The Appeal

There was no reason anyone outside of Brookhaven would ever have heard the name of Ron Fisk, and that was exactly what made him their ideal candidate. They picked Fisk because he was just old enough to cross their low threshold of legal experience, but still young enough to have ambitions.

He was thirty-nine years old, a junior partner in a five-man firm that specialized in defending lawsuits involving car wrecks, arson, injured workers, and a myriad of other routine liability claims. The firm’s clients were insurance companies who paid by the hour, thus allowing the five partners to earn comfortable but not lucrative salaries. As a junior partner, Fisk made $92,000 the year before. A far cry from Wall Street but not bad money in small-town Mississippi.

A supreme court justice was currently earning $110,000.

Fisk’s wife, Doreen, earned $41,000 as the assistant director of a privately owned mental health clinic. Everything was mortgaged-home, both cars, even some furniture.

But the Fisks had a perfect credit rating. They vacationed once a year with their children in Florida, where they rented a condo in a high-rise for a thousand bucks a week. There were no trust funds and nothing significant to be expected from their parents’ estates.

The Fisks were squeaky-clean. There was nothing to dig up in the heat of a nasty campaign. Absolutely nothing, they were certain of that.

Tony Zachary entered the building at five minutes before 2:00 p.m. and stated his business. "I have an appointment with Mr. Fisk," he said politely, and a secretary disappeared. As he waited, he examined the place. Sagging bookshelves laden with dusty tomes. Worn carpet. The musty smell of a fine old building in need of some work. A door opened, and a handsome young man stuck out a hand. "Mr. Zachary, Ron Fisk," he said warmly, as he probably did to all new clients.

"A pleasure."

"This is my office," Fisk said, sweeping his hand at the door. They walked through it, closed it, then settled around a large busy desk. Zachary declined coffee, water, a soda. "I’m fine, thanks," he said.

Fisk had his sleeves rolled up and his tie loosened, as if he’d been performing manual labor. Zachary liked the image immediately. Nice teeth, just a touch of gray above the ears, strong chin. This guy was definitely marketable.

They played Who-do-you-know? for a few minutes, with Zachary claiming to be a longtime resident of Jackson, where he’d spent most of his career in government relations, whatever that meant. Since he knew that Fisk had no history of political involvement, he had little fear of being exposed. In truth, he’d lived in Jackson less than three years and until very recently had worked as a lobbyist for an association of asphalt contractors. There was a state senator from Brookhaven they both knew, and they chatted about him for a few minutes, anything to pass the time.

When things were comfortable, Zachary said, "Let me apologize, I’m really not a new client. I’m here on some much more important business."

Fisk frowned and nodded. Keep talking, sir.

"Have you ever heard of a group called Judicial Vision?"

"No."

Few people had. In the murky world of lobbying and consulting, Judicial Vision was a newcomer.

Zachary moved on. "I’m the executive director for the state of Mississippi. It’s a national group. Our sole purpose is to elect quality people to the appellate courts.

By quality, I mean conservative, business oriented, temperate, highly moral, intelligent, and ambitious young judges who can literally, Mr. Fisk, and this is the core of what we believe, change the judicial landscape of this country. And if we can do that, then we can protect the rights of the unborn, restrict the cultural garbage that is consumed by our children, honor the sanctity of marriage, keep homosexuals out of our classrooms, fight off the gun-control advocates, seal our borders, and protect the true American way of life."

Both took a deep breath.

Fisk wasn’t sure where he fit into this raging war, but his pulse was definitely up ten beats per minute. "Yes, well, sounds like an interesting group," he said.

"We’re committed," Zachary said firmly. "And we’re also determined to bring sanity back to our civil litigation system. Runaway verdicts and hungry trial lawyers are robbing us of economic advancement. We’re scaring companies away from Mississippi, not attracting them."

"There’s no doubt about that," Fisk said, and Zachary wanted to shout for joy.

"You see all the frivolous stuff they file. We work hand in hand with the national tort-reform groups."

"That’s good. And why are you in Brookhaven?"

"Are you politically ambitious, Mr. Fisk? Ever thought about tossing your hat in the ring for elective office?"

"Not really."

"Well, we’ve done our research, and we think you’d be an excellent candidate for the supreme court."

Fisk instinctively laughed at such foolishness, but it was the sort of nervous laugh that leads you to believe that whatever is supposed to be humorous is really not.

It’s serious. It can be pursued.

"Research?" he said.

"Oh yes. We spend a lot of time looking for candidates who (a) we like and (b) can win. We study the opponents, the races, the demographics, the politics, everything, really. Our data bank is unmatched, as is our ability to generate serious funds.

Care to hear more?"

Fisk kicked back in his reclining rocker, put his feet on his desk and his hands behind his head, and said, "Sure. Tell me why you’re here."

"I’m here to recruit you to run against Justice Sheila McCarthy this November in the southern district of Mississippi," he announced confidently. "She is very beatable.

We don’t like her or her record. We have analyzed every decision she’s made in her nine years on the bench, and we think she’s a raging liberal who manages to hide her true colors, most of the time. Do you know her?"

Fisk was almost afraid to say yes. "We met once, just in passing. I don’t really know her."

Actually, according to their research, Justice McCarthy had participated in three rulings in cases involving Ron Fisk’s law firm, and each time she had ruled the other way. Fisk had argued one of the cases, a hotly disputed arson mess involving a warehouse.

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."