PART TWO. THE CAMPAIGN 16 page

She wrote down $25,000, then said, "The bank."

"A new car."

"The bank? Half the fee is already gone."

"Two hundred dollars."

"Come on, Wes. We won't have a life until the bank is off our backs."

"I've tried to forget about the loan."

"How much?"

"I don't know. I'm sure you have a figure."

"Fifty thousand for Huffy, and ten thousand for Sheila McCarthy. That leaves us with thirty-five thousand." Which, at that moment, seemed like a fortune. They stared at the napkin, both recasting the numbers and rearranging the priorities, but neither willing to suggest a change. Mary Grace signed her name at the bottom, then Wes did likewise. She put the napkin in her purse.

"Can I at least get a new suit out of the deal?" he asked.

"Depends on what's on sale. I guess we should call the office."

"They're sitting by the phone."

Three hours later, the Paytons walked into their office, and the party started. The front door was locked, the phones were unplugged, the champagne began to flow. Sherman and Rusty, the law clerks, proposed lengthy toasts they had hurriedly put together.

Tabby and Vicky, the receptionists, were tipsy after two glasses. Even Olivia, the ancient bookkeeper, kicked up her heels and was soon laughing at everything.

The money was spent, re-spent, overspent, until everyone was rich.

When the champagne was gone, the office closed and everyone left. The Paytons, their cheeks warm from the bubbly, went to their apartment, changed into casual clothes, then drove to the school to fetch Mack and Liza. They had earned a night of fun,though the children were too young to understand the settlement. It would never be mentioned.

Mack and Liza were expecting Ramona, and when they saw both parents in the school pickup line, a long day instantly became brighter. Wes explained that they simply got tired of working and decided to play. The first stop was Baskin-Robbins for ice cream. Next, they went to a shopping mall, where a shoe store attracted their attention.

Each Payton picked out a pair, at 50 percent off, with Mack being the boldest with a pair of Marine combat boots. In the center of the mall was a four-screen cinema.

They caught the 6:00 p.m. showing of the latest Harry Potter.

Dinner was at a family pizzeria with an indoor playground and a rowdy atmosphere.

They finally made it home around ten, where Ramona was watching television and enjoying the quiet. The kids handed her leftover pizza, and both talked at once about the movie. They promised to finish their homework in the morning. Mary Grace relented, and the entire family settled onto the sofa and watched a reality rescue show. Bedtime was pushed back to eleven.

When the apartment was quiet and the kids tucked in, Wes and Mary Grace lay on the sofa, heads on opposite ends, legs tangled together, minds drifting far away. For the past four years, as their finances had spiraled downward, with one loss after another, one humiliation following the last, fear had become a daily companion. Fear of losing the home, then the office, then the autos. Fear of not being able to provide for their children. Fear of a serious medical emergency that exceeded their insurance.

Fear of losing the Baker trial. Fear of bankruptcy if the bank pushed too hard.

Since the verdict, the fear had become more of a nuisance than a constant threat.

It was always there, but they had slowly gained control of it. For six straight months now, they had paid the bank $2,000 a month, hard-earned moneys that were left over after all other bills and expenses. It barely covered the interest, and it reminded them of how insurmountable their debt was. But it was symbolic. They were digging out from the rubble and could see the light.

Now, for the first time in years, there was a cushion, a safety net, something to catch them if they fell even deeper. They would take their share of today's settlement and hide it, and when they were afraid again, they would be comforted by their buried treasure.

At ten the following morning, Wes dropped by the bank and found Huffy at his desk.

He swore him to silence, then whispered the good news. Huffy almost hugged him. Mr.

Prickhead was on his back from nine to five, demanding action.

"The money should be here in a couple of weeks," Wes said proudly. "I'll call as soon as it lands."

"Fifty grand, Wes?" Huffy repeated, as if his job had just been saved.

"You got it."

From there Wes drove to his office. Tabby handed him a phone message from Alan York.

Just routine stuff, probably some details to nail down.

But York's voice lacked its usual warmth. "Wes, there's a new wrinkle," he said slowly, as if searching for words.

"What's the matter?" Wes asked. A knot was already forming in his stomach.

"I don't know, Wes, I'm really frustrated, and confused. This has never happened to me, but, well, anyway, Littun Casualty has nipped on the settlement. It's off the table, all of it. They're yanking it. Some tough A-holes. I've been yelling at them all morning. They yell back.

This firm has represented the company for eighteen years, never had a problem like this. But, as of one hour ago, they are looking for another firm. I've fired the client. I gave you my word, and now my client has hung me out to dry. I'm sorry, Wes. Don't know what else to say."

Wes pinched the bridge of his nose and tried not to groan. After a false start, he said, "Well, Alan, this is a shock."

"Damned right it is, but in all fairness it does no harm to the lawsuit. I'm just glad this didn't happen the day before the trial or something crazy like that. Some real bad boys up there."

"They won't be so tough at trial."

"Damned right, Wes. I hope you nail these guys for another huge verdict."

"We will."

"I'm sorry, Wes."

"It's not your fault, Alan. We'll survive and push for a trial."

"You do that."

"We'll talk later."

"Sure. Say, Wes, is your cell phone nearby?"

"It's right here."

"Here's my cell number. Hang up and call me back."

When both men were off" the landlines, York said, "You didn't hear this from me, okay?"

"Okay."

"The chief in-house lawyer for Littun Casualty is a guy named Ed Larrimore. For twenty years he was a partner in a New York law firm called Bradley amp; Backstrom. His brother is also a partner at that firm. Bradley amp; Backstrom does the blue-chip thing, and one of its clients is KDN, the oil exploration firm whose biggest shareholder is Carl Trudeau. That's the connection. I have never talked to Ed Larrimore, there's no reason to. But the supervising attorney I deal with whispered to me that a decision was made at the very top to stiff this settlement."

"A little retribution, huh?"

"Smells like it. It's nothing illegal or unethical. The insurance company decides not to settle and goes to trial. Happens every day. There's nothing you can do about it, except burn them at trial. Littun Casualty has assets of twenty billion, so they aren't worried about a jury in Pike County, Mississippi. My guess is they'll drag it out until you get to trial, then try to settle."

"I'm not sure what to say, Alan."

"I'm sorry this happened, Wes. I'm out of the picture now, and you didn't get this from me."

"Sure."

Wes stared at the wall for a long time, then mustered the energy to stand, walk, leave his office, and go look for his wife.

Chapter 25

Like clockwork, Ron Fisk kissed Doreen goodbye at the front door at six o'clock on a Wednesday morning, then handed his overnight bag and briefcase to Monte. Guy was waiting in the SUV Both assistants waved to Doreen, then they sped away. It was the last Wednesday in September, week twenty-one of his campaign, and the twenty-first consecutive Wednesday that he had kissed his wife goodbye at 6:00 a.m. Tony Zachary could not have found a more disciplined candidate.

In the rear seat, Monte handed Ron his daily briefing. One of Tony's deputies in Jackson prepared it during the night and e-mailed it to Monte at exactly five each morning. Page 1 was the schedule. Page 2 was a summary of the three groups he would address that day, along with the names of the important people who would attend.

Page 3 had updates from his opponents' campaigns. It was all mainly gossip but still his favorite part of the briefing. Clete Coley was last seen addressing a small group of sheriffs' deputies in Hancock County, then retiring to the blackjack tables at Pirate's Cove. Today, McCarthy is expected to be at work and has no campaign events.

Page 4 was the financial summary. Contributions so far totaled $1.7 million, with 75 percent coming from within the state. Expenditures of $1.8 million. The deficit was of no concern. Tony Zachary knew the heavy money would arrive in October. McCarthy had received $1.4 million, virtually all from trial lawyers. She had spent half of it. The prevailing thought in the Fisk camp was that the trial lawyers were tapped out. They were at the airport. The King Air lifted off at 6:30, and at that moment Fisk was on the phone to Tony in Jackson. It was their first chat of the day. Everything was running smoothly. Fisk had already reached the point of believing that all campaigns were so effortless. He was always prompt, fresh, prepared, rested, well financed, and ready to move on to the next event. He had little contact with the two dozen people under Tony's thumb who sweated the details.

Justice McCarthy's version of the daily briefing was a glass of fruit juice with Nat Lester at her Jackson headquarters. She aimed for 8:30 each morning, and was fairly prompt. By then, Nat had put in two hours and was yelling at people.

They had no interest in the whereabouts of her two opponents. They spent little time with poll numbers. Their data showed her running even with Fisk, and that was troubling enough. They quickly reviewed the latest fund-raising schemes and talked about potential donors.

"I may have a new problem," she said that morning.

"Only one?"

"Do you remember the Frankie Hightower case?"

"Not at this moment, no."

"State trooper was gunned down in Grenada County five years ago. He stopped a car for speeding. Inside the car were three black men and a black teenager, Frankie Hightower.

Someone opened fire with an assault weapon, and the trooper got hit eight times.

Left him in the middle of Highway 51."

"Let me guess. The court has reached a decision."

"The court is getting close. Six of my colleagues are ready to affirm the conviction."

"Let me guess. You would like to dissent."

"I'm going to dissent. The kid had inadequate counsel. His defense lawyer was some jackass with no experience and apparently very little intelligence. The trial was a joke. The other three thugs pled for life and pointed the finger at Hightower, who was sixteen years old and sitting in the backseat, without a gun. Yes, I'm going to dissent."

Nat's sandals hit the floor and he began to pace. Arguing the merits of the case was a waste of time. Arguing the politics of it would take some skill. "Coley will go ballistic."

"I don't care about Coley. He's a clown."

"Clowns get votes."

"He's not a factor."

"Fisk will receive it as a wonderful gift from God. More proof that his campaign is divinely inspired. Manna from heaven. I can see the ads now."

"I'm dissenting, Nat. It's that simple."

"It's never that simple. Some of the voters might understand what you're doing and admire your courage. Perhaps three or four of them. The rest will see the Fisk ad with the smiling face of that handsome young state trooper next to the mug shot of Frankie whatever his name is."

"Hightower."

"Thank you. The ad will refer to liberal judges at least ten times, and it will probably show your face. Powerful stuff. You might as well quit now."

His words trailed off but were bitter nonetheless. For a long time they said nothing.

Sheila broke the silence by saying, "That's not a bad idea. Quitting. I've caught myself reading the briefs and asking, “What will the voters think if I rule this way or that?” I'm not a judge anymore, Nat, I'm a politician."

"You're a great judge, Sheila. One of the three we have left."

"It's all about politics now."

"You're not quitting. Have you written your dissent?"

"I'm working on it."

"Look, Sheila, the election is five weeks away. How slow can you write? Hell, the court is famous for taking its sweet time. Surely to God you can sit on this thing until after the election. What's five weeks? It's nothing. The murder was five years ago." He was stomping around, arms flailing.

"We do have a schedule."

"Bullshit. You can manipulate it."

"For politics."

"Damned right, Sheila. Give me a break here. We're busting our asses for you and you act like you're too good for the dirty work. This is a filthy business, okay?"

"Lower your voice."

He lowered it several octaves but kept pacing. Three steps to one wall, then threesteps to the other. "Your dissent is not going to change a damned thing. The court will run over you again 6 to 3, maybe even 7 to 2, perhaps even 8 to 1. The numbers don't really matter. The conviction is affirmed, and Frankie Whoever will stay exactly where he is right now and where he'll be ten years from now. Don't be stupid, Sheila."

She finished her fruit juice and did not respond.

"I don't like that smirk," Nat said. He pointed a long bony finger at her. "Listen to me. If you file a dissent before the election, I'm walking out the door."

"Don't threaten me."

"I'm not threatening. I'm promising. You know ten different ways to sit on that case for another five weeks. Hell, you could bury it for six months."

She stood and said, "I'm going to work."

"I'm not kidding!" he yelled. "I'll quit!"

She yanked open the door and said, "Go find us some money."

Three days later, the skillfully coordinated avalanche began. Only a handful of people knew what was coming.

Ron Fisk himself did not comprehend the scope of his own saturation. He had performed for the cameras, changed into various outfits, worked his way through the scripts, dragged in his family and some friends, and he was aware of the budget and the media buys and the market shares of the various television stations in south Mississippi. And, in a normal campaign, he would have worried about financing such expensive marketing.

But the machine that bore his name had many parts he knew nothing about.

The first ads were the soft ones-warm little vignettes to open the doors and let this fine young man into the homes. Ron as a Boy Scout, with the richly accented old voice of an actor playing the role of his scoutmaster in the background. "One of the finest Boy Scouts we ever had. He made it to Eagle in less than three years."

Ron in a robe at high school graduation, a star student. Ron with Doreen and the kids and his own voice saying, "Families are our greatest asset." After thirty seconds, the ad signed off with the slogan, in a deep, heavenly voice, "Ron Fisk, a judge with our values."

A second ad, a series of black-and-white still photos, began with Ron on the steps of his church, in a fine dark suit, chatting with his pastor, who narrated, "Ron Fisk was ordained as a deacon in this church twelve years ago." Ron with his jacket off, teaching Sunday school. Ron holding his Bible as he makes a point to a group of teenagers under a shade tree. "Thank God for men like Ron Fisk." Ron and Doreen greeting people at the church's door. And the same farewell: "Ron Fisk, a judge with our values."

There was not the slightest hint of conflict, nothing about the campaign, not a trace of mud, no indication of the savagery that would follow. Just a charming hello from an incredibly wholesome young deacon.

The ads blanketed south Mississippi, and central as well because Tony Zachary was paying the steep prices charged by the Jackson outlets.

September 30 was a crucial date on Barry Rinehart's calendar. All contributions made in the month of October would not be reported until November 10, six days after the election. The flood of out-of-state money he was about to unleash would go undetected until it was too late. The losers would scream, but that was all they could do.

On September 30, Rinehart and company kicked into high gear. They began with their A-list: tort-reform groups, right-wing religious organizations, business lobbyists, business PACs, and hundreds of conservative organizations ranging from the well-known American Rifle Association to the obscure Zero Future Tax, a small gang dedicated to abolishing the Internal Revenue Service. Eleven hundred and forty groups in all fifty states. Rinehart sent each a detailed memo and request for an immediate donation to the Fisk campaign in the amount of $2,500, the maximum for an organized entity.

From this collection, his goal was $500,000.

For the individuals-$5,000 maximum gift Rinehart had a list of a thousand corporate executives and senior managers of companies in industries that attracted litigation from trial lawyers. Chief among these were insurance companies, and he would collect a million dollars from his contacts there. Carl Trudeau had given him the names of two hundred executives of companies controlled by the Trudeau Group, though no one from Krane Chemical would write a check. If the Fisk campaign took money from Krane, then a front-page story was likely. Fisk might feel compelled to recuse himself, a disaster Rinehart couldn't begin to contemplate.

He expected $1 million from Carl's boys, though it would not go directly into the Fisk campaign. To keep their names away from nosy reporters, and to make sure no one ever knew of Mr. Trudeau's involvement, Rinehart routed their money into the bank accounts for Lawsuit Victims for Truth and Gunowners United Now (GUN).

His B-list contained a thousand names of donors with proven records of supporting pro-business candidates, though not at the $5,000 level. He expected another $500,000.

Three million dollars was his goal, and he was not at all concerned about reaching it.

Chapter 26

In the excitement of the moment, Huffy had made a dreadful mistake. The expectation of a meaningful payment, coupled with the constant pressure from Mr. Prickhead, had caused a lapse in judgment.

Not long after Wes stopped by with the promise of $50,000, Huffy marched into the big office and proudly informed his boss that the Paytons' debt was about to be reduced.

When he got the bad news two days later that it was not, he was too afraid to tell anyone.

After losing sleep for almost a week, he finally forced himself to confront the devil again. He stepped in front of the massive desk, swallowed hard, and said, "Some bad news, sir."

"Where's the money?" Mr. Kirkhead demanded.

"It's not going to happen, sir. Their settlement fell through."

Forgoing curse words, Mr. Prickhead said, "We're calling the loan. Do it now."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"We can't do that. They've been paying two thousand a month."

"Super. That doesn't even cover the interest. Call the loan. Now."

"But why?"

"Just a couple of small reasons, Huffy. Number one, it's been in default for at least a year. Number two, it's grossly under-collateralized. As a banker, certainly you can understand these small problems."

"But they're trying."

"Call the loan. Do it now, and if you don't, then you'll be either reassigned or dismissed."

"That's obscene."

"I don't care what you think." Then he relented a bit and said, "It's not my decision, Huffy. We have new ownership, and I have been ordered to call the loan."

"But why?"

Kirkhead picked up the phone and offered it. "You want to call the man in Dallas?"

"This will bankrupt them."

"They've been bankrupt for a long time. Now they can make it official."

"Son of a bitch."

"Talking to me, son?"

Huffy glared at the fat hairless head, then said, "Not really. More to that son of a bitch in Dallas."

"We'll keep that here, okay?"

Huffy returned to his office, slammed the door, and watched the walls while an hour passed. Prickhead would stop by soon for the follow-up.

Wes was in a deposition downtown. Mary Grace was at her desk and took the call.

She admired Huffy for his bravery in extending much more credit than anyone had thought possible, but the sound of his voice always rattled her. "Good morning, Tom," she said pleasantly.

"It's not a good morning, Mary Grace," he began. "It's a bad morning, an awful morning, one of the worst ever."

A heavy pause. "I'm listening."

"The bank, not the bank you've been dealing with but another bank now, one owned by some people I've met only once and never care to see again, has decided that it can no longer wait to be paid. The bank, not me, is calling the loan."

Mary Grace emitted a strange guttural sound that could have passed for an expletive but really wasn't a word at all. Her first thought was of her father. Other than the Paytons' signatures, the only security for the loan was a two-hundred-acre tract of farmland her father had owned for many years. It was near Bowmore, and it did not include the forty acres and family home. The bank would foreclose on the property.

"Any particular reason, Huffy?" she asked coolly.

"None whatsoever. The decision was not made in Hattiesburg. Second State sold out to the devil, if you will recall."

"This doesn't make sense."

"I agree."

"You'll force us into bankruptcy, and the bank will get nothing."

"Except for the farm."

"So you'll foreclose on the farm?"

"Someone will. I hope not me."

"Smart move, Huffy, because when they foreclose on the courthouse steps in Bowmore there might be a killing."

"Maybe they'll get ole Prickhead."

"Are you in your office?"

"Yes, with the door locked."

"Wes is downtown. He'll be there in fifteen minutes. Unlock the door."

"No."

Fifteen minutes later, Wes charged into Huffy's office, his cheeks red with anger, his hands ready to strangle. "Where's Prickhead?" he demanded. Huffy jumped to his feet behind his desk and placed both hands in the air. "Be cool, Wes."

"Where's Prickhead?"

"Right now he's in his car, driving to an urgent meeting, one that suddenly materialized ten minutes ago. Sit down, Wes."

Wes took a deep breath, then slowly eased into a chair. Huffy watched him, then returned to his own chair. "It's not his fault, Wes," Huffy said. "Technically, the loan has been in default for almost two years. He could have done this months ago, but he didn't. I know you don't like him. I don't like him. His wife doesn't like him. But he's been very patient. This was a decision made in the home office."

"Give me a name at the home office."

Huffy slid across a letter he'd received by fax. It was addressed to the Paytons, on New Vista Bank letterhead, and signed by a Mr. F. Patterson Duvall, vice president.

"This arrived thirty minutes ago," Huffy said. "I don't know Mr. Duvall. I've called his office twice, but he's in a very important meeting, one that I'm sure will last until we stop calling. It's a waste of time, Wes."

The letter demanded payment in full of $414,656.22, with daily interest kicking in at $83.50. Pursuant to the terms of the loan agreement, the Paytons had forty-eight hours to pay, or collection and foreclosure proceedings would commence. Of course, the resulting attorneys' fees and court costs would also be tacked on to the amount due.

Wes read it slowly as he continued to cool down. He placed it back on the desk. "Mary Grace and I talk about this loan every day, Huffy. It's a part of our marriage. We talk about the kids, the office, the debt to the bank, what's for dinner. It's always there, and we've busted our asses to pay off all other obligations so we can bust our asses to pay off the bank. We came very close to giving you fifty thousand last week. We vowed to work ourselves ragged until this bank is out of our lives. Now this stunt. Now some moron in Dallas has decided he's tired of seeing this past-due loan on his daily rap sheet, and he wants to get rid of it. You know what, Huffy-"

"What?"

"The bank just screwed itself. We'll file for bankruptcy, and when you try to foreclose on my father-in-law's property, I'll put him in bankruptcy And when we work our way out of bankruptcy, and we're back on our feet, guess who ain't getting paid."

"The moron in Dallas?"

"You got it. The bank gets nothing. It'll be wonderful. We can keep the $400,000 when we earn it."

Late that afternoon, Wes and Mary Grace called a firm meeting in The Pit. Other than the humiliation of filing for bankruptcy, which seemed to bother no one, there was little to worry about. In fact, the bank's actions would give the firm some breathing room. The $2,000 monthly payments would cease, and the cash could certainly be used elsewhere.

The concern, of course, was the land owned by Mr. Shelby, Mary Grace's father. Wes had a plan. He would find a friendly buyer who would appear at the foreclosure and write a check. Title would pass, and it would be held in "a handshake trust" until the Paytons could buy it back, hopefully within a year. Neither Wes nor Mary Grace could stomach the idea of asking her father to join them at the bankruptcy court.

Forty-eight hours passed with no payment. Sticking to its word, the bank filed suit.

Its lawyer, a local gentleman the Paytons knew well, called ahead of time and apologized.

He'd represented the bank for years and could not afford to lose it as a client.

Mary Grace accepted his apology and gave him her blessing to sue them.

The next day the Paytons filed for bankruptcy, both individually and as Payton amp; Payton, Attorneys-at-Law. They listed combined assets of $35,000-two old cars, furniture, office equipment-all of which was protected. They listed debts of $420,000. The filing effectively stayed the lawsuit, and would eventually render it useless. The Hattiesburg American reported it on its second page the following day.

Carl Trudeau read about it online and laughed out loud. "Sue me again," he said with great satisfaction.

Within a week, three Hattiesburg law firms informed ole Prickhead that they were withdrawing their funds, closing their accounts, and moving their business down the street. There were at least eight other banks in town.

A wealthy trial lawyer named Jim McMay called Wes and offered assistance. The two had been friends for many years and had collaborated twice on product liability cases.

McMay represented four Bowmore families in the Krane litigation, but had not pushed the cases aggressively. Like the other trial lawyers suing Krane, he was waiting for the outcome of Baker and hoping to hit the jackpot if and when there was a settlement.

They met for breakfast at Nanny's, and over biscuits and country ham McMay readily agreed to rescue the two hundred acres at foreclosure and keep the title until the Paytons could buy it back. Farmland in Cancer County wasn't exactly selling at a premium, and Wes speculated that the Shelby property would fetch around $100,000, the only money the bank would collect from its foolish maneuver.

Chapter 27

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 357