety-seven percent. I think her job is more important to her than the expectations of the overwhelming majority of Iacardi shareholders. Now, to add insult to injury, she’s prepared to declare personal bankruptcy to hold on to that job and to deprive the owners of ninety-seven percent of the common stock of the company what is rightfully theirs.”

  “Thank you, Mister Tavaris,” Marsha said, then placed her left hand on Kerri’s shoulder. “In case you weren’t watching, this woman, in the space of less than ten years as pr
esident of Iacardi & Sons, has taken it from an obscure domestic boutique to the third largest commodities trader on the planet. Her New York division lost three hundred and thirty-eight employees on that awful day last September. The division was left with four employees, three of whom could best be described as hostile. In spite of that adversity, she’s managed to build a new headquarters for the company, completely re-staff the division with top quality employees, and return the company to a level of profitability exceeding that which it enjoyed before last September. In addition, to punctuate her commitment to the company, she loaned one hundred million dollars of her own money to it at zero percent interest.” She glared disdainfully at Tavaris. “Are you and I talking about the same woman?”

  “I’d like to ask Miss King a question,” Mortimer said.

  “Go ahead and ask it. I’ll decide if she should answer it,” Marsha replied.

  “Why are you so adamant about not signing the Enerco Offer? I know you’ve answered this question before, but I’d like you to refresh my memory.”

  Marsha nodded to Kerri.

  “A lot of people died for the company last September. All of a sudden there was no income for the families and dependents of those people. I care about those families and dependents. I think the company should too. We owe it to them… I’m refusing to sign the Enerco offer because it gives no consideration to the families and dependents of those employees who didn’t own a single share of Iacardi stock. If I sign that offer, those people end up with nothing. I have gone on national television to promise that for so long as I am president of Iacardi, I will not rest until they are given the respect and dignity they deserve. My definition of that respect and dignity is in writing… If Enerco is willing to live with that definition, and commits to do so in writing, I’ll sign the Offer.”