34.
The Sun
12 June 1987
MAGGIE THE THIRD: TORIES ROMP IT “BY 110 SEATS”
As Armstrong stormed out of the Lincoln Room, unwilling to suffer the humiliation of having to sit through Townsend’s acceptance speech, few of the press bothered to follow him. But two gentlemen who had traveled down from Chicago did. Their client’s instructions could not have been clearer. “Make an offer to whichever one of them fails to become chairman of the Star.”
Armstrong stood alone on the sidewalk, having dispatched one of his expensive lawyers to go and find his limousine. The manager of the hotel was no longer to be seen. “Where is my bloody car?” shouted Armstrong, staring at a white BMW parked on the opposite side of the road.
“It should be with us in a few moments,” said Russell as he arrived by his side.
“How did he fix the vote?” Armstrong demanded.
“He must have created a large number of shareholders in the past twenty-four hours, who wouldn’t show up on the register for at least another two weeks.”
“Then why were they allowed into the meeting?”
“All they had to do was present the person checking the list with evidence of the minimum required shareholding and their identity. A hundred shares each for, say, a couple of hundred of them, would be all that was needed. They could have bought the stock from any broker on Wall Street, or Townsend could have allotted them 20,000 of his own shares as late as this morning.”
“And that’s legal?”
“Let’s say that it’s within the letter of the law,” said Russell. “We could challenge its legality in the courts. That might take a couple of years, and there’s no saying which side the judge would come down on. But my advice would be that you should sell your shares and satisfy yourself with a handsome profit.”
“That’s exactly the sort of advice you would give,” said Armstrong. “And I don’t intend to take it. I’m going to demand three places on the board and harry the damned man for the rest of his days.”
Two tall, elegantly-dressed men in long black coats hovered a few yards away from them. Armstrong assumed they must be part of Critchley’s legal team. “So how much are those two costing me?” he demanded.
Russell glanced at them and said, “I’ve never seen them before.”
This seemed to act as a cue, because one of the men immediately took a pace forward and said, “Mr. Armstrong?”
Armstrong was about to answer when Russell stepped forward and said, “I’m Russell Critchley, Mr. Armstrong’s New York attorney. Can I be of assistance?”
The taller of the two men smiled. “Good afternoon, Mr. Critchley,” he said. “I’m Earl Withers of Spender, Dickson & Withers of Chicago. I believe we have had the pleasure of dealing with your firm in the past.”
“On many occasions,” said Russell, smiling for the first time.
“Get on with it,” said Armstrong.
The shorter of the two men gave a slight nod. “Our firm has the honor to represent the Chicago News Group, and my colleague and I are eager to discuss a business proposition with your client.”
“Why don’t you contact me at my office tomorrow morning?” said Russell, as a limousine drew up.
“What business proposition?” asked Armstrong, as the driver jumped out and opened the back door for him.
“We have been invested with the authority to offer you the opportunity to purchase the New York Tribune.”
“As I said…” Russell tried again.
“I’ll see you both back at my apartment in Trump Tower in fifteen minutes,” said Armstrong, climbing into the car. Withers nodded as Russell ran round to the other side of the vehicle and joined his client in the back. He pulled the door closed, pressed a button, and said nothing until the glass had slid up between them and the driver.
“Dick, I could not under any circumstances recommend…” the lawyer began.
“Why not?” said Armstrong.
“It’s quite simple,” said Russell. “Everyone knows that the Tribune is in hock for $200 million, and is losing over a million a week. Not to mention that it’s locked into an intractable trade union dispute. I promise you, Dick, no one is capable of turning that paper around.”