The Appeal

"Yes, but she’s broke," Barry said with a laugh. "This is a campaign, and it’s all about money."

McCarthy wasn’t exactly broke, but her campaign was off to a miserable start. She had no campaign manager, no one to coordinate the fifty things that needed to bedone immediately while coordinating a thousand details for later. She had offered the job to three people.

The first two declined after considering it for twenty-four hours. The third said yes, then a week later said no.

A campaign is a small, frantic business thrown together under great pressure and with the knowledge that it will have a very short life. The full-time staff works brutal hours for low pay. The volunteers are invaluable but not always dependable.

A forceful and decisive campaign manager is crucial.

Six weeks after Fisk’s announcement, Justice McCarthy had managed to open a campaign office in Jackson, near her condo, and one in Biloxi, near her home. Both were run by longtime friends, volunteers, who stayed busy recruiting more staff and calling potential donors.

There were piles of bumper stickers and yard signs, but the campaign had been unable to secure a decent firm to put together the ads, direct mail, and, hopefully, television spots. There was a very basic Web site, but no other Internet activity. Sheila had received $320,000 in contributions, all but $30,000 of it coming from trial lawyers. Bobby Neal and the board had promised her, in writing, that the MTA members would donate at least $ 1 million, and she did not doubt that they would.

But making promises was much easier than writing checks.

Getting organized was made more difficult by the fact that she had a demanding job that could not simply be ignored. The court’s docket was backed up for a mile with cases that should have been decided months earlier. There was the constant strain of never catching up.

The appeals would never stop. And lives were in the balance: men and women on death row; children pulled back and forth in messy divorces; horribly injured workers waiting on a final ruling that, hopefully, would bring relief. Some of her colleagues were professional enough to detach themselves from the real people behind the cases they considered, but Sheila had never been able to.

But it was summertime, and the schedule was less taxing. She was taking off Fridays and spending long weekends on the road, visiting her district.

She worked hard Monday through Thursday, then became the candidate. She planned to spend the month getting her campaign organized and on track.

Her first opponent, Mr. Coley, generally loafed Monday through Friday, resting himself for the rigors of the blackjack table. He gambled only at night, and thus had plenty of time to campaign, if he wanted to. Generally he did not. He showed up at a few county fairs and delivered colorful speeches to enthusiastic crowds. If his volunteers from Jackson were in the mood, they would drive down and erect the Faces of the Dead display, and Clete raised the volume. Every town has a dozen civic clubs, most of which are always looking for speakers. Word spread that candidate Coley could liven up the lunch, and he received an invitation or two each week. Depending on the drive, and the severity of his hangover, he would entertain the idea. By late July, his campaign had received $27,000 in donations, more than enough to cover the costs of his leased SUV and his part-time bodyguards. He’d also spent $6,000 on brochures.

Every politician must have something to hand out.

Sheila’s second opponent, though, was leading a campaign that ran like a well-tuned engine. Ron Fisk worked hard at his desk on Mondays and Tuesdays, then hit the road with a detailed schedule that left only the tiniest of towns untouched. Using both the Lear 55 and a King Air, he and his traveling staff quickly circled the district.

By mid-July, there was an organized committee in each of the twenty-seven counties, and Ron had given at least one speech in all of them. He spoke to civic clubs, volunteer fire departments, library teas, county bar associations, motorcycle clubs, bluegrass festivals, county fairs, and churches, churches, and churches. At least half of his speeches were in pulpits.

On July 18, Josh played his final baseball game of the season, and his father was free to campaign even more. Coach Fisk did not miss a game, though the team fell apart after he announced his candidacy. Most parents agreed that the two were not related.

In the rural areas, Ron’s message never varied. Because of liberal judges, our values are under attack from those who support g*y marriage, gun control, abortion, and unrestricted access to Internet  p**n ography. Those judges must be replaced. His first loyalty was to the Bible. Laws made by men came next, but as a supreme court justice he would manage to reconcile both when necessary.

He began each speech with a short prayer.

In the less rural areas, depending on the audience, he would often move a little from the far right and dwell on the death penalty. Ron found that audiences were captivated by graphic stories of brutal crimes committed by men who were sentenced to die twenty years ago.

He worked a couple of these into his routine.

But regardless of where he was, the evil-liberal-judge theme dominated every speech.

After a hundred or so, Ron himself believed that Sheila McCarthy was a raging leftist who’d caused many of the state’s social problems.

On the money front, with Barry Rinehart quietly pulling the strings, contributions were arriving at a steady rate and managed to keep pace with expenses. By June 30, the first deadline to file financial reports, the Fisk campaign had received $510,000 from twenty-two hundred people. Of his contributors, only thirty-five gave the maximum of $5,000, and every one of these was a Mississippi resident. Ninety percent of donors were from within the state.

Barry knew the trial lawyers would scrutinize the contributors in the hope that out-of-state money was pouring in from big business interests. It had been a troublesome campaign issue before, and he would avoid it in the Fisk race. He was confident he would raise huge sums of money from out of state, but these donations would pour in at the chosen moment, late in the campaign when the state’s benign reporting laws protected it from being an issue. In contrast, McCarthy’s reports revealed that she was being financed by the trial lawyers, and Barry knew precisely how to wield this as an issue in his favor.

Barry also had the results of his latest poll, one that he would not share with the candidate. As of June 25, half the registered voters were now aware that there was a race. Of that number, 24 percent favored Ron Fisk, 16 percent Sheila McCarthy, and 10 percent Clete Coley.

Those numbers were exciting. In less than two months, Barry had packaged an unknown lawyer who’d never worn a black robe and thrust him ahead of an opponent with nine years of experience. And they had yet to run a single ad on television.

On July 1, the Second State Bank was purchased by New Vista Bank, a regional chain based in Dallas. Huffy called Wes Payton with the news and was generally upbeat.

The Hattiesburg office had been assured that nothing would change but the name. His loan portfolio had been reviewed by the new owners. They had quizzed him about the Paytons, and seemed content with Huffy’s promises that the loan would eventually be satisfied.

For the fourth straight month, the Paytons sent Huffy a check for $2,000.

Chapter 22

In another life, Nathaniel Lester had been a flamboyant criminal defense lawyer with an uncanny knack for winning murder trials. At one point, two decades earlier, he had put together a streak of twelve consecutive not-guilty verdicts, virtually all in small towns throughout Mississippi, the types of places where those accused of heinous crimes are generally presumed guilty the moment they are arrested. His notoriety attracted clients from the civil side, and his country law office in the town of Mendenhall prospered nicely.