The Means (4 page)

“Okay.”

“Number two, find a big story and stay on it. Dig in, be relentless, be the network's expert on it and we'll use you across the network.”

This made sense but Samantha wasn't sure how to put it into practice. “Do you have an example?”

“Yes. O. J. Simpson. Several anchors made their bones on that story. They were small fries, but all they did was eat, sleep, and breathe O. J. When a network covered O. J., they went to their expert reporter. And every network covered O. J. wall to wall. By the time that case was over, stars were born.”

Samantha nodded. Again, it made sense, but not something she could get started on right off.

“Look, O. J. was a once-in-a-generation sensation, but there are smaller events that resonate with mass viewership, and you need to be able to see which ones will do it. Look for the key elements. Celebrity, death, class warfare, social or racial injustice. When you see it, get on it. I'll support you.”

The last sentence was the one Samantha wanted to hear. The advice was terrific and she took it. Just as important was getting to the front of Ken's mind and letting him know she was ready for more, but without pestering him and getting labeled a pain in the ass. Time to get out of bounds, she thought. He had a lot of people asking him for air time. “Ken, thank you. I appreciate the advice, and believe me, nobody in this building is going to outwork me.”

“I believe you.”

Samantha stood to go.

Ken liked her more than he'd expected to. He also liked to have the last word in meetings and he had another observation to share anyway. “Samantha. One more, and this really is the last thing, then you can go.”

“Sure.”

“I see a lot of lawyers make the jump to TV and most of them suck.”

“Okay.”

“Now, how you carry yourself on TV is more Mueller's area. I'm editorial, but I'll tell you why I think it is that most of these lawyers tend to suck.”

She nodded.

“Lawyers are trained not to make mistakes. Especially a fancy lawyer like you from Davis Polk. You have to be perfect. You can't embrace your mistakes and you certainly can't laugh them off.”

“That's true.”

“But here, that's exactly what you need to do. Nobody's perfect. A fact of life. Be human on the air and cop to your mistakes. That's relatable. If you go on air trying to act like little Miss Perfect, viewers will smell a phony and they won't like you. Viewers like authentic and they know it when they see it. And when they don't.”

Samantha nodded again.

“That's the trouble with most of these lawyers. They're not authentic. Too worried about mistakes.”

Samantha was concerned this was meant entirely for her and Ken saw that in her face.

“You're better than most in this area. You seem naturally fun, so run with that.” He paused. “Okay, that's it from me.”

Samantha walked to the elevator digesting all the information from Ken. She thought how much easier it is to get advice when you're on your way up.

*   *   *

The week following the
Sunrise America
piece Samantha is at the Delta Shuttle terminal at LaGuardia on her way to DC to meet with Republican congressman Tom Cone from Florida. She's trying to build her contacts and finding that people are increasingly willing to take a meeting. By lunchtime after her first
Sunrise America
hit she had voicemails from four agents asking to represent her, including one from CAA.

With Cone, she's planning to talk about president-elect Mitchell Mason and how the Republicans view the upcoming four years of a Democratic White House.

She clears security and walks toward the gate. “Samantha!” She turns to see a man in a suit waiting at a gate for a flight to Boston. He's about her age and okay-looking. “Samantha!” He yells and waves.

She changes her direction to head toward him and tries to place him, hoping she can do it before they're face-to-face. “Hi!” she calls ahead.

He looks confused and stops waving. She thinks, He has my name right. It would be too much of a coincidence if I'm not the person he thinks I am. Who the hell is he?

“Hi,” she says again. “How are you?” They're close enough to shake hands now but he doesn't move. “I'm sorry, what's your name again?”

“Mark,” he says, but all his enthusiasm is gone. He's flat and nervous.

Mark, she thinks, but comes up empty. “Mark,” she says out loud. “I'm sorry,” and she smiles with her eyes squinted in frustrated apology.

“I'm a big fan,” he says. He clearly didn't expect her to come this close and now seems regretful.

“Thank you,” she says, now more embarrassed than Mark. Jesus, she thinks. Things are changing.

TOM PAULEY

3

Tom Pauley walks down the steps of the Durham County Courthouse. There are only eight steps. It's nothing like the scenes from
Law & Order
where the ADA walks past marble columns down dozens of gorgeous marble steps into a swarm of media, police, and other lawyers.

But for the first time ever for Tom Pauley, there is a media scrum waiting for him at the bottom of the eight steps. National media, and there's a smile on his face that is beyond his ability to influence. It is happiness and pride beaming through an otherwise modest and subdued countenance.

People draw conclusions from faces whether they know it or not—even if they try to avoid doing so, it happens. Pauley is aware of physiognomy but has never been concerned with trying to manipulate it to his advantage. People happy in their own skin never do. They just go about their lives and trust that people will see them for who they are because they've never tried to be anything else.

Tom Pauley has a handsome and boyish face for forty-three years. People who smile a lot seem to age better. He's six two, which makes him more universally likable at first meeting. Many have an impression that a short person will have an edge and that a very large one will be stupid.

People have always been drawn to Tom Pauley. Kids and animals love him. Juries love him. And he takes it all in stride, which makes them love him more.

His wife emerges through the line of reporters and cameramen, and her knees pump to lift her the few steps up and into his arms. Her smile matches his and they kiss. The cameras catch the moment, then the questions start.

“Mr. Pauley, were you surprised at how quickly the jury returned a verdict?”

“No. Over the course of the trial we made it very clear my clients are innocent. Fortunately, the jury was paying attention. They did their job.”

“What did your clients say to you when they heard they are free to go?”

“They said thank you and God bless you. I wished them luck now that they have their lives back.”

“What will your clients do now?”

“They'll probably talk to an anchor at one of your networks. You should pay them well for that. Then they'll go back to their families, to school, to their lives.”

Tom Pauley thinks it is gracious of the Reverend Don Whiskers to give him the initial time with media alone. It isn't Reverend Don's usual method but Tom and Don have become friends over the previous few months, at first out of necessity, then genuine mutual respect. Don knows what a caricature he's made of himself but he's a genius in his way and he gets results.

Terence and Todd Darby had been picked up by police in downtown Durham, two miles from a home invasion, rape, and quadruple homicide. In the shoddiest law enforcement work since the Duke lacrosse rape case, the state charged the sixteen- and eighteen-year-old brothers with the crime.

When inconsistencies in the prosecution's case first emerged, the Durham DA managed to keep it out of the media, but Tom Pauley heard about it and took the case pro bono. With his reputation came local media. Within twenty-four hours of his taking the case, Tom's office had a call from the Reverend Don who had just landed at the Raleigh-Durham International Airport.

Watching the reverend at work was impressive. He didn't just fly in, get in front of a camera and wing it. He met with the family, the lawyers, the local politicians and made sure there was good camera footage of everything for the media to access. He determined what was the essence of the offense to the black community and articulated it in a way that could be repeated in a sound bite. He called his contacts in national media outlets, the Black Panthers, religious organizations, civil rights organizations. All of this was done in stepwise fashion like following a baking recipe. The people around Reverend Don know his system and go about their work quietly. He's the only one making noise.

The reverend's work was all to the benefit of Tom's clients, so Tom cooperated with him. The evening of Don's arrival in Durham, stories about the case ran on GEAR, CNN, UBS-24, and Headline News. The following morning,
Mornings
and
Sunrise America.
Nancy Grace devoted all or some of her show to the case for seven straight weeks. Reverend Don has his critics, but he knows how to bring a national spotlight to the issues he cares about.

“What's next for you, Mr. Pauley?”

“I'm going back to being a private citizen. No more peanut gallery lawyers critiquing my work on the evening news.” He says this with a smile. He's had a decent relationship with the peanut gallery and given them access when it advanced his cause, and all the news coverage hasn't bothered Tom. He knows it's part of the job on a high-profile case, and his job he takes seriously. Himself he does not, and it helps to be humble in his business. Sometimes he needs to act like a hard-ass but for him it is only an act. When he was eight years old, his middle-class family went through a trauma that pushed them into poverty. Specific memories are mostly faded but the period formed his approach to life. As long as his family is safe and provided for, there isn't much that can rile or scare him. He's irreverent. Everyone has irreverent thoughts, but not everyone expresses them. For Tom, as long as it's away from the courtroom, it's fair game. He already has an arm around his wife's shoulders and he pulls her in tighter. “Alison and I are going to have dinner together tonight. We have a five-year-old boy, Patrick, and a three-year-old girl, Olivia. I haven't seen as much of them as I would like lately, so I'm going to focus on family time.” He looks at his wife. “What's that train set we just got for the kids?”

“Thomas the Tank Engine.”

“Right. We're going to play with Thomas. And I think I saw a box for a Barbie Hybrid Cadillac.”

The media laugh and Reverend Don appears at Tom's side. He gives Tom and Alison a hug, then takes several steps to the side away from them. He wants the cameras to have a clear solo shot. The shift in media focus is immediate, like a torpedo acquiring a new target.

The reverend speaks. “I have just prayed with the Darby family. We prayed for the victims and their relatives. We prayed for this community. We prayed for God's healing hand to come down and touch our lives, that a lesson can be learned here today.”

Tom thinks how different it is to listen to Don over lunch and to listen to him now. It's the same rhetoric, but here he performs it. Don would have made a hell of a litigator. “Let's slip out of here,” says Tom to his wife. “I have a meeting at the Washington Duke and Donnie looks like he can go another thirty minutes.”

With minor fanfare, Tom and Alison get to her BMW sedan where they kiss again and Tom opens the door for her. Alison drives home and Tom walks to his Chevy Suburban to drive to his meeting.

It's a brand-new car and enormous. It gets ten miles to the gallon in city driving, thinks Tom. Money isn't a problem, though. Tom doesn't get paid in the Darby case, but he'll make out okay from all the good press. He started a general litigation practice, and he rarely does criminal defense. He's usually suing someone for millions.

Those poor saps from the top law schools who go to big New York firms, thinks Tom. They slave the decades away. Being partner at a big firm sounds fine but in the best years they make a million or two. Nobody gets silly rich that way. The only way to make big money as a lawyer is to be a plaintiffs' attorney. A good one. Win a hundred-million-dollar lawsuit, earn thirty percent, lather-rinse-repeat. John Edwards got very rich doing that.

Tom didn't get into law for that reason, though. He got into law for cases just like Terence and Todd Darby. He was just very effective, though, and now at forty-three is making as much as the partners in the fancy firms. In a few years he'll be making more. He had started out with Davis Polk in New York for the first seven years of his career, so he appreciates how much better he has it now.

*   *   *

The Washington Duke is one of the nicest hotels in Durham and is on the edge of the Duke University campus. As long as it isn't a reunion weekend there are usually rooms available but the place always does a nice business because it has a great golf course, a good restaurant and bar.

Tom has a meeting scheduled with Benson Hill, who is affiliated with the Republican Party of North Carolina. He's a bundler. He rounds up money from wealthy North Carolinians to contribute to Republican presidential candidates and he also helps the state GOP candidates.

Tom thinks his numerous TV appearances with the left-leaning Reverend Whiskers would throw people off the scent, but it's easy enough to see with a web search that he's contributed money to the GOP presidential candidate in each of the last four elections. Benson wants my money, he thinks, but these kinds of connections can't hurt.

Tom pulls onto Cameron Boulevard. The Duke campus is on his right and he makes a left into the parking lot of the inn. “Jesus,” Tom says out loud. If this guy picked the Washington Duke, he must be a Duke fan.

People in North Carolina support either Duke basketball or UNC basketball. Everyone's a fan and everyone takes a side. Eighty percent of the state are for UNC. Tom went to undergrad and law school at UNC, so he's more than a casual fan. Tom has friends who are Duke fans, but he can't stand to be near them during the season. All those asinine cheers and fight songs.

Tom steers around the circular drive up to the front of the inn and valets the car. He walks through the lobby which he thinks is full of too much Duke crap, then into the Bull Durham Lounge.

On the left is a long bar made of dark wood. To the right are windows overlooking the golf course. The far wall is mostly a massive fireplace that is not lit. The carpet is dark blue and throughout the room are small round bar tables with bowls of nuts and leather chairs that are wide and look heavy.

A burly, balding man who looks like a drinker gets up from a chair by the fire. He moves with athleticism as though his gut is something he just carries around for exercise.

He makes for Tom Pauley and starts his handshake from behind his ear, something Tom noticed Obama always used to do that he found annoying and dramatic. The man swings his hand around like throwing a football and clasps where Tom has simply put his hand out.

He seems like the kind of guy who greets all his friends by slapping their backs and calling them old sons of bitches. He says, “Benson Hill. How the hell are you? Your mug looks just like it does on TV. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, Benson.” Tom decides he likes him already. He likes people who are characters, people who put themselves out there.

“Congratulations on the Darby case. Big win.”

“Thank you. Sometimes the system works.”

“Good for you. Good for you. Drink?”

“Gin and tonic.”

“Good man, good man.”

Benson orders with a waiter and they drag two leather chairs closer together by the fire.

“You really poured yourself into their defense. All pro bono.”

“Yes.”

“You're a real servant of the people.”

“It feels good to do good.” Tom toasts the air and drinks. “Somebody said that.”

“Right. Tom, I'll tell you a bit about me, then I'd like to learn a bit more about you. Is that okay?”

“Sure.”

“You know who I am?”

“You're with the Republican Party of North Carolina.”

“Correct.”

“Exactly what is the Republican Party of North Carolina? Besides just you.”

“It's not even me, really. I'm just a rich guy. Full-time, permanent staff in an off-election year? Maybe four people. The chairman and a few people answering phones. It's just a place to receive fund-raising. In election years it balloons to twenty full-timers or so. We're like a traveling circus. After the show we fold up tents and everyone disperses.”

“I see.”

“My day job though is dry cleaning. I have thirty locations throughout the Research Triangle Park area. This is the last bastion of non-­Korean dry cleaners on the planet.” He laughs and his belly moves like a kid shifting in a sleeping bag. “Dry cleaning is a very scalable business. Any businessman trying to grow is going to be Republican.”

Tom nods. He lines up mostly with the Republican platform on economic issues but he's never been very political and doesn't like talking about it, certainly not out of the home.

“So tell me about yourself, Tom. Why did you get into the law?”

This is surprising to Tom. It feels like an interview but it isn't. It's a stranger asking personal questions. His face doesn't show that he's annoyed because Tom's gift is that it takes much more than this to annoy him. He rolls with it and decides to answer and Benson thinks they're having a nice conversation. “My uncle is the whole reason. Thirty-five years ago he was wrongly convicted of murder. It nearly bankrupted my family in every way possible, money being the least significant.” Tom pauses, not for effect but just to gather his thoughts. Everything about him is sincere and understated. “It's a powerless feeling to know in your heart and your head what is right but not be able to get there. Not be able to make anyone else see it even though it's in plain sight to you.”

“I'm sorry.”

“He was cleared twelve years later by DNA evidence.”

“Thank God.”

“Yes, thank God. He could still be in there, but for twelve years it was no picnic.”

“I'll bet. Well, that's a noble reason to enter the law. I like that.” Benson's body language is celebratory and inappropriate.

What an odd thing to say, thinks Tom. One drink with this clown will be enough.

Benson picks up on the sentiment and makes a lasso motion with his right hand to signal the waiter for another round. “Tom, I know you've given some money to the GOP in the past. Do you mind if I ask you a couple more questions?”