The Appeal (15 page)

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 so races 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.

__________

T
hey 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.”

__________

D
oreen 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.

__________

T
he Fisks met Tony for lunch the following day at the Dixie Springs Café, 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.

S
he 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 Häagen-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.