Three Classic Thrillers (86 page)

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.

__________

J
ustice 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 three steps 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.”

__________

T
hree 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.

__________

S
eptember 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.

I
n 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.

__________

W
es 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.”

__________

F
ifteen 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.”