The Appeal

"Where is the appeal?"

"All the briefs are in. Everything is nice and tidy and waiting on the court to tell us when, and if, it wants oral argument. Probably early next year."

"No chance of a decision before the election?"

"None whatsoever. It’s the most important case on the docket, but then every lawyer feels this way. As you know, the court works on its own schedule. No one can push it."

They had iced coffee as they inspected the judge’s small vegetable garden. The temperature was a hundred degrees and Wes was ready to go. They finally shook hands on the front porch. As Wes drove away, he couldn’t help but worry about him. Judge Harrison was much more concerned about the McCarthy race than his own.

The hearing was on a motion to dismiss filed by Hinds County. The courtroom belonged to Chancellor Phil Shingleton. It was a small, busy, efficient courtroom with oak walls and the obligatory faded portraits of long-forgotten judges. There was no box for the jurors because jury trials did not occur in chancery court. Crowds were rare, but for this hearing every seat was taken.

Meyerchec and Spano, back from Chicago, sat with their radical lawyer at one table.

At the other were two young women representing the county. Chancellor Shingleton called things to order, welcomed the crowd, noted the interest from the media, and looked at the file. Two courtroom artists worked on Meyerchec and Spano. Everyone waited anxiously as Shingleton flipped through paperwork as if he’d never seen it.

In fact, he’d read it many times and had already written his ruling.

"Just curious," he said without looking up. "Why did you file this thing in chancery court?"

The radical lawyer stood and said, "It’s a matter of equity, Your Honor. And we knew we could expect a fair trial here." If it was intended as humor, it missed its mark.

The reason it was filed in chancery court was to get it dismissed as soon as possible.

A hearing in circuit court would take even longer. A federal lawsuit would go off in the wrong direction.

"Proceed," Shingleton said.

The radical lawyer was soon railing against the county and the state and society in general. His words came in short, rapid bursts, much too loud for the small room and much too shrill to listen to for more than ten minutes. He went on and on. The laws of the state were backward and unfair and discriminated against his clients because they couldn’t marry each other. Why shouldn’t two mature and consenting g*y adults who are in love and want all the responsibilities and obligations and commitments and duties of matrimony be allowed the same privileges and legal rights as two heterosexuals?

He managed to ask this question at least eight different ways.

The reason, explained one of the young ladies for the county, is that the laws of the state do not permit it. Plain and simple. The state’s constitution grants to the legislature the right to make laws regarding marriage, divorce, and so on, and no one else has this authority. If and when the legislature approves same-sex marriage, then Mr. Meyerchec and Mr. Spano will be free to pursue their desires.

"Do you expect the legislature to do this anytime soon?" Shingleton deadpanned.

"No," was the quick reply, and it was good for some light laughter. The radical lawyer rebutted with the strenuous argument that the legislature, especially "our" legislature, passed laws every year that are struck down by the courts. That is the role of the judiciary! After making this point loud and clear, he devised several ways to present it in slightly different formats.

After an hour, Shingleton was fed up. Without a recess, and glancing at his notes, he gave a ruling that was rather succinct. His job was to follow the laws of the state, and if the laws prohibited marriage between two men or two women, or two men and one woman, or whatever combination, anything other than one man and one woman, then he, as a chancellor, had no choice but to dismiss the case.

Outside the courthouse, with Meyerchec on one side and Spano on the other, the radical lawyer continued his screeching for the press. He was aggrieved. His clients were aggrieved, though it was noted by a few that both looked quite bored with it all.

They were appealing immediately to the Mississippi Supreme Court. That’s where they were headed, and that’s where they wanted to be. And with the shadowy firm of Troy-Hogan paying the bills from Boca Raton, that’s exactly where they were going.

Chapter 23

During its first four months, the race between Sheila McCarthy and Ron Fisk had been markedly civil. Clete Coley had thrown his share of mud, but his general appearance and unruly personality made it difficult for voters to see him as a supreme court justice. Though he still received around 10 percent in Rinehart’s polls, he was campaigning less and less. Nat Lester’s poll gave him 5 percent, but that poll was not as detailed as Rinehart’s.

After Labor Day, with the election two months away and the homestretch of the race at hand, Fisk’s campaign took its first ugly step toward the gutter. Once on that course, it would not and could not turn back.

The tactic was one Barry Rinehart had perfected in other races. A mass mailing was sent to all registered voters from an outfit called Lawsuit Victims for Truth. It screamed the question "Why Are the Trial Lawyers Financing Sheila McCarthy?" The four-page diatribe that followed did not attempt to answer the question. Instead, it excoriated trial lawyers.

First, it used the family doctor, claiming that trial lawyers and the frivolous lawsuits they bring are responsible for many of the problems in our health-care system. Doctors, laboring under the fear of lawsuit abuse, are forced to perform expensive tests and diagnoses that drive up the cost of medical care.

Doctors must pay exorbitant premiums for malpractice insurance to protect themselves from bogus lawsuits. In some states, doctors have been driven out, leaving their patients without care. One doctor (no residence given) was quoted as saying, "I couldn’t afford the premiums, and I was tired of spending hours in depositions and trials.

So I simply quit. I still worry about my patients." A hospital in West Virginia was forced to close after getting hit with an outrageous verdict. A greedy trial lawyer was at fault.

Next, it hit the checkbook. Rampant litigation costs the average household $1,800 a year, according to one study. This expense is a direct result of higher insurance premiums on automobiles and homes, plus higher prices for a thousand household products whose makers are constantly being sued. Medications, both prescription and over-the-counter, are a perfect example. They would be 15 percent cheaper if the trial lawyers didn’t hammer their manufacturers with massive class action cases.

Then it shocked the reader with a collection of some of the country’s zaniest verdicts, a well-used and trusted list that always sparked outrage. Three million dollars against a fast-food chain for hot coffee that was spilled; $110 million against a carmaker for a defective paint job; $ 15 million against the owner of a swimming pool that was fenced and padlocked. The infuriating list went on and on. The world is going crazy and being led by devious trial lawyers.

After breathing fire for three pages, it finished with a bang. Five years earlier, Mississippi had been labeled by a pro-business group as a "judicial hellhole." Only four other states shared this distinction, and the entire process would have been overlooked but for the Commerce Council. It seized the news and splashed it around in newspaper ads. Now the issue was worthy of being used again. According to the Lawsuit Victims for Truth, the trial lawyers have so abused the court system in Mississippi that the state is now a dumping ground for all sorts of major lawsuits. Some of the plaintiffs live elsewhere. Many of the trial lawyers live elsewhere.