Novel: Cathedral Condo’s on the Square, Jackson Square That is
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 - The Beginning
Chapter 2 - Henry’s New Orleans
Chapter 3 - The Syndicate
Chapter 4 - The Deal
Chapter 5 - New Orleans
Chapter 6 – Rome and Home
Chapter 7- Gradis in Rome
Chapter 8- Home at Last
Chapter 1- The Beginning
The Times Picayune headline screamed in large bold type: Lawsuit To Stop St. Louis Cathedral Condos.
“Thank God some one is doing something about this stupidity,” Rita screeched across the coffee shop table to her husband Gus. Her half decaf/half regular grew tepid as she continued, “When old money corrupts it corrupts completely.”
Gus nodded his head, half listening to his wife’s barking. But she’s right he thought. The last time someone tried to turn the French Quarter into Disney land was in the late 20th century, during the oil boom. The city’s motif was going to change to reflect the oil wealth and bad taste of Houston.
But now, “Goddamn,” he said. “Who has the balls to go after the old money cabal?”
“It’s some Jewish guy, I think. I don’t recognize the name. But at least someone is doing something to stop this idiocy. Says he has family ties here, but he’s only been here a couple of months. Says he works at Tulane.”
“Probably should have stated that in the past tense.”
“Fuckin’ tourism,” Gus continued. “That was the stuff that sunk us in the first place. Low cost tourism, plenty of low cost jobs, lots of out of towners, no school system, and no other jobs. That was before Katrina. That’s the same shtick now. Old money cares for old money, no one else. Why else would they have let the city sink into bankruptcy?”
“Yeah, I’ll betchya the developers had a fine Irish wake when the papers were filed. A chance to re-do the city in the developer’s image.”
“I hope the Archbishop is happy,” Gus mumbled as he abruptly left the table in disgust.
*****
The murmur at the Boston Club was unmistakable. The collective voice was rumble regarding the newspaper, a sort of collective, Gregorian in nature.
“Who is this little bastard?” said Keenan.
“It took us fifty years to finally get in this position,” muttered Graeme.
“Surely we’ll get it dismissed as frivolous.” said Alden.
“When is the meeting?” added Walter.
“Don’t know. Called Antoine this morning. He’ll touch base with his group and the Archbishop and get back to me later this morning,” Graeme said.
“This is going to delay the closing, probably cost us points, and may affect construction financing.” Walter said.
“Nah. I think this is bullshit. We should be able to have it fixed in a few days. Who does this kike think he is coming into our home and trying to make waves? We’ve seen the likes of them and disposed of them many times before,” said Keenan.
“Has anybody talked to Sam? Remember the Jews have a piece of this action too. That group has something to lose if they don’t control that little kike,” Graeme said.
The sun was blocked momentarily as Prescott walked in to the club to the table where his friends were having their animated discussion. “What’s going on? You sound like a bunch of hens.” he said.
“Have you seen the paper?” asked Alden.
“No.”
“Well some little out-of-town kike who nobody has heard of has filed suit to stop our project. It’s probably just an annoyance. But, we don’t need to aggrevate the ordinarys and we don’t need it making the national news spilling our game and names. After all we’re just doing our civic duty. We’re what is good for the city. Every body that should be in is in the deal. So we make a few bucks, so what? ” Alden intoned.
“Has anyone seen the lawsuit?” Prescott queried.
“I believe the Phil has gotten a copy at his office since he’s heads the LLC. I called him probably when he was at the gym. Should hear from him shortly,” Keenan indicated.
*****
Phil hadn’t opened the paper this morning. He was late getting to the club for his combined spinning class and bullshit session with his long term white shoe rival, a friend since the early days at Trinity Episcopal, Kincaid.
“So, Phil, I see your getting your ass is getting sued over this Jackson Square thing,” Kincaid exhorted as they met up in the hallway.
“What the hell are you talking about? Phil replied.
“Are your eyes so bad you can’t read the paper early in the morning anymore? Maybe I’ll buy you a new set of contacts for your birthday,” Kincaid chided.
“Asshole with emphasis,” Phil muttered. For the next hour the friends exchanged verbal insults as they spun to the salsa beat.
Phil didn’t think much about the lawsuit comment until he listened to the message on his cell phone from Graeme as he was dressing in the locker room. “Phil. Graeme. What the fuck is goin’ on!!! You shoulda called right away, when you got the papers!!!” Not like Graeme to be so crude or excited, not to mention the poor diction Phil thought to himself. This maybe the lawsuit Kincaid mentioned at the gym. He hadn’t received any papers or been served at the office, which was headquarters for LLC, The Best for New Orleans, LLC. He skimmed the article in the paper, no mention substance of the suit only that it was filed by some kid named with the defendants, the City, the Diocesese of New Orleans, church corporation, and the LLC. Why are we involved he thought to himself. Not much I can do ‘til, I get to the office.
Phil walked from the club to his office on Carondelet Street. His family had owned the lot where his office was located since the land was sold off by Judah Touro. The building was an late 19th century knock off of a Standford White building still occupied by a white- shoe Boston law firm. All the comforts of home if you’re a named partner, all the discomforts of the plantation if you’re an non-pedigreed associate. The named-partner entrance avoided the publicity of the lobby as well as the ubiquitous cubicle community of the associates and support staff.
The partners’ offices were old New Orleans, a touch more of the faux elegance of the old South: 12’ high ceilings, solid Cyprus paneling, wainscoting and three-part molding floor and ceiling. The Cyprus-planked floors were covered with rugs well worn and woven in centuries past. The antique desk and conference table sat atop one of these rugs, while the built-in bar and the other modern conveniences were hidden behind or within newly-built furniture contraptions that blended with the antiquity and settled dust of the originals. The walls were covered with family trinkets, symbols of social, economic and religious rank- medals, plaques, masks, club favors- meaningless trinkets to others but the defining elements of culture here. The obligatory family portraits hung on the side walls of the founder as well as Phil and his family-tall thin blonde wife, three blond girls, two boys decked out in the Mardi Gras ball formal best. Tuxedos with ribbons, medallions and gloves for the men; ball gowns, tiaras, club favors, arm length gloves for the women. The picture of a past age captured and perpetuated to this day. And, into the future if Phil and the descendants have their way.
“Jackie, did any one call this morning?” Phil asked as he settled into his 18th century English partners’ desk. He always admired this desk, it was his right to inherit it, just as it is his kids’. And his right to foster and maintain appropriate class culture, and act in their behalf in doing what’s right for their city.
“Mr. Phil,” Jackie responded, “Mr. Graeme was here and very irate. He said he would be back and asked if I had a copy of the papers. I told him, I didn’t know what he was talking about. He slammed this paper in his hand and marched out mumbling something about a damn Yankee kike.” “Anything else?” he asked. “No sir.”
Graeme rarely got excited. Phil was wondering what was bugging him, as he surveyed the the top of his desk and thumbed through the signature blotter. Nothing new or unexpected here he thought. As he sat down the partners’ door flew open and Graeme pounced in slamming the door behind him. “What the hell is going on,” he inveighed. “No one’s returning my calls, you or the other guys.”
“Calm down,” Phil said. “What can be so bad?
“The law suit, the goddamn lawsuit!!!”
Phil and Graeme knew each other since their infant days. Their family pasts commingled with others who belonged to Trinity Episcopal. They were together during the day throughout their formative years sharing play space and school space through grammar school, high school and college. LSU, where else, Delta Kappa Epsilon (DKE) fraternity, same group of eligible women for wives, “The School of Design”, and the Boston Club. You could put them in each others family albums, the story was the same.
Except for the choice of something to do while the family wealth continues to accumulate. Phil followed the family profession, white-shoe law. Graeme followed his, wealth and real estate management.
“What suit?” Phil said as he remembered Kincaid’s jab at the gym and Graeme’s earlier message.
“What’s with you?” yelled Graeme. “The goddamn suit on the front of the Times Picayune with the syndicate named as a defendant.”
Phil flipped open the folded paper on his desk. “Interesting,” he said as he scanned the article.
“Interesting my ass,” Graeme retorted.
“This suit and the publicity could queer the deal even after we get it thrown out. Our deal was based on keeping it low key, no real public exposure, buy everybody off with a piece of the action, no news was good news, complete the Act of Sale, then spin it as a good news fairy tale for the ordinarys,” he continued.
“Graeme, I need to see the complaint before we can do anything” Phil murmured. “The paper indicated it was filed in federal court.” Phil picked up his phone and dialed Judge Louis Gold’s chambers. “Ashley how are you? Great to hear it. Yes we’ll see you and Leslie in Fairhope next weekend. Listen, dear, I need a little quick help. There was a suit filed in Lou’s court against the city, Archdiocese, church corporation and The Best for New Orleans, LLC by Frankel of Wolf Block in Philadelphia. I need to know the delivery schedule on service and would like you to fax me a copy of the complaint. Thanks dear.
“Stop shaking Graeme. It can’t be that bad. It’s an outside suit probably by some Birkenstock-wearing far left out of town Jew student with a do-gooder social conscience trying to save New Orleans’ unique culture. But remember that’s what we’re trying to do as well, Graeme. We got the money on our side, so remember that too.”
*****
“Good morning Graeme. How are you on this morning?” Sam asked as he walked into the Comus room at Antoine’s.
“Fit as always. Just want this suit to go away so that we can close the deal. We got developers lined up out the ass. The sooner we close the sooner we sell. And the sooner we cash out.” Graeme said .
“How’re my favorite Yid and Wasp today?” Alden asked as he bounded into the room.
No offense was intended and none taken. The members of the syndicate while of different persuasions knew each other for decades and bridged social and political divides through a desirable common currency - money. And greed. Yes, good old narcissistic greed pushed disparate interests together to do what so many of their ancestors did in New Orleans - make a quick, large bucks. Paraphrasing, a wise man once noted that behind every great fortune stands a great crime; the knowledge of which miraculously disappears over time. This group was destined to break the boredom of preserving their wealth by expanding it in the public interest, but of course this pro bono publico was thinly disguised and meant to serve only their interests.
“Anthony shut the door on your way out,” Graeme ordered their server. “You all know why we’re here so get on with it Phil.”
“It’s seems straight forward” said Phil. “We have a complaint filed against four parties the LLC, City, Archdiocese, and the church corporation. For all practical purposes the suit is against us and we need to handle the court case. The less the city and the archdiocese are involved the better off we are. The cost of handling this matter will be allocated based on the deal percentages and shouldn’t amount to much more then ten grand.”
“What’s the complaint?” Alden asked.
“I sent you all a copy of the document to review and distribute to your groups as you see fit. To answer your question, Alden, the suit claims that the Frankel family owns all of the property we’re about to go to an Act of Sale on.”
“That’s a lot of crap. It’s impossible for them to own the property.” Alden said. “For Christ’s sake, it’s the Square, it’s either church or municipal property.” A sense of agreement permeated the room.
“That’s true,” said Phil. “My recommended approach is to file for dismissal in federal court because this is a real estate transaction under the laws of Louisiana. Once we get it moved to Louisiana jurisdiction, it will end up in civil district court. We’ll arrange to have the case heard by Sonny Whitfield. We’ll file for summary judgment as soon as possible. I’m sure the facts will support us, and we’ll have some administrative discussions.”
“Hey, Sam, do you know anything about Frankel?”
“Not a frickin’ thing,” said Sam. “I’ve asked Harold to ask around but no one seems to know his family. We’ll be checkin’ at Tulane, JCC, and the ‘gogues. We’ll get back to Phil with the info. I’m assuming Phil will be the funnel and coordinator.”
“I’m willing to do that, if the group agrees,” Phil said. Heads around the table motioned agreement. “I don’t want any members of the syndicate talking to the press, any press. Got it? All we need is a little social gossip showing up in the TP or Gambit to ignite the blaze. We’ll be accused of wearing white hoods in the blink of an eye. Agreed?” Phil intoned.
A collective nod of agreement came from around the table.
“All right, now for assignments. Graeme you need to talk to Amos about controlling his staff, keeping this low key, and giving us a heads up if anything is going to break. Sam you’ll check out the kid on the social side. Alden you need to handle liaison with the Archdioceses, and your corporation board. I’ll contact their attorneys and set up a preliminary meeting. My objective is to file for dismissal by the end of the week.
Remember our operating rules: no paper trail, low key, invisible.” Phil concluded.
*****
“Good morning gentlemen, and I use the term loosely for you, Morgan,” Phil said as Morgan chuckled. The meeting room was small and nice in a 1960s way. The Archdiocese had a penchant in recent decades for embracing the dinginess of the 1960s. The curtain wall windows over looked the French Quarter. The tables and chairs were vintage Office Depot. The rugs were worn thin shag. The Seminary with its 19th century French motif would have been a nicer meeting place. But, the Archbishop wanted to sit in.
“Anyone else coming?” Phil asked, anxious to get on with the meeting.
Phil in his thirty years of practice never enjoyed discussing anything with the Archdiocese. Every discussion was tedious. Every discussion had the weight of the Vatican bearing down. The Archdiocese backroom politics often made New Orleans backroom activities seem open and above board. Every one was fighting to stay in place or move to higher authority. Political casualties were quietly stepped on and moved out. Adam Smith would be proud of the Church’s business operations- heartless and profit oriented. St. Peter’s invisible hand had unintended consequences. Phil witnessed it all. T business line – disguised as religious initiatives - meant those that did not meet revenue and profitability targets were disemboweled and buried without the last rites, as their initiators were moved to less challenging activities in underserved areas.