PART TWO. THE CAMPAIGN 7 page

No doubt some tortilla-eating jackass down there was doing Buck's job for $5 a day.

He swore as he sipped his coffee.

A few of the managers came clean and told the truth. Most clung to their lies. It didn't matter, really, because they all looked like fools at trial, at least those who testified. Some tried to hide. Earl Crouch, perhaps the biggest liar of all, had been relocated to a Krane plant near Galveston. There was a rumor that he had disappeared under mysterious circumstances.

Buck again glanced at the 9-millimeter.

So far, he had received only one threatening phone call. He wasn't sure about the other managers. All had left Bowmore, and they did not keep in touch.

Mary Grace Payton. If he'd had the pistol during his cross-examination, he might have shot her, her husband, and a few of the lawyers for Krane, and he would have saved one bullet for himself. For four devastating hours, she had exposed one lie after another. Some of the lies were safe, he'd been told. Some were hidden away in memos and affidavits that Krane kept buried. But Ms. Payton had all the memos and all the affidavits and much more.

When the ordeal was almost over, when Buck was bleeding and the jury was furious and Judge Harrison was saying something about perjury, Buck almost snapped. He was exhausted, humiliated, half-delirious, and he almost jumped to his feet, looked at the jurors, and said, "You want the truth, I'll give it to you. We dumped so much shit into those ravines it's a wonder the whole town didn't explode. We dumped gallons every day-BCL and cartolyx and aklar, all class-1 carcinogens-hundreds of gallons of toxic stuff directly into the ground.

We dumped it from vats and buckets and barrels and drums. We dumped it at night and in broad daylight. Oh sure, we stored a lot of it in sealed green drums and paid a fortune to a specialty firm to haul it away. Krane complied with the law. They kissed the EPA's ass.

You've seen the paperwork, everything nice and proper. Real legal like. While the starched shirts in the front office were filling out forms, we were out back in the pits burying the poison. It was much easier and much cheaper to dump it. And you know what? Those same assholes up front knew exactly what we were doing out back." Here he would point a deadly finger at the Krane executives and their lawyers. "They covered it up! And they're lying to you now. Everybody's lying."

Buck gave this speech out loud as he drove, though not every morning. It was oddly comforting to do so, to think about what he should have said instead of what he did.

A piece of his soul and most of his manhood had been left behind in that courtroom.

Lashing out in the privacy of his big truck was therapeutic.

Driving to Bowmore, however, was not. He was not from there and had never liked the town. When he lost his job, he had no choice but to leave.

As the highway became Main Street, he turned right and drove for four blocks. The distribution point had been given the nickname the "city tank." It was directly below the old water tower, an unused and decayed relic whose metal panels had been eaten from the inside by the city's water. A large aluminum reservoir now served the town.

Buck pulled his tanker onto an elevated platform, killed the engine, stuffed the pistol into his pocket, and got out of the truck. He went about his business of unloading his cargo into the reservoir, a discharge that took thirty minutes.

From the reservoir, the water would go to the town's schools, businesses, and churches, and though it was safe enough to drink in Hatties-burg, it was still greatly feared in Bowmore. The pipes that carried it along were, for the most part, the same pipes that had supplied the old water.

Throughout the day, a constant stream of traffic arrived at the reservoir. The people pulled out all manner of plastic jugs and metal cans and small drums, filled them, then took them home.

Those who could afford to contracted with private suppliers. Water was a daily challenge in Bowmore.

It was still dark as Buck waited for his tank to empty. He sat in the cab with the heater on, door locked, pistol close by. There were two families in Pine Grove that he thought about each morning as he waited. Tough families, with men who'd served time. Big families with uncles and cousins. Each had lost a kid to leukemia. Each was now suing.

And Buck was a well-known liar.

Eight days before Christmas, the combatants gathered for the last time in Judge Harrison's courtroom. The hearing was to wrap up all loose ends, and especially to argue the post-trial motions.

Jared Kurtin looked fit and tanned after two weeks of golf in Mexico. He greeted Wes warmly and even managed to smile at Mary Grace. She ignored him by talking toJeannette, who still looked gaunt and worried but at least wasn't crying.

Kurtin's pack of subordinates shuffled papers at hundreds of dollars an hour each, while Frank Sully, the local counsel, watched them smugly. It was all for show. Harrison wasn't about to grant any relief to Krane Chemical, and everybody knew it.

Others were watching. Huffy held his usual spot, curious as always, still worried about the loan and his future. There were several reporters, and even a courtroom artist, the same one who'd covered the trial and sketched faces that no one could recognize. Several plaintiffs' lawyers were there to observe and to monitor the progress of the case. They were dreaming of a massive settlement that would allow them to become rich while avoiding the type of brutal trial the Paytons had just endured.

Judge Harrison called things to order and charged ahead. "So nice to see everyone again," he said drily. "There are a total of fourteen motions that have been filed-twelve by the defense, two by the plaintiff and we are going to dispose of all of them before noon." He glared at Jared Kurtin, as if daring him to utter one superfluous word.

He continued: "I've read all the motions and all the briefs, so please don't tell me anything that you've already put in writing. Mr. Kurtin, you may proceed."

The first motion was for a new trial. Kurtin quickly went through all the reasons his client got screwed, beginning with a couple of jurors he wanted to bounce, but Harrison refused. Kurtin's team had conjured up a total of twenty-two errors they deemed grave enough to complain about, but Harrison felt otherwise. After listening to the lawyers argue for an hour, the judge ruled against the motion for a new trial.

Jared Kurtin would have been shocked at any other ruling. These were routine matters now, the battle had been lost, but not the war.

The other motions followed. After a few minutes of uninspired argument on each one, Judge Harrison said, "Overruled."

When the lawyers finished talking, and as papers were being gathered and briefcases were being closed, Jared Kurtin addressed the court and said, "Your Honor, it's been a pleasure. I'm sure we'll do the whole thing over in about three years."

"Court's adjourned," His Honor said rudely, then rapped his gavel loudly.

Two days after Christmas, late on a raw, windy afternoon, Jeannette Baker walked from her trailer through Pine Grove to the church and to the cemetery behind it.

She kissed the small headstone at Chad 's grave, then sat down and leaned against her husband Pete's. This was the day he died, five years earlier.

In five years she had learned to dwell on the good memories, though she couldn't get rid of the bad ones. Pete, a big man, down to 120 pounds, unable to eat, finally unable to force water through the tumors in his throat and esophagus. Pete, thirty years old and as gaunt and pale as a dying man twice that age. Pete, the tough guy, crying at the unrelenting pain and begging her for more morphine. Pete, the big talker and spinner of big tales, unable to emit anything but a pitiful groan. Pete, begging her to help him end it all.

Chad 's final days had been relatively calm. Pete's had been horrific. She had seen so much.

Enough of the bad memories. She was there to talk about their life together, their romance, their first apartment in Hattiesburg, the birth of Chad, the plans for more children and a larger house, and all the dreams they once laughed about. Little Chad with a fishing pole and an impressive string of bream from her uncle's pond. Little Chad in his first T-ball uniform with Coach Pete by his side. Christmas and Thanksgiving, a vacation at Disney World when they were both sick and dying.

She stayed until after dark, as she always did.

Denny Ott watched her from the kitchen window of the parsonage. The little cemetery he maintained so carefully was getting more than its share of traffic these days.

Chapter 10

The New Year began with another funeral. Miss Inez Perdue died after a lengthy and painful deterioration of her kidneys. She was sixty-one years old, a widow, with two adult children who'd luckily left Bowmore as soon as they were old enough. Uninsured, she died in her small home on the outskirts of town, surrounded by friends and her pastor, Denny Ott. After he left her, Pastor Ott went to the cemetery behind the Pine Grove Church and, with the help of another deacon, began digging her grave, number seventeen.

As soon as the crowd thinned, the body of Miss Inez was loaded into an ambulance and taken directly to the morgue at the Forrest County Medical Center in Hattiesburg.

There, a doctor hired by the Payton law firm spent three hours removing tissue and blood and conducting an autopsy. Miss Inez had agreed to this somber procedure when she signed a contract with the Paytons a year earlier. A probe of her organs and an examination of her tissue might produce evidence that one day would be crucial in court.

Eight hours after her death, she was back in Bowmore, in a cheap casket tucked away for the night in the sanctuary of the Pine Grove Church.

Pastor Ott had long since convinced his flock that once the body is dead and the spirit ascends into heaven, the earthly rituals are silly and of little significance.

Funerals, wakes, embalming, flowers, expensive caskets-all were a waste of time and money. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. God sent us into the world naked and that's how we should leave.

The following day he conducted Miss Inez's service before a full house that included Wes and Mary Grace, as well as a couple of other lawyers looking on with curiosity.

During these services, and he was certainly becoming accomplished, Pastor Ott strove to make the occasion uplifting, at times even humorous. Miss Inez was the backup piano player for the church, and though she played with heavy hands and great enthusiasm, she usually missed about half the notes. And since she was practically deaf, she had no idea how bad she sounded. Recollections of her performances lightened the mood.

It would be easy to bash Krane Chemical and its multitude of sins, but Pastor Ott never mentioned the company. She was dead and nothing could change that. Everybody knew who killed her.

After a one-hour service, the pallbearers lifted her wooden casket onto Mr. Earl Mangram's authentic buckboard, the only one left in the county. Mr. Mangram had been an early victim of Krane, burial number three in Denny Ott's career, and he specifically requested that his casket be hauled away from the church and to the cemetery on his grandfather's buckboard with his ancient mare, Blaze, under tack. The short procession had been such a hit that it became an instant tradition at Pine Grove.

When Miss Inez's casket was placed on the carriage, Pastor Ott, standing next to Blaze, pulled her bridle and the old quarter horse began lumbering along, leading the little parade away from the front of the church, down the side road, and back to the cemetery.

Holding fast to the southern tradition, her farewell was followed by a potluck get-together in the fellowship hall. For a people so accustomed to dying, the post-burial meal allowed the mourners to lean on one another and share their tears. Pastor Ott made the rounds, chatting with everyone, praying with some.

The great question at these dark moments was, who was next? In many ways, they felt like prisoners. Isolated, suffering, not sure which one would be chosen by the executioner.

Rory Walker was a fourteen-year-old who was losing ground fast in his decadelong battle with leukemia. He was probably next. He was at school and missed the Perdue service, but his mother and grandmother were there.

The Paytons huddled in a corner with Jeannette Baker and talked about everything but the case. Over paper plates sparsely covered with a broccoli-and-cheese casserole, they learned that she was now working as a night clerk in a convenience store and had her eye on a nicer trailer. She and Bette were fighting. Bette had a new boyfriend who slept over often and seemed much too interested in Jeannette's legal situation.

Jeannette looked stronger and her mind was sharper. She had gained a few pounds and said she was no longer taking all those antidepressants. People were treating her differently. She explained in a very low voice as she watched the others: "For a while these people were really proud. We struck back. We won. Finally, somebody on the outside had listened to us, all these poor little people in this poor little town. Everybody circled around me and said sweet things. They cooked for me, cleaned the trailer, somebody was always stopping by. Anything for poor little Jeannette.

But as the days went by, I started hearing the money talk. How long will the appeal take? When will the money come in? What was I planning to do with it? And on and on. Bette's younger brother stayed over one night, drank too much, and tried to borrow a thousand dollars. We got into a fight and he said everybody in town knew that I'd already received some of the money. I was shocked. People were talking. All kinds of rumors. Twenty million this and twenty million that. How much will I give away?

What kind of new car am I going to get? Where will I build my big new house? They watch everything I buy now, which isn't much.

And the men-every tomcat in four counties is calling, wanting to stop by and say hello or take me to the movies. I know for a fact that two of them are not even divorced yet. Bette knows their cousins. I couldn't care less about men."

Wes glanced away.

"Are you talking to Denny?" Mary Grace asked.

"Some. And he's wonderful. He tells me to keep praying for those who gossip about me. I pray for them all right. I really do. But I get the feeling that they're praying harder for me and the money." She looked around suspiciously.

Dessert was banana pudding. It was also an excuse to drift away from Jeannette. The Paytons had several other clients present, and each needed to be given some attention.

When Pastor Ott and his wife began clearing the tables, the mourners finally headed for the door.

Wes and Mary Grace met with Denny in his study next to the sanctuary. It was time for the post-burial legal update. Who had fallen ill? What were the new diagnoses?

Who in Pine Grove had hired another law firm?

"This Clyde Hardin thing is out of control," Denny said. "They're advertising on the radio and once a week in the paper, full page. They're almost guaranteeing money.

People are flocking in."

Wes and Mary Grace had walked down Main Street prior to the service for Miss Inez.

They wanted to see firsthand the new screening clinic next to F. Clyde's office.

On the sidewalk, there were two large coolers filled with bottled water and packed with ice. A teenager with a Bintz amp; Bintz T-shirt handed them a bottle each. The label read: "Pure Spring Water. Compliments of Bintz amp; Bintz, Attorneys." There was a toll-free number.

"Where does the water come from?" Wes had asked the kid.

"Not from Bowmore," came the quick retort.

As Mary Grace chatted up the boy, Wes stepped inside, where he joined three other potential clients who were waiting to get themselves screened. None gave any indication of being ill. Wes was greeted by a comely young lady of no more than eighteen, who handed him a brochure, a form on a clipboard, and a pen and instructed him to fill out both front and back. The brochure was professionally done and gave the basics of the allegations against Krane Chemical, a company now "proven in court" to have contaminated the drinking water of Bowmore and Cary County. All inquiries were directed to the firm of Bintz amp; Bintz in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The questions on the form were all background and medical, except for the last two: (1) Who referred you to this office? and (2) Do you know anyone else who might be a potential victim of Krane Chemical? If so, list names and phone numbers.

As Wes was scribbling on the form, the doctor entered the waiting room from somewhere in the rear and called for the next patient. He wore a white physician's office jacket, complete with a stethoscope around his neck. He was either Indian or Pakistani and looked no older than thirty.

After a few minutes inside, Wes excused himself and left.

"It's small-time stuff," Wes said to Denny. "They'll sign up a few hundred cases, most of them frivolous. Then they'll file a class action in federal court. If they're lucky, it'll be settled years from now for a few thousand bucks each. The lawyers will skim off some nice fees. But there's a better chance that Krane will never settle, and if that happens, then all those new clients get nothing and Clyde Hardin will be forced to go back to drafting deeds."

"How many from your church have signed up?" Mary Grace asked.

"I don't know. They don't tell me everything."

"We're not worried about it," Wes said. "Frankly, we have enough of these cases to keep us busy for a long time."

"Did I see a couple of spies at the service today?" Mary Grace asked.

"Yes. One was a lawyer named Crandell, from Jackson. He's been hanging around since the trial. He's actually stopped by here to say hello. Just a hustler."

"I've heard of him," Wes said. "Has he hooked any cases?"

"Not from this church."

They discussed the lawyers for a while, then had their usual conversation about Jeannette and the new pressures she was facing. Ott was spending time with her and was confident she was listening to him.

After an hour they wrapped up their meeting. The Paytons drove back to Hattiesburg, another client in the ground, another injury case now converted into a wrongful-death suit.

The preliminary paperwork arrived at the Mississippi Supreme Court in the first week of January. The trial transcript, 16,200 pages, was finalized by the court reporters, and copies were sent to the clerk of the court and to the lawyers. An order was entered giving Krane Chemical, the appellant, ninety days to file its brief. Sixty days after that, the Paytons would file their rebuttal.

In Atlanta, Jared Kurtin passed the file to the firm's appellate unit, the "eggheads," as they were known, brilliant legal scholars who functioned poorly in normal circles and were best kept in the library. Two partners, four associates, and four paralegals were already hard at work on the appeal when the massive transcript arrived and they had their first look at every word that was recorded at trial. They would dissect it and find dozens of reasons for a reversal.

In a lesser section of Hattiesburg, the transcript was plopped on the plywood table in The Pit. Mary Grace and Sherman gawked at it in disbelief, almost afraid to touch it. Mary Grace had once tried a case that went on for ten full days. Its transcript had been twelve hundred pages long, and she read it so many times that the sight of it made her ill. Now this.

If they had an advantage, it was because they had been in the courtroom throughout the entire trial and knew most of what was in the transcript. Indeed, Mary Grace appeared on more pages than any other participant.

But it would be read many times, and procrastination was not an option. The trial and its verdict would be cleverly and savagely attacked by Krane's lawyers. Jeannette Baker's lawyers had to match them argument for argument, word for word.

In the heady days after the verdict, the plan had been for Mary Grace to concentrate on the Bowmore cases while Wes worked the other files to generate income. The publicity had been priceless; the phones rang incessantly. Every nutcase in the Southeast suddenly needed the Paytons. Lawyers mired in hopeless lawsuits called for help. Family members who'd lost loved ones to cancer saw the verdict as a hopeful sign. And the usual assortment of criminal defendants, divorcing spouses, battered women, bankrupt businesses, slip-and-fall hustlers, and fired employees called or even stopped by in pursuit of these famous lawyers. Very few could pay a decent fee.

Legitimate personal injury cases, however, had proven scarce. The "Big One," the perfect case with clear liability and a defendant with deep pockets, the case upon which retirement dreams often rest, had not yet found its way to the Payton law firm.

There were a few more car wrecks and workers' compensation cases, but nothing worth a trial.

Wes worked feverishly to close as many files as possible, and with some success.

The rent was now current, at least at the office. All past-due wages had been paid.

Huffy and the bank were still on edge but afraid to push harder. No payments had been made, either on principal or on interest.

Chapter 11

They settled on a man named Ron Fisk, a lawyer unknown outside of his small town of Brookhaven, Mississippi, an hour south of Jackson, two hours west of Hattiesburg, and fifty miles north of the Louisiana state line. He was selected from a pool of similar resumes, though none of those considered had the slightest hint that their names and backgrounds were being so carefully evaluated. Young white male, one marriage, three children, reasonably handsome, reasonably well dressed, conservative, devout Baptist, Ole Miss law school, no ethical glitches in the law career, not a hint of criminal trouble beyond a speeding ticket, no affiliation with any trial lawyer group, no controversial cases, no experience whatsoever on the bench.

There was no reason anyone outside of Brookhaven would ever have heard the name of Ron Fisk, and that was exactly what made him their ideal candidate. They picked Fisk because he was just old enough to cross their low threshold of legal experience, but still young enough to have ambitions.

He was thirty-nine years old, a junior partner in a five-man firm that specialized in defending lawsuits involving car wrecks, arson, injured workers, and a myriad of other routine liability claims. The firm's clients were insurance companies who paid by the hour, thus allowing the five partners to earn comfortable but not lucrative salaries. As a junior partner, Fisk made $92,000 the year before. A far cry from Wall Street but not bad money in small-town Mississippi.

A supreme court justice was currently earning $110,000.

Fisk's wife, Doreen, earned $41,000 as the assistant director of a privately owned mental health clinic. Everything was mortgaged-home, both cars, even some furniture.

But the Fisks had a perfect credit rating. They vacationed once a year with their children in Florida, where they rented a condo in a high-rise for a thousand bucks a week. There were no trust funds and nothing significant to be expected from their parents' estates.

The Fisks were squeaky-clean. There was nothing to dig up in the heat of a nasty campaign. Absolutely nothing, they were certain of that.

Tony Zachary entered the building at five minutes before 2:00 p.m. and stated his business. "I have an appointment with Mr. Fisk," he said politely, and a secretary disappeared. As he waited, he examined the place. Sagging bookshelves laden with dusty tomes. Worn carpet. The musty smell of a fine old building in need of some work. A door opened, and a handsome young man stuck out a hand. "Mr. Zachary, Ron Fisk," he said warmly, as he probably did to all new clients.

"A pleasure."

"This is my office," Fisk said, sweeping his hand at the door. They walked through it, closed it, then settled around a large busy desk. Zachary declined coffee, water, a soda. "I'm fine, thanks," he said.

Fisk had his sleeves rolled up and his tie loosened, as if he'd been performing manual labor. Zachary liked the image immediately. Nice teeth, just a touch of gray above the ears, strong chin. This guy was definitely marketable.

They played Who-do-you-know? for a few minutes, with Zachary claiming to be a longtime resident of Jackson, where he'd spent most of his career in government relations, whatever that meant. Since he knew that Fisk had no history of political involvement, he had little fear of being exposed. In truth, he'd lived in Jackson less than three years and until very recently had worked as a lobbyist for an association of asphalt contractors. There was a state senator from Brookhaven they both knew, and they chatted about him for a few minutes, anything to pass the time.

When things were comfortable, Zachary said, "Let me apologize, I'm really not a new client. I'm here on some much more important business."

Fisk frowned and nodded. Keep talking, sir.

"Have you ever heard of a group called Judicial Vision?"

"No."

Few people had. In the murky world of lobbying and consulting, Judicial Vision was a newcomer.

Zachary moved on. "I'm the executive director for the state of Mississippi. It's a national group. Our sole purpose is to elect quality people to the appellate courts.

By quality, I mean conservative, business oriented, temperate, highly moral, intelligent, and ambitious young judges who can literally, Mr. Fisk, and this is the core of what we believe, change the judicial landscape of this country. And if we can do that, then we can protect the rights of the unborn, restrict the cultural garbage that is consumed by our children, honor the sanctity of marriage, keep homosexuals out of our classrooms, fight off the gun-control advocates, seal our borders, and protect the true American way of life."

Both took a deep breath.

Fisk wasn't sure where he fit into this raging war, but his pulse was definitely up ten beats per minute. "Yes, well, sounds like an interesting group," he said.

"We're committed," Zachary said firmly. "And we're also determined to bring sanity back to our civil litigation system. Runaway verdicts and hungry trial lawyers are robbing us of economic advancement. We're scaring companies away from Mississippi, not attracting them."

"There's no doubt about that," Fisk said, and Zachary wanted to shout for joy.

"You see all the frivolous stuff they file. We work hand in hand with the national tort-reform groups."

"That's good. And why are you in Brookhaven?"

"Are you politically ambitious, Mr. Fisk? Ever thought about tossing your hat in the ring for elective office?"

"Not really."

"Well, we've done our research, and we think you'd be an excellent candidate for the supreme court."

Fisk instinctively laughed at such foolishness, but it was the sort of nervous laugh that leads you to believe that whatever is supposed to be humorous is really not.

It's serious. It can be pursued.

"Research?" he said.

"Oh yes. We spend a lot of time looking for candidates who (a) we like and (b) can win. We study the opponents, the races, the demographics, the politics, everything, really. Our data bank is unmatched, as is our ability to generate serious funds.

Care to hear more?"

Fisk kicked back in his reclining rocker, put his feet on his desk and his hands behind his head, and said, "Sure. Tell me why you're here."

"I'm here to recruit you to run against Justice Sheila McCarthy this November in the southern district of Mississippi," he announced confidently. "She is very beatable.

We don't like her or her record. We have analyzed every decision she's made in her nine years on the bench, and we think she's a raging liberal who manages to hide her true colors, most of the time. Do you know her?"

Fisk was almost afraid to say yes. "We met once, just in passing. I don't really know her."

Actually, according to their research, Justice McCarthy had participated in three rulings in cases involving Ron Fisk's law firm, and each time she had ruled the other way. Fisk had argued one of the cases, a hotly disputed arson mess involving a warehouse.

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 337