The Appeal

Sheila watched the spectacle from the safety of her window. Another clerk, standing near the reporters, relayed the news via cell phone.

That nut down there had chosen her.

Paul lingered until the display was removed and the crowd drifted away, then he raced up the steps to Sheila’s office. She was at her desk, with the other clerk and Justice McElwayne. The air was heavy, the mood somber. They looked at Paul as if he might by chance have some good news.

"This guy’s crazy," he said. They nodded their agreement.

"He doesn’t appear to be a pawn for big business," McElwayne said.

"I’ve never heard of him," Sheila said softly. She appeared to be in shock. "I guess an easy year just became very complicated."

The idea of starting a campaign from scratch was overwhelming.

"How much did your race cost?" Paul asked. He had just joined the court two years earlier, when Justice McElwayne was under assault.

"One point four million."

Sheila grunted and laughed. "I have $6,000 in my campaign account. It’s been there for years."

"But I had a legitimate opponent," McElwayne added. "This guy is a nut."

"Nuts get elected."

Twenty minutes later, Tony Zachary watched the show in his locked office, four blocks away. Marlin had captured it all on video, and was more than pleased to see it again.

"We’ve created a monster," Tony said, laughing.

"He’s good."

"Maybe too good."

"Anybody else you want in the race?"

"No, I think the ballot is complete at this point. Nice work."

Marlin left, and Tony punched the number for Ron Fisk. Not surprisingly, the busy lawyer answered after the first ring. "I’m afraid it’s true," Tony said gravely, then recounted the announcement and the arrest.

"The guy must be crazy," Ron said.

"Definitely. My first impression is that this is not all bad. In fact, it could help us. This clown will generate a lot of coverage, and he seems perfectly willing to take a hatchet to McCarthy."

"Why do I have a knot in my stomach?"

"Politics is a rough game, Ron, something you’re about to learn. I’m not worried, not right now. We stick to our game plan, nothing changes."

"It seems to me that a crowded field only helps the incumbent," Ron observed. And he was right, as a general rule.

"Not necessarily. There’s no reason to panic. Besides, we can’t do anything about others who jump in. Stay focused. Let’s sleep on it and talk tomorrow."

Chapter 18

Clete Coley’s colorful launch landed with perfect timing. There was not another interesting story throughout the entire state. The press seized Coley’s announcement and beat it like a drum. And who could blame them? How often does the public get to see vivid footage of a lawyer getting handcuffed and dragged away while yelling about those "liberal bastards." And such a loud, large lawyer at that? His haunting display of dead faces was irresistible. His volunteers, especially the relatives of the victims, were more than happy to chat with the reporters and tell their stories. His gall in holding the rally directly under the noses of the supreme court was humorous, even admirable.

He was rushed downtown to central headquarters, and there he was booked, fingerprinted, and photographed. He assumed, correctly, that his mug shot would find its way to the press in short order, and so he had a few moments to think about its message.

An angry scowl might confirm the suspicion that this guy was a bit off his rocker.

A goofy smile might lead to questions about his sincerity-who smiles when he’s just arrived at the jail? He settled on a simple blank face, with just a trace of a curious glare, as if to say, "Why are they picking on me?"

Procedures called for every inmate to strip, shower, and change into an orange jumpsuit, and this usually happened before the mug shot. But Clete would have none of it. The charge was simple trespass, with a maximum fine of $250. Bail was twice that, and Clete, his pockets bulging with $ 100 bills, flashed enough money around to let the authorities know he was on his way out of jail, not the other way around. So they skipped the shower and the jumpsuit, and Clete was photographed in his nicest brown suit, starched white shirt, paisley silk tie in a perfect knot. His long, graying hair was in place.

The process took less than an hour, and when he emerged a free man, he was thrilledto see that most of the reporters had followed him. On a city sidewalk, he answeredtheir questions until they finally grew weary.

On the evening news, he was the lead story, with all the drama of the day. On the late night news, he was back. He watched it all on a wide-screen TV in a bikers’ bar in south Jackson, where he was holed up for the night, buying drinks for everyone who could get in the door. His tab was over $1,400. A campaign expense.

The bikers loved him and promised to turn out in droves to get him elected. Of course, not a single one was a registered voter. When the bar closed, Clete was driven away in a bright red Cadillac Escalade, just leased by the campaign at a thousand dollars a month. Behind the wheel was one of his new bodyguards, the white one, a young man only slightly more sober than his boss. They made it to the motel without further arrest.

At the offices of the Mississippi Trial Advocates on State Street, Barbara Mellinger, executive director and chief lobbyist, met for an early round of coffee with her assistant, Skip Sanchez. For the first cup, they mulled over the morning newspapers.

They had copies of four of the dailies from the southern district-Biloxi, Hattiesburg, Laurel, and Natchez- and Mr. Coley’s face was on the front page of all four. The Jackson paper reported little else. The Times-Picayune out of New Orleans had a readership along the Coast, and it ran an AP story, with photo (hand cuffs) on page 4.

"Perhaps we should advise all our candidates to get themselves arrested when they do their announcements," Barbara said drily and with no attempt at humor. She hadn’t smiled in twenty-four hours. She drained her first cup and went for more.

"Who the hell is Clete Coley?" Sanchez asked, staring at the various photos of the man. Jackson and Biloxi had the mug shot-the look of a man who would throw a punch and ask questions after it landed.

"I called Walter last night, down in Natchez," she was saying. "He says Coley has been around for years, always on the edge of something shady but smart enough not to get caught. He thinks that at one time he did oil and gas work. There was a bad deal with some small business loans. Now he fancies himself a gambler. Never been seen within six blocks of the courthouse. He’s unknown."

"Not anymore."

Barbara got up and moved slowly around the office. She refilled the cups, then sat down and resumed her study of the newspapers.

"He’s not a tort reformer," Skip said, though not without some doubt. "He doesn’t fit their mold. He’s got too much baggage for a hard campaign. There’s at least one DUI, at least two divorces."

"I think I agree, but if he’s never been involved before, then why is he suddenly screaming about the death penalty? Where does this conviction come from? This passion?

Plus, his show yesterday was well organized. He’s got people. Where do they come from?"

"Do we really care? Sheila McCarthy beats him two to one. We should be thrilled he is what he is-a buffoon who, we think, is not being financed by the Commerce Council and all the corporate boys. Why aren’t we happy?"

"Because we’re trial lawyers."

Skip turned gloomy again.