The Appeal

"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.

"Ever hear of Link Kyzer? Sheriff in Wayne County?"

"Maybe."

"Link’s an old friend. Two years ago he needed new patrol cars, new radios, new bulletproof vests and guns and everything. County wouldn’t give him crap, so he calls me. I go to Homeland Security, talk to some friends, twist some arms, and Wayne County suddenly gets six million bucks to fight terrorism. They got more patrol cars than they got cops to drive them. Their radio system is better than the navy’s. And, lo and behold, the terrorists have decided to stay the hell out of Wayne County." He laughed at his own punch line, and Ron was obliged to guffaw along with him. Nothing like wasting a few more million tax dollars.

"You need Link, you got Link, and Wayne County," Rudd promised as he slugged down some tea.

With two counties under his belt, Ron began contemplating the other twenty-five in the southern district. Would the next hour be spent listening to war stories from all of them? He rather hoped not. The soup arrived.

"This gal, McCarthy," Rudd said between slurps. "She’s never been on board." Which Ron took as an indictment on the grounds of not supporting Senator Rudd. "She’s too liberal, plus, between us boys, she just ain’t cut out for the black robe. Know what I mean?"

Ron nodded slightly as he studied his soup. Little wonder The Senator preferred dining in private. He doesn’t know her first name, Ron said to himself. He knows very little about her, except that she is indeed female and, in his opinion, out of place.

To ease things away from the good ole white boy talk, Ron decided to interject a semi-intelligent question. "What about the Gulf Coast? I have very few contacts down there."

Predictably, Rudd scoffed at the question. No problem. "My wife’s from Bay St. Louis," he said, as if that alone could guarantee a landslide for his chosen one. "You got those defense contractors, naval shipyards, NASA, hell, I own those people."

And they probably own you, Ron thought. Sort of a joint ownership.

A cell phone hummed next to The Senator’s tea glass. He glanced at it, frowned, and said, "Gotta take this. It’s the White House." He gave the impression of being quite irritated.

"Should I step outside?" Ron asked, at once impressed beyond words but also horrified that he might eavesdrop on some crucial matter.

"No, no," Rudd said as he waved him down. Fisk tried to concentrate on his soup, and tea, and roll, and though it was a lunch he would never forget, he suddenly wished it would quickly come to an end. The phone call did not. Rudd grunted and mumbled and gave no clue as to which crisis he was averting. The waiter returned with the swordfish, which sizzled a bit at first but soon cooled off. The white beets beside it were swimming in a large pool of butter.

When the world was safe again, Rudd hung up and stuck a fork into the center of his swordfish. "Sorry about that," he said. "Damned Russians. Anyway, I want you to run, Ron. It’s important to the state. We have got to get our court in line."

"Yes, sir, but-"

"And you have my complete support. Nothing public, mind you, but I’ll work my ass off in the background. I’ll raise serious cash. I’ll crack the whip, break some arms, the usual routine down there. It’s my game, son, trust me."

"What if-"

"No one beats me in Mississippi. Just ask the governor. He was twenty points down with two months to go, and was trying to do it himself. Didn’t need my help. I flew down, had a prayer meeting, the boy got converted, and he won in a landslide. I don’t like to get involved down there, but I will. And this race is that important. Can you do it?"

"I think so."

"Don’t be silly, Ron. This is a onetime chance to do something great. Think of it, you, at the age of, uh-"

"Thirty-nine."

"Thirty-nine, damned young, but you’re on the Supreme Court of Mississippi. And once we get you there, you’ll never leave. Just think about it."

"I’m thinking very hard, sir."

"Good."

The phone hummed again, probably the president. "Sorry," Rudd said as he stuck it in his ear and took a huge bite of fish.

The third and final stop on the tour was at the office of the Tort Reform Network on Connecticut Avenue. With Tony back in charge, they blitzed through the introductions and short speeches. Fisk answered a few benign questions, much lighter fare than what had been served up by the religious boys that morning. Once again, he was overwhelmed by the impression that everyone was going through the motions. It was important for them to touch and hear their candidate, but there seemed to be little interest in a serious evaluation. They were relying on Tony, and since he’d found his man, then so had they.

Unknown to Ron Fisk, the entire forty-minute meeting was captured by a hidden camera and sent upstairs to a small media room where Barry Rinehart was watching carefully.

He had a thick file on Fisk, one with photos and various summaries, but he was anxious to hear his voice, watch his eyes and hands, listen to his answers. Was he photogenic, telegenic, well dressed, handsome enough? Was his voice reassuring, trustworthy?