The Appeal (17 page)

The Brookhaven airstrip was too small for the jet, so Ron happily agreed to rush off to the airport in Jackson. He had never been within a hundred yards of
a private jet, and had never given much thought to flying on one. Tony Zachary was waiting at the general aviation terminal with a hearty handshake and a vigorous “Good morning, Your Honor.” They walked purposefully across the tarmac, past a few old turboprops and pistons—smaller, inferior vessels. Waiting in the distance was a magnificent carrier, as sleek and exotic as a spaceship. Its navigation lights were flickering. Its handsome stairway was extended down, a splendid invitation to its special passengers. Ron followed Tony up the steps to the landing, where a pretty flight attendant in a short skirt welcomed them aboard, took their jackets, and showed them their selection of seats.

“Ever been on a Gulfstream before?” Tony asked as they settled in. One of the pilots said hello as he pushed a button to retract the stairway.

“No,” Ron said, gawking at the polished mahogany and soft leather and gold trimmings.

“This is a G5, the Mercedes of private jets. This one could take us to Paris, nonstop.”

Then let’s go to Paris instead of Washington, Ron thought as he leaned into the aisle to absorb the length and size of the airplane. A quick count revealed seating for at least a dozen pampered folks. “It’s beautiful,” he said. He wanted to ask who owned it. Who was paying for the trip? Who was behind this gold-plated recruitment? But to inquire would be rude, he told himself. Just relax, enjoy the trip, enjoy the day, and remember all the details because Doreen will want to hear them.

The flight attendant was back. She explained
emergency procedures, then asked what they might like for breakfast. Tony wanted scrambled eggs, bacon, and hash browns. Ron ordered the same.

“Bathroom and kitchen are in the back,” Tony said, as if he traveled by G5 every day. “The sofa pulls out if you need a nap.” Coffee arrived as they began to taxi. The flight attendant offered a variety of newspapers. Tony grabbed one, yanked it open, waited a few seconds, then asked, “You keeping up with that Bowmore litigation?”

Ron pretended to look at a newspaper as he continued to soak in the luxury of the jet. “Somewhat,” he said.

“They filed a class action yesterday,” Tony said in disgust. “One of those national tort firms out of Philadelphia. I guess the vultures have arrived.” It was his first comment to Ron on the subject, but it definitely would not be his last.

The G5 took off. It was one of three owned by various entities controlled by the Trudeau Group, and leased through a separate charter company that made it impossible to track the true owner. Ron watched the city of Jackson disappear below him. Minutes later, when they leveled off at forty-one thousand feet, he could smell the rich aroma of bacon in the skillet.

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A
t Dulles general aviation, they were whisked into the rear of a long black limo, and forty minutes later they were in the District, on K Street. Tony explained en
route that they had a 10:00 a.m. meeting with one group of potential backers, then a quiet lunch, then a 2:00 p.m. meeting with another group. Ron would be home in time for dinner. He was almost dizzy from the excitement of such luxurious travel and feeling so important.

On the seventh floor of a new building, they stepped into the rather plain lobby of the American Family Alliance and spoke to an even plainer receptionist. Tony’s summary on the jet had been: “This group is perhaps the most powerful of all the conservative Christian advocates. Lots of members, lots of cash, lots of clout. The Washington politicians love them and fear them. Run by a man named Walter Utley, a former congressman who got fed up with all the liberals in Congress and left to form his own group.”

Fisk had heard of Walter Utley and his American Family Alliance.

They were escorted into a large conference room where Mr. Utley himself was waiting with a warm smile and handshake and several introductions to other men, all of whom had been included in Tony’s briefing on the jet. They represented such groups as Prayer Partnership, Global Light, Family Roundtable, Evangelical Initiative, and a few others. All significant players in national politics, according to Tony.

They settled around the table, behind notepads and briefing papers, as if they were about to place Mr. Fisk under oath and take his deposition. Tony led off with a summary of the Supreme Court of Mississippi and
kept his comments generally positive. Most of the judges were good men with solid voting records. But, of course, there was the matter of Justice Sheila McCarthy and her closet liberalism. She couldn’t be trusted on the issues. She was divorced. She was rumored to have loose morals, but Tony stopped without going into specifics.

To challenge her, they needed Ron here to step forward and answer the bell. Tony ran through a quick biography of their man and, in doing so, did not offer a single fact that was not already known by those present. He handed off to Ron, who cleared his throat and thanked them for the invitation. He began talking about his life, education, upbringing, parents, wife, and kids. He was a devout Christian, a deacon in St. Luke’s Baptist Church, a Sunday school teacher. Rotary Club, Ducks Unlimited, youth league baseball coach. He stretched his résumé as far as he could, then shrugged as if to say, “There’s nothing else.”

He and his wife had been praying about this decision. They had even met with their pastor for yet more prayer, hopefully at a higher level. They were comfortable. They were ready.

Everyone was still warm, friendly, delighted he was there. They asked about his background—was there anything back there that could haunt him? An affair, a DUI, a stupid fraternity prank in college? Any ethics complaints? First and only marriage? Yes, good, we thought so. Any claims of sexual harassment from your staff? Anything like that? Anything whatsoever to do
with sex because sex is the killer in a hot campaign? And while they were on the subject, what about gays? Gay marriage? Absolutely not! Civil unions? No, sir, not in Mississippi. Gays adopting children? No, sir.

Abortion? Opposed. All abortions? Opposed.

Death penalty? Very much in favor.

No one seemed to grasp the contradiction between the two.

Guns, the Second Amendment, the right to bear arms, and so on? Ron loved his guns, but was curious for a second about why these religious men were concerned about weapons. Then it hit him—it’s all about politics and getting elected. His lifetime of hunting pleased them mightily, and he dragged it out as much as possible. No animal seemed safe.

Then the squeaky-voiced director of the Family Roundtable pursued a line of questions dealing with the separation of church and state, and everybody seemed to nod off. Ron held his ground, answering thoughtfully, and seemed to satisfy those few who were listening. He also began to realize that it was all a show. Their minds had been made up long before he left Brookhaven that morning. He was their man, and at the moment he was simply preaching to the choir.

The next round of questions dealt with freedom of speech, especially religious speech. “Should a smalltown judge be allowed to hang the Ten Commandments in his courtroom?” was the question. Ron sensed that this issue intrigued them, and he was at first inclined to be perfectly honest and say no. The U.S. Supreme Court
has ruled that it’s a violation of the separation of church and state, and Ron happened to agree. He did not, however, want to upset the party, so he said, “One of my heroes is my local circuit court judge in Brookhaven.” He began to bob and weave. “A great man. He’s had the Ten Commandments hanging on his wall for thirty years, and I’ve always admired him.”

A slick nonanswer that they recognized for what it was. They also recognized that it was a fine example of slickness that could help Mr. Fisk survive a heated campaign. So there was no follow-up, no objection. They were, after all, battle-tested political operatives, and they could appreciate a savvy nonresponse when they heard one.

After an hour, Walter Utley glanced at his watch and announced that he was a bit behind schedule. The day held many more important meetings. He concluded the little meet and greet with a declaration that he was very impressed with Ron Fisk and saw no reason why his American Family Alliance could not only endorse him but hit the ground running down there and get some votes. Everyone nodded around the table, and Tony Zachary seemed as proud as a new father.

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“
T
here’s been a change in our lunch plans,” he said when they were once again tucked away in the limo. “Senator Rudd would like to see you.”

“Senator Rudd?” Fisk asked in disbelief.

“You got it,” Tony said proudly.

Myers Rudd was halfway through his seventh term (thirty-nine years) in the U.S. Senate, and for at least the last three elections he had scared away all opposition. He was despised by at least 40 percent of the people and loved by at least 60 percent, and he had perfected the art of helping those on his side of the street and dismissing all others. He was a legend in Mississippi politics, the fixer, the inveterate meddler in local races, the king who picked his candidates, the assassin who slaughtered those who ran against his candidates, the bank who could finance any race and funnel hoards of cash, the wise old man who led his party, and the thug who destroyed the others.

“Senator Rudd has an interest in this case?” Fisk asked, so innocently.

Tony gave him a wary look. How naive can one be? “Of course he does. Senator Rudd is very close to those folks you just met. He maintains a perfect voting record in their score books. Perfect, mind you. Not 95 percent, but perfect. One of only three in the Senate, and the other two are rookies.”

What will Doreen say about this? Ron thought to himself. Lunch with Senator Rudd, in Washington! They were somewhere near the Capitol when the limo ducked into a one-way street. “Let’s jump out here,” Tony said before the driver could get out. They headed for a narrow door next to an old hotel called the Mercury. An ancient doorman in a green uniform frowned as they approached. “To see Senator Rudd,” Tony said abruptly, and the frown lessened somewhat.
Inside, they were led along the edge of an empty and gloomy dining room and down a passageway. “It’s The Senator’s private quarters,” Tony said quietly. Ron was greatly impressed. Ron was noticing the worn carpet and peeling paint, but the old building had a strong dose of shabby elegance. It had a history. How many deals have been put together inside these walls? he asked himself.

At the end of the hallway, they walked into a small private dining room where all manner of serious power was on display. Senator Rudd was seated at the small table, cell phone stuck to his head. Ron had never met him, but he certainly looked familiar. Dark suit, red tie, thick shiny gray hair plastered to the left and held in place with no small amount of spray, large round face that seemed to grow thicker each year. No fewer than four of his minders and handlers were hovering like bees, all engaged in urgent cell phone chats, probably with one another.

Tony and Fisk waited, watching the show. Government in action.

Suddenly The Senator slapped his phone shut, and the other four conversations were instantly concluded. “Clear out,” the great man grunted, and his minions fled like mice. “How are you, Zachary?” he said, standing behind the table. Introductions were made, small talk pursued for a moment. Rudd seemed to know everyone back home in Brookhaven, an aunt once lived there, and he was honored to meet this Mr. Fisk that he’d heard so much about. At some predetermined
point, Tony said, “I’ll be back in an hour,” and vanished. He was replaced by a waiter in a tuxedo.

“Sit down,” Rudd insisted. “The food’s not much, but the privacy is great. I eat here five times a week.” The waiter ignored the comment and handed over menus.

“It’s lovely,” Ron said, looking around at the walls lined with books that had been neither read nor dusted in a hundred years. They were dining in a small library. No wonder it’s so private. They ordered soup and grilled swordfish. The waiter closed the door when he left.

“I have a meeting at one,” Rudd said, “so let’s talk fast.” He began pouring sugar into his iced tea and stirring it with a soupspoon.

“Certainly.”

“You can win this race, Ron, and God knows we need you.”

Words from the king, and hours later Ron would quote them over and over to Doreen. It was a guarantee from a man who’d never lost, and from that opening volley Ron Fisk was a candidate.

“As you know,” Rudd continued because he really wasn’t accustomed to listening, especially in conversations with small-time politicians from back home, “I don’t get involved in local races.” Fisk’s first impulse was to laugh, and loudly, but he quickly realized that The Senator was dead serious.

“However, this race is too important. I’ll do what I can, which is nothing to sneeze at, you know?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve made some powerful friends in this business, and they will be happy to support your campaign. Just takes a phone call from me.”

Ron was nodding politely. Two months earlier,
Newsweek
ran a cover story on the mountains of special-interest cash in Washington and the politicians who took it. Rudd topped the list. He had over $11 million in his campaign war chest, yet had no foreseeable race. The notion of a viable opponent was too ridiculous to even consider. Big business owned him—banks, insurance, oil, coal, media, defense, pharmaceuticals—no segment of corporate America had escaped the tentacles of his fund-raising machine.

“Thank you,” Ron said because he felt obligated.

“My folks can put together a lot of money. Plus, I know the people in the trenches. The governor, the legislators, the mayors. Ever hear of Willie Tate Ferris?”

“No, sir.”

“He’s a supervisor, beat four, Adams County, in your district. I kept his brother out of prison, twice. Willie Tate will walk the streets for me. And he is the most powerful politician in those parts. One phone call from me, and you got Adams County.” He snapped his fingers. Just like that the votes were falling in place.