PART TWO. THE CAMPAIGN 8 page

His client lost on a 5-to-4 vote. It was quite likely that he had little use for Mississippi 's only female justice.

"She is very vulnerable," Zachary said.

"What makes you think I can beat her?"

"Because you are a clean-cut conservative who believes in family values. Because of our expertise in running blitzkrieg campaigns. Because we have the money."

"We do?"

"Oh yes. Unlimited. We partner with some powerful people, Mr. Fisk."

"Please call me Ron."

It'll be Ronny Boy before you know it. "Yes, Ron, we coordinate the fund-raising with groups that represent banks, insurance companies, energy companies, big business, I'm talking serious cash here, Ron. Then we expand the umbrella to include the groups that are dearest to us-the conservative Christian folks, who, by the way, can produce huge sums of money in the heat of a campaign. Plus, they turn out the vote."

"You make it sound easy."

"It's never easy, Ron, but we seldom lose. We've honed our skills in a dozen or soraces around the country, and we're making a habit of pulling off victories that surprise a lot of people."

"I've never sat on the bench."

"We know that, and that's why we like you. Sitting judges make tough decisions. Tough decisions are sometimes controversial. They leave trails, records that opponents can use against them. The best candidates, we have learned, are bright young guys like yourself who don't carry the baggage of prior decisions."

Inexperience had never sounded so good.

There was a long pause as Fisk tried to gather his thoughts. Zachary stood and walked to the Wall of Respect, this one covered in diplomas, Rotary Club citations, golfing photos, and lots of candid shots of the family. Lovely wife Doreen. Ten-year-old Josh in a baseball uniform. Seven-year-old Zeke with a fish almost as big as himself.

Five-year-old Clarissa dressed for soccer. "Beautiful family," Zachary said, as if he knew nothing about them.

"Thanks," Fisk said, truly beaming.

"Gorgeous kids."

"Good genes from their mother."

"First wife?" Zachary asked, offhanded and innocent.

"Oh yes. Met her in college."

Zachary knew that, and much more. He returned to his seat and resumed his position.

"I haven't checked recently," Fisk said, somewhat awkwardly, "but what does the job pay now?"

"One ten," Tony said and suppressed a smile. He was making more progress than he realized.

Fisk grimaced slightly as if he couldn't afford such a drastic cut in pay. His mind was racing, though, dizzy with the possibilities. "So you're recruiting candidates for the supreme court," he said, almost in a daze.

"Not for every seat. We have some good judges here, and we'll support them if they draw opponents. But McCarthy has got to go. She is a feminist who's soft on crime.

We're going to take her out. I hope it's with you.

"And if I say no?"

"Then we'll go to the next name on our list. You're number one."

Fisk shook his head, bewildered. "I don't know," he said. "It would be hard to leave my firm."

But at least he was thinking about leaving the firm. The bait was in the water, and the fish was watching it. Zachary nodded in agreement. Completely sympathetic. The firm was a collection of worn-out paper pushers who spent their time deposing drunk drivers and settling fender benders the day before trial. For fourteen years, Fisk had been doing the same thing over and over. Each file was the same.

They took a booth in a pastry shop and ordered ice cream sundaes. "What is a blitzkrieg campaign?" Fisk asked. They were alone. All other booths were empty.

"It's basically an ambush," Zachary replied, warming up to his favorite subject.

"Right now Judge McCarthy has no idea she has an opponent. She's thinking, hoping,actually confident, that no one will challenge her. She has six thousand bucks in her campaign account, and she won't raise another dime if she doesn't have to. Let's say you decide to run. The qualifying deadline is four months away, and we'll wait until the last minute to announce your candidacy. However, we get busy right now. We put your team together. We get the money in the bank. We print all the yard signs, bumper stickers, brochures, direct mail materials. We cut your television ads, hire the consultants, pollsters, and the like. When you announce, we flood the district with direct mail. The first wave is the friendly stuff-you, your family, your minister, Rotary Club, Boy Scouts. The second wave is a hard but honest look at her record. You start campaigning like a madman. Ten speeches a day, every day, all over the district. We'll buzz you around in private planes. She won't know where to begin. She will be overwhelmed from the first day. On June 30, you'll report a million bucks in your campaign fund. She won't have ten thousand. The trial lawyers will scramble and raise some money for her, but it'll be a drop in the bucket. After Labor Day, we start hitting hard with television ads. She's soft on crime. Soft on gays. Soft on guns. Against the death penalty.

She'll never recover."

The sundaes arrived and they began eating. "How much will this cost?" Fisk asked.

"Three million bucks."

"Three million bucks! For a supreme court race?"

"Only if you want to win."

"And you can raise that much money?"

"Judicial Vision already has the commitments. And if we need more, we'll get more."

Ron took a mouthful of ice cream and, for the first time, asked himself why an organization was willing to spend a fortune to unseat a supreme court justice who had little impact on the social issues of the day. The Mississippi courts rarely were drawn into cases involving abortion, gay rights, guns, immigration. They dealt with the death penalty all the time, but were never expected to abolish it. The weightier matters were always in federal court.

Perhaps the social issues were important, but something else was at work here. "This is about liability, isn't it?" Fisk asked.

"It's a package, Ron, with several elements. But, yes, limiting liability is a huge priority of our organization and its affiliated groups. We're going to find a horse for this race-hope it's you, but if not, then we'll go to the next guy-and when we find our man, we will expect a firm commitment to limit liability in civil litigation.

The trial lawyers must be stopped."

Doreen brewed decaf coffee late that night. The kids were asleep, but the adults definitely were not. Nor would they be anytime soon. Ron had called her from the office after Mr. Zachary left, and since then they had thought of nothing but the supreme court.

Issue number one: They had three young children. Jackson, home of the supreme court, was an hour away, and the family was not leaving Brookhaven. Ron thought he would need to spend only two nights a week in Jackson, at most. He could commute; it was an easy drive. And he could work from home. Secretly, to him, the idea of getting away from Brookhaven for a couple of nights each week was not altogether unappealing.

Secretly, to her, the idea of having the house to herself occasionally was refreshing.

Issue number two: The campaign. How could he play politics for the rest of the year while continuing to practice law? His firm would be supportive, he thought, but it would not be easy. But then, nothing worthwhile is without sacrifice.

Issue number three: Money, though this was not a significant concern. The increase in pay was obvious. His net from the law firm's profits rose slightly each year, but no big bonuses were likely. Judicial salaries in Mississippi were increased periodically by the legislature.

Plus, the state had a better retirement plan and health coverage.

Issue number four: His career. After fourteen years of doing the same thing, with no break in sight, he found the idea of a sudden career change exhilarating. The mere thought of leaving the ranks of thousands to become only one of nine was thrilling. Jumping from the county courthouse to the pinnacle of the state's legal system in one boisterous somersault was so exciting that it made him laugh. Doreen was not laughing, though she was very amused and engaged.

Issue number five: Failure. What if he lost? In a landslide? Would they be humiliated?

This was a humbling thought, but he kept repeating what Tony Zachary had said. "Three million bucks will win the race, and we'll get the money."

Which brought up the rather large issue of who exactly was Tony Zachary, and could they believe him? Ron had spent an hour online tracking down Judicial Vision and Mr. Zachary. Everything looked legitimate. He called a friend from law school, a career man with the attorney general's office in Jackson, and, without revealing his motives, nibbled around the edges of Judicial Vision. The friend had heard of them, he thought, but didn't know much about them. And besides, he dealt with offshore oil rights and stayed away from politics.

Ron had called the Judicial Vision office in Jackson and was routed through a maze back to Mr. Zachary's secretary, who informed him that her boss was traveling in south Mississippi. After she hung up, she called Tony and reported the contact.

The Fisks met Tony for lunch the following day at the Dixie Springs Cafe, a small restaurant near a lake ten miles south of Brookhaven, far away from potential eavesdroppers in the town's restaurants.

For the occasion, Zachary adopted a slightly different posture. Today he was the man with other options. Here's the deal-take it or leave it because my list is long and I have other young white Protestant male lawyers to talk to. He was gentle and perfectly charming, especially to Doreen, who began the lunch with suspicion but was soon won over.

At some point during the sleepless night, both Mr. and Mrs. Fisk had independently arrived at the same conclusion. Life would be much fuller, much richer in their little town if Lawyer Fisk became Justice Fisk. Their status would be elevated magnificently. No one could touch them, and while they didn't seek power or notoriety, the allure was irresistible.

"What's your principal concern?" Tony asked after fifteen minutes of worthless chatter.

"Well, it's January," Ron began. "And for the next eleven months I will do little else but plan and execute the campaign. Naturally, I'm worried about my law practice."

"Here's one solution," Tony said without hesitation. He had solutions for everything.

“Judicial Vision is a well-coordinated and concerted effort. We have lots of friends and supporters. We can arrange for some legal work to be shifted to your firm. Timber, energy, natural gas, big clients with interests in this part of the state. Your firm might want to add a lawyer or two to handle things while you're busy elsewhere, but that should ease the strain. If you choose to run, you will not suffer financially.

Quite the opposite."

The Fisks couldn't help but look at each other. Tony buttered a saltine and took a large bite.

"Legitimate clients?" Doreen asked, then wished she'd kept her mouth shut.

Tony frowned as he chewed, then when he could speak he said, rather sternly, "Everything we do, Doreen, is legitimate. We are completely ethical to begin with-our ultimate mission is to clean up the court, not trash it. And everything we do will be scrutinized. This race will become heated and attract a lot of attention.

We do not stumble."

Chastised, she lifted her knife and went for a roll.

Tony continued: "No one can question legitimate legal work and fair fees paid by clients, whether big or small."

"Of course," Ron said. He was already thinking about the wonderful conversation with his partners as they anticipated this infusion of new business.

"I can't see myself as a political wife," Doreen said. "You know, out on the campaign trail giving speeches. I've never even thought about it."

Tony smiled and exuded charm. He even offered a quick laugh.

"You can do as much or as little as you like. With three young children, I would guess that you'll be pretty busy on the home front."

Over catfish and hush puppies, they agreed to meet again in a few days when Tony was passing through. They would have another lunch, and a final decision would be made. November was far away, but there was so much work to do.

Chapter 12

She once laughed at herself when she went through the dreaded ritual of crawling onto her stationary bike at dawn and pedaling away, going nowhere as the sun crept up and lightened her little gym. For a woman whose public veneer was a somber face behind an intimidating black robe, she was amused at what people would think if they could see her on the bike, in old sweats, hair a mess, eyes swollen, face unadorned with cosmetics. But that was a long time ago. Now she just went through the routine with little thought of how she looked or what anyone might think. Of particular concern now was the fact that she had gained five pounds over the holidays, eleven since her divorce. The gaining had to be stopped before the losing could commence. At fifty-one, the pounds were clinging now, refusing to burn away as quickly as when she was younger.

Sheila McCarthy was not a morning person. She hated mornings, hated getting out of bed before her sleep was finished, hated the cheery voices on television, hated the traffic on the way to the office. She didn't eat breakfast, because she hated breakfast food. She hated coffee. She had always secretly loathed those who reveled in their early morning exploits-the joggers, yoga nuts, workaholics, hyperactive soccer moms.

As a young circuit court judge in Biloxi, she had often scheduled trials for 10:00 a.m., a scandalous hour. But it was her court and she made the rules.

Now she was one of nine, and the tribunal on which she served clung desperately to its traditions. On certain days she could roll in at noon and work until midnight, her preferred schedule, but most of the time she was expected by 9:00 a.m.

She was sweating after one mile. Eighty-four calories burned. Less than a cup of Haagen-Dazs chocolate chip mint, her most serious temptation. A television hung from a rack above the bike, and she watched and listened as the locals gushed over the latest car wrecks and murders. Then the weatherman was back for the third time in twelve minutes, clucking on about snow in the Rockies because there wasn't a single cloud at home to analyze.

After two miles, and down 161 calories, Sheila stopped for water and a towel, then crawled onto the treadmill for more work. She switched to CNN for a quick review of the national gossip. When she had burned 250 calories, Sheila quit and went to the shower. An hour later, she left her two-story condo on the reservoir, got into her bright red BMW convertible sports car, and headed to work.

The Mississippi Supreme Court is divided into three neat districts- northern, central, and southern-with three justices elected from each. A term is eight years, with no limit. Judicial elections take place in the off years, those quiet ones in which there are no races for local, legislative, or other statewide positions. Once obtained, a seat on the court lasts for a long time, usually until death or voluntary retirement.

The elections are nonpartisan, with all candidates running as independents. Campaign finance laws limit contributions from individuals at $5,000 each, and $2,500 from organizations, including political action committees and corporations.

Sheila McCarthy was appointed to the bench nine years earlier by a friendly governor, following the death of her predecessor. She ran unopposed once and was certainly planning on another easy victory. There was not the faintest whiff of a rumor that someone out there had designs on her seat.

With nine years' experience, she outranked only three others, and was still considered by most members of the state bar to be a relative newcomer. Tracking her written opinions and her voting record baffled liberals and conservatives alike. She was a moderate, a consensus builder, neither a strict constructionist nor a judicial activist, but more or less a practical fence straddler who, some said, decided the best outcome first, then found enough law to support it. As such, she was an influential member of the court. She could broker a deal between the hard right-wingers, of which there were always automatically four in number, and the liberals, of which there were two on most days and none on others. Four on the right and two on the left meant Sheila had two comrades in the center, though this simplistic analysis had burned many a lawyer trying to predict an outcome. Most cases on the docket defied categorization.

Where's the liberal or conservative side in a big messy divorce, or a boundary line dispute between two timber companies? Many cases were decided 9-0.

The supreme court does its work in the Carroll Gartin Justice Building in downtown Jackson, across the street from the state capitol. Sheila parked in her reserved space underneath the building. She rode the elevator to the fourth floor alone and stepped into her suite at exactly 8:45. Paul, her chief clerk, a strikingly handsome twenty-eight-year-old single straight male of whom she was extremely fond, walked into her office seconds after she did.

"Good morning," Paul said. He had long dark curly hair and a small diamond in his ear, and he somehow managed to maintain a perfect growth of three days' worth of stubble. Hazel eyes. She often expected to see Paul modeling Armani suits in the fashion magazines stacked around her condo. Paul had more to do with her gym time than she cared to admit.

"Good morning," she said coolly, as if she had barely noticed him.

"You have the Sturdivant hearing at nine."

"I know that," she said, glancing at his rear end as he walked across her office.

Faded jeans. The ass of a model.

He walked out, her eyes following every step.

Her secretary took his place. She locked the door and pulled out a small makeup kit, and when Justice McCarthy was ready, the touch-up was done quickly. The hair-short, almost above the ear, half sandy blond and half gray, and now carefully colored twice a month at $400 a pop-was fussed into place, then sprayed.

"What are my chances with Paul?" Sheila asked with her eyes closed.

"A bit young, don't you think?"

The secretary was older than her boss and had been doing the touch-ups for almost nine years. She kept powdering.

"Of course he's young. That's the point."

"I don't know. I hear he's awfully busy with that redhead in Albritton's office."

Sheila had heard the rumors, too. A gorgeous new clerk from Stanford was getting plenty of attention down the hall, and Paul usually had his pick.

"Have you read the Sturdivant briefs?" Sheila asked, standing as she prepared to be robed.

"Yes." The secretary carefully draped the black robe over her shoulders. The zipper ran down the front. Both ladies tugged and fussed until the bulky garment was perfect.

"Who killed the cop?" Sheila asked, gently pulling the zipper.

"It wasn't Sturdivant."

"I agree." She stepped before a full-length mirror, and both ladies inspected the presentation. "Can you tell I've gained weight?" Sheila asked.

"No." Same answer to the same question.

"Well, I have. And that's why I love these things. They can hide twenty pounds."

"You love it for another reason, dear, and we both know it. You're the only girl out there with eight boys, and none of them are as tough or as smart as you."

"And sexy. Don't forget sexy."

The secretary laughed at the idea. "No competition, dear. Those old goats can only dream about sex."

And they went off, out of the office, down the hall, where they met Paul again. He rattled off some key points in the Sturdivant case as they rode the elevator to the third floor, where the courtroom was located.

One lawyer might argue this, and the other might possibly argue that. Here are some questions to trip both of them.

Three blocks away from where Justice McCarthy assumed her position on the bench, a group of rather intense men and (two) women gathered to discuss her demise. They met in a windowless conference room in a nondescript building, one of many clustered near the state capital where countless civil servants and lobbyists ground out the work of running Mississippi.

The meeting was hosted by Tony Zachary and Judicial Vision. The guests were the directors of other like-minded "government relations" firms, some with vague names that deflected categorization-Freedom Network, Market Partnership, Commerce Council, Enterprise Advocacy. Other names got right to the point-Citizens Opposed to Lawsuit Tyranny (COLT), Fair Litigation Association, Jury Watch, Tort Reform Committee of Mississippi.

And the old guard was there, the associations representing the interests of banks, insurance, oil, medicine, manufacturing, retail, commerce, trade, and the best of our American way of life.

In the murky world of legislative manipulation, where loyalties shift overnight and a friend can become an enemy by noon, the people in the room were known, at least to Tony Zachary, to be worthy of trust.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Tony began, standing with a half-eaten croissant on the plate before him, "the purpose of this meeting is to inform you that we will remove Sheila McCarthy from the supreme court in November and her replacement will be a young justice committed to economic growth and limited liability."

There was light applause around the table. Everyone else was seated, all curious and listening. No one was certain who was behind Judicial Vision. Zachary had been around a few years and had a fair reputation, but he had no personal money. Nor did his group have much of a membership. Nor had he ever shown much interest in the civil justice system. His newfound passion for changing liability laws seemed to spring from nowhere.

But there was no doubt that Zachary and Judicial Vision were well funded. And in their game, that meant everything.

"We have the initial financing on the table, with more committed down the road," he said proudly. "More, of course, will be needed from you. We have a campaign plan, a strategy, and we, Judicial Vision, will be running the show."

More applause. The biggest obstacle was always coordination. There were so many groups, so many issues, so many egos. Raising the money was easy, from their side of the street anyway, but spending it wisely was often the challenge. The fact that Tony had, rather aggressively, assumed control was wonderful news. The rest of them were more than content to write the checks and turn out the voters.

"What about a candidate?" someone asked.

Tony smiled and said, "You'll love him. Can't give you his name right now, but you'll love him. Made for television." Ron Fisk had not yet said yes to the campaign, but Tony knew that he would. And if, for some reason, he did not, there were more names on the list. They would indeed have themselves a candidate, and soon, even if it took sackfuls of cash.

"Shall we talk money?" Tony asked, then plunged headlong into the issue before anyone could respond. "We have a million bucks on the table. I want to spend more than both candidates spent in the last contested race. That was two years ago, and I don't need to remind you that your boy in that race came up short. My boy in this race will not lose. To guarantee this, I need two million from you and your members."

Three million for such a race was a shock. In the last governor's race, a race that covered all eighty-two counties and not just a third of them, the winner spent $7 million and the loser spent half that. And a good governor's race was always a major spectacle, the centerpiece of state politics. Passions were high, turnouts even higher.

A race for a seat on the supreme court, when one did occur, seldom drew more than a third of the registered voters.

"How do you plan to spend $3 million?" someone asked. It was telling that the question was not about raising so much money. It was assumed they had access to pockets deep enough.

"Television, television, television," Tony responded. This was partly true. Tony would never reveal his entire strategy. He and Mr. Rinehart planned to spend a lot more than three million, but many of their expenditures would be either in cash or carefully hidden out of state.

An assistant popped up and began passing around thick folders. "This is what we've done in other states," Tony was saying. "Please take it with you and read it at your leisure."

There were questions about his plan, and more about his candidate. Tony revealed little, but continually emphasized his need for their financial commitments, the sooner the better. The only blip in the meeting came when the director of COLT informed them that his group had been actively recruiting candidates to run against McCarthy and that he himself had a plan to take her out. COLT advertised eight thousand members, though that number was dubious. Most of its activists were ex-litigants who'd been burned in a lawsuit of some variety. The organization had credibility, but it did not have a million dollars. After a brief but tense flare-up, Tony invited the COLT guy to go run his own campaign, at which time he backed down quickly and rejoined ranks.

Before adjourning, Tony urged secrecy, a vital element of the campaign. "If the trial lawyers find out now that we have a horse in the race, they will crank up their fund-raising machine. They beat you the last time."

They were irked by this second reference to "their" loss in the last race, as if they would've won if only they'd had Tony. But everyone let it pass.

The mere mention of the trial lawyers immediately refocused their attention.

They were too excited about the race to bicker.

The class action claimed to include "over three hundred" victims injured in various ways by the gross negligence of Krane Chemical at its Bow-more plant. Only twenty were named as plaintiffs, and of these twenty perhaps half had significant afflictions.

Whether their ailments were linked to polluted groundwater would be a question for another day.

It was filed in Hattiesburg at the federal courthouse, a good stone's throw from the Forrest County Circuit Court building, where Dr. Leona Rocha and her jury had rendered its verdict barely two months earlier. Lawyers Sterling Bintz of Philadelphia and F. Clyde Hardin of Bowmore were on hand to do the filing, and also to chat with any reporters who'd responded to their prefiling press alert. Sadly, there were no television cameras, only a couple of green print reporters. At least for F. Clyde, though, it was an adventure. He hadn't been near a federal courthouse in over thirty years.

For Mr. Bintz, the pathetic lack of recognition was appalling. He had dreamed of huge headlines and long stories with splendid photographs. He had filed many important class actions and had usually managed to get them adequately covered by the media.

What was wrong with the rural Mississippians?

F. Clyde hurried back to Bowmore, to his office, where Miriam was lingering to see how things went. "What channel?" she asked.

"None."

"What?" It was without a doubt the biggest day in the history of the firm of F. Clyde Hardin amp; Associates, and Miriam couldn't wait to watch it all on television.

"We decided not to deal with those reporters. Can't trust them," F. Clyde explained as he glanced at his watch. It was a quarter after five, past time for Miriam to leave the office. "No need to stick around," he said, flinging his jacket. "I've got things under control here."

She quickly left, disappointed, and F. Clyde went straight for the office bottle.

The chilled, thick vodka soothed him immediately, and he began to replay his big day. With a bit of luck, the Hattiesburg paper would include his photo.

Bintz was claiming three hundred clients. At $500 each, F. Clyde was due a nice referral fee. So far he'd been paid only $3,500, most of which he used for back taxes.

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 293