Three Classic Thrillers (80 page)

Other than the
Baker
case, the Paytons had thirty Bowmore cases. Eighteen involved people who were already dead. The other twelve involved people with cancer in various stages. Four years earlier, the Paytons had made the tactical decision to take their best case—Jeannette Baker’s—and try it first. It would be far
cheaper than trying all thirty-one at one time. Jeannette was the most sympathetic, having lost her entire family in the span of eight months. That decision now looked brilliant.

Wes and Mary Grace hated these meetings. A sadder, more tragic group of people could not be found anywhere. They had lost children, husbands, and wives. They were terminally ill and living with incredible pain. They asked questions that could not be answered, over and over, in slightly different variations because no two cases were identical. Some wanted to quit, and others wanted to fight forever. Some wanted money, and others just wanted Krane to be held accountable. There were always tears, and harsh words, and for this reason Pastor Ott was there as a calming influence.

Now, with the
Baker
verdict legendary, the Paytons knew the rest of their clients had much higher expectations. Six months after the verdict, the clients were more anxious than ever. They called the office more often. They sent more letters and e-mails.

The meeting had the extra tension caused by the funeral, three days earlier, of Leon Gatewood, a man they all despised. His body was found in a pile of brush three miles downriver from his capsized fishing boat. There was no evidence of foul play, but everyone suspected it. The sheriff was busy with an investigation.

All thirty families were represented. The notepad Wes passed around had sixty-two names on it, names he knew well, including that of Frank Stone, a caustic bricklayer who usually said little during these meetings.
It was assumed, without a shred of evidence, that if Leon Gatewood’s death had been caused by someone else, then Frank Stone knew something about it.

Mary Grace began with a warm hello. She thanked them for coming, and for their patience. She talked about the
Baker
appeal, and for a little dramatic effect she hoisted the thick brief filed by Krane’s lawyers as evidence that many hours were being spent on the appellate front. All briefs would be in by September, then the supreme court would decide how to handle the case. It had the option of passing it off to a lower court, the court of appeals, for an initial review, or it could simply keep it. A case of this magnitude would eventually be decided by the supreme court, and she and Wes were of the opinion that it would bypass the lower court. If that happened, oral arguments would be scheduled for later in the year, or perhaps early next year. Her best guess was a final ruling in about a year.

If the court affirmed the verdict, there were several possible scenarios. Krane would be under enormous pressure to settle the remaining claims, which, of course, would be a highly favored result. If Krane refused to settle, she was of the opinion that Judge Harrison would consolidate the other cases and try them in one huge trial. In that event, their firm would have the resources to fight on. She confided in the clients that they had spent borrowed funds in excess of $400,000 to get the
Baker
case to a jury, and they simply could not do it again unless the first verdict was upheld.

As poor as the clients were, they were not nearly as broke as their lawyers.

“What if the
Baker
verdict is rejected by the court?” asked Eileen Johnson. Her head was bare from chemo, and she weighed less than a hundred pounds. Her husband held her hand throughout the meeting.

“That’s a possibility,” Mary Grace admitted. “But we are confident it won’t happen.” She said this with more assurance than she possessed. The Paytons felt good about the appeal, but any rational lawyer would be nervous. “But if it happens, the court will send it back for another trial. It could be on all issues, or simply on damages. It’s hard to predict.”

She moved on, anxious to get away from more talk about losing. She assured them that their cases were still receiving the full attention of their firm. Hundreds of documents were being processed each week and filed away. Other experts were being sought. They were in a holding pattern, but still working hard.

“What about this class action?” asked Curtis Knight, the father of a teenage boy who’d died four years earlier. The question seemed to arouse the crowd. Others, less deserving, were encroaching on their territory.

“Forget about it,” she said. “Those plaintiffs are at the bottom of the pile. They win only if there’s a settlement, and any settlement must first satisfy your claims. We control the settlement. You are not competing with those people.”

Her answer seemed good enough.

Wes took over with cautionary words. Because of
the verdict, the pressure on Krane Chemical was greater than ever. They probably had investigators in the area, watching the plaintiffs, trying to gather information that might be damaging. Be careful who you talk to. Be wary of strangers. Report anything even remotely unusual.

For a long-suffering people, this was not welcome news. They had enough to worry about.

The questions continued and went on for over an hour. The Paytons worked hard to reassure, to show compassion and confidence, to give hope. But the tougher challenge was keeping a lid on expectations.

If anyone in the room was concerned about a supreme court race, it was never mentioned.

W
hen he stepped forward and gazed at the large congregation on Sunday morning, Ron Fisk had no idea how many pulpits he would visit over the next six months. Nor did he realize that the pulpit would become a symbol of his campaign.

He thanked his minister for the opportunity, then thanked his congregation, his fellow members of St. Luke’s Baptist Church, for their indulgence. “Tomorrow, down the street at the Lincoln County Courthouse, I will announce my candidacy for the Mississippi Supreme Court. Doreen and I have been struggling with and praying about this for several months now. We have counseled with Pastor Rose. We have discussed it with our children, our families, and our friends. And we are finally at peace with our decision and want to share it with you before the announcement tomorrow.”

He glanced at his notes, looked a little nervous, then continued.

“I have no background in politics. Frankly, I’ve never had the stomach for it. Doreen and I have established a happy life here in Brookhaven, raising our kids, worshipping here with you, taking part in our community. We are blessed, and we thank God every day for his goodness. We thank God for this church and for friends like you. You are our family.”

Another nervous pause.

“I seek to serve on the supreme court because I cherish the values that we share. Values based on the Bible and our faith in Christ. The sanctity of the family—man and woman. The sanctity of life. The freedom to enjoy life without fear of crime and government intervention. Like you, I am frustrated by the erosion of our values. They are under attack by our society, by our depraved culture, and by many of our politicians. Yes, also by our courts. I offer my candidacy as one man’s fight against liberal judges. With your help, I can win. Thank you.”

Mercifully brief—another long-winded sermon was surely coming next—Ron’s words were so well received that a polite round of applause rippled through the sanctuary as he returned to his seat and sat with his family.

Two hours later, while the white churchgoers in Brookhaven were having lunch and the black ones were just getting cranked up, Ron bounded up red-carpeted steps to the massive podium of the Mount Pisgah
Church of God in Christ on the west side of town and delivered a lengthier version of the morning’s comments. (He omitted the word “liberal.”) Until two days earlier, he had never met the reverend of the town’s largest black congregation. A friend pulled some strings and manipulated an invitation.

That night, in the middle of a rowdy Pentecostal holy hour, he grabbed the pulpit, waited for the racket to die down, then introduced himself and made his appeal. He ignored his notes and spoke longer. He went after the liberals again.

Driving home afterward, he was struck by how few people he actually knew in his small town. His clients were insurance companies, not people. He rarely ventured outside the security of his neighborhood, his church, his social circle. Frankly, he preferred to stay there.

At nine Monday morning he gathered on the steps of the courthouse with Doreen and the kids, his law firm, a large group of friends, courthouse employees and regulars, and most of his Rotary Club, and he announced his candidacy to the rest of the state. It was not planned as a media event. Only a few reporters and cameras showed up.

Barry Rinehart subscribed to the strategy of peaking on Election Day, not when the announcement is made.

Ron delivered his carefully worded and rehearsed remarks for fifteen minutes, with lots of applause thrown in. He answered every question the reporters
had, then moved inside to a small, empty courtroom, where he happily gave a thirty-minute exclusive to one of the political reporters for the Jackson newspaper.

The party then moved three blocks down the street, where Ron cut the ribbon across the door of his official campaign headquarters in an old building that had been freshly painted and covered with campaign propaganda. Over coffee and biscuits, he chatted with friends, posed for pictures, and sat for another interview, this one with a newspaper he’d never heard of. Tony Zachary was there, supervising the festivities and watching the clock.

Simultaneously, a press release of his announcement was sent to every newspaper in the state and to the major dailies throughout the Southeast. One was also e-mailed to each member of the supreme court, each member of the legislature, every other elected official in the state, every registered lobbyist, thousands of state employees, every doctor with a license, and every lawyer admitted to the bar. There were 390,000 registered voters in the southern district. Rinehart’s Internet consultants had found e-mail addresses for about a fourth of them, and these lucky folks received the news online while Ron was still at the courthouse making his speech. A total of 120,000 e-mails went out in one blast.

Forty-two thousand solicitations for money were sent by e-mail, along with a message that touted the virtues of Ron Fisk while attacking the social evils caused by “liberal, left-leaning judges who substitute their own agendas for those of the people.”

From a rented warehouse in south Jackson, a building Ron Fisk did not know about and would never lay eyes on, 390,000 stuffed envelopes were removed and taken to the central post office. Inside each was a campaign brochure with lots of endearing photos, a warm letter from Ron himself, a smaller envelope if one wished to send back a check, and a complimentary bumper sticker. The colors were red, white, and blue, and the artwork was obviously done by professionals. Every detail in the mailing was of the highest quality.

At 11:00 a.m., Tony moved the show south to McComb, the eleventh-largest city in the district. (Brookhaven ranked fourteenth with a population of 10,800.) Traveling in a newly leased Chevrolet Suburban, with a volunteer named Guy at the wheel, with his new but already indispensable first assistant, Monte, in the front seat and on the phone, and with Doreen sitting by his side on the rather spacious middle bench of the SUV, Ron Fisk smiled smugly at the countryside flying by him. It was a moment to be savored. His first foray into politics, and in such grand style. All those supporters, their enthusiasm, the press and the cameras, the heady challenge of the job ahead, the thrill of winning, all in just the first two hours of the campaign. The strong rush of adrenaline was only a sample of what was coming. He imagined a great victory in November. He could see himself springing from the mundane anonymity of a small-town law practice to the prestige of the supreme court. It all lay before him.

Tony followed closely behind, relaying a quick update to Barry Rinehart.

At the City Hall in McComb, Ron announced again. The crowd was small but loud. There were a few friends, but the rest were total strangers. After two quick interviews, with photos, he was driven to the McComb airstrip, where he boarded a Lear 55, a handsome little jet built like a rocket, although, as Ron couldn’t help but notice, much smaller than the G5 that had whisked him to Washington. Doreen barely managed to suppress her excitement at her first encounter with a private jet. Tony joined the flight. Guy raced ahead with the SUV.

Fifteen minutes later they landed in Hattiesburg, population forty-eight thousand, the third-largest city in the district. At 1:00 p.m., Ron and Doreen were the guests at a Prayer Lunch thrown together by a loose coalition of fundamentalist pastors. The setting was an old Holiday Inn. Tony waited in the bar.

Over badly fried chicken and butter beans, Ron did more listening than talking. Several of the preachers, evidently still inspired by their Sunday labors, felt the need to bless him with their views on various issues and evils. Hollywood, rap music, celebrity culture, rampant pornography, the Internet, underage drinking, underage sex, and on and on. Ron nodded sincerely and was soon ready to escape. When he did say a few words, he chose all the right ones. He and Doreen had prayed about this race and felt the Lord’s hand in it. Laws created by man should strive to emulate the laws of God. Only men of clear moral vision should judge the problems
of others. And so on. He was unequivocally endorsed on the spot.

Freed from the meeting, Ron addressed a group of two dozen supporters outside the Forrest County Circuit Court building. The event was covered by the Hattiesburg TV station. After a few questions, he walked along Main Street, shaking hands with any and all, passing out his slick brochures, and ducking into every law office for a quick heyhowdy. At 3:30, the Lear 55 took off and headed to the Coast. At eight thousand feet and climbing, it flew over the southwest corner of Cancer County.