The Appeal (14 page)

Wes and Mary Grace met with Denny in his study next to the sanctuary. It was time for the post-burial legal update. Who had fallen ill? What were the new diagnoses? Who in Pine Grove had hired another law firm?

“This Clyde Hardin thing is out of control,” Denny said. “They’re advertising on the radio and once a week in the paper, full page. They’re almost guaranteeing money. People are flocking in.”

__________

W
es and Mary Grace had walked down Main Street prior to the service for Miss Inez. They wanted to see firsthand the new screening clinic next to F. Clyde’s office.
On the sidewalk, there were two large coolers filled with bottled water and packed with ice. A teenager with a Bintz & Bintz T-shirt handed them a bottle each. The label read: “Pure Spring Water. Compliments of Bintz & Bintz, Attorneys.” There was a toll-free number.

“Where does the water come from?” Wes had asked the kid.

“Not from Bowmore,” came the quick retort.

As Mary Grace chatted up the boy, Wes stepped inside, where he joined three other potential clients who were waiting to get themselves screened. None gave any indication of being ill. Wes was greeted by a comely young lady of no more than eighteen, who handed him a brochure, a form on a clipboard, and a pen and instructed him to fill out both front and back. The brochure was professionally done and gave the basics of the allegations against Krane Chemical, a company now “proven in court” to have contaminated the drinking water of Bowmore and Cary County. All inquiries were directed to the firm of Bintz & Bintz in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The questions on the form were all background and medical, except for the last two: (1) Who referred you to this office? and (2) Do you know anyone else who might be a potential victim of Krane Chemical? If so, list names and phone numbers. As Wes was scribbling on the form, the doctor entered the waiting room from somewhere in the rear and called for the next patient. He wore a white physician’s office jacket, complete with a stethoscope around his
neck. He was either Indian or Pakistani and looked no older than thirty.

After a few minutes inside, Wes excused himself and left.

__________

“
I
t’s small-time stuff,” Wes said to Denny. “They’ll sign up a few hundred cases, most of them frivolous. Then they’ll file a class action in federal court. If they’re lucky, it’ll be settled years from now for a few thousand bucks each. The lawyers will skim off some nice fees. But there’s a better chance that Krane will never settle, and if that happens, then all those new clients get nothing and Clyde Hardin will be forced to go back to drafting deeds.”

“How many from your church have signed up?” Mary Grace asked.

“I don’t know. They don’t tell me everything.”

“We’re not worried about it,” Wes said. “Frankly, we have enough of these cases to keep us busy for a long time.”

“Did I see a couple of spies at the service today?” Mary Grace asked.

“Yes. One was a lawyer named Crandell, from Jackson. He’s been hanging around since the trial. He’s actually stopped by here to say hello. Just a hustler.”

“I’ve heard of him,” Wes said. “Has he hooked any cases?”

“Not from this church.”

They discussed the lawyers for a while, then had
their usual conversation about Jeannette and the new pressures she was facing. Ott was spending time with her and was confident she was listening to him.

After an hour they wrapped up their meeting. The Paytons drove back to Hattiesburg, another client in the ground, another injury case now converted into a wrongful-death suit.

__________

T
he preliminary paperwork arrived at the Mississippi Supreme Court in the first week of January. The trial transcript, 16,200 pages, was finalized by the court reporters, and copies were sent to the clerk of the court and to the lawyers. An order was entered giving Krane Chemical, the appellant, ninety days to file its brief. Sixty days after that, the Paytons would file their rebuttal.

In Atlanta, Jared Kurtin passed the file to the firm’s appellate unit, the “eggheads,” as they were known, brilliant legal scholars who functioned poorly in normal circles and were best kept in the library. Two partners, four associates, and four paralegals were already hard at work on the appeal when the massive transcript arrived and they had their first look at every word that was recorded at trial. They would dissect it and find dozens of reasons for a reversal.

In a lesser section of Hattiesburg, the transcript was plopped on the plywood table in The Pit. Mary Grace and Sherman gawked at it in disbelief, almost afraid to touch it. Mary Grace had once tried a case that went on
for ten full days. Its transcript had been twelve hundred pages long, and she read it so many times that the sight of it made her ill. Now this.

If they had an advantage, it was because they had been in the courtroom throughout the entire trial and knew most of what was in the transcript. Indeed, Mary Grace appeared on more pages than any other participant.

But it would be read many times, and procrastination was not an option. The trial and its verdict would be cleverly and savagely attacked by Krane’s lawyers. Jeannette Baker’s lawyers had to match them argument for argument, word for word.

In the heady days after the verdict, the plan had been for Mary Grace to concentrate on the Bowmore cases while Wes worked the other files to generate income. The publicity had been priceless; the phones rang incessantly. Every nutcase in the Southeast suddenly needed the Paytons. Lawyers mired in hopeless lawsuits called for help. Family members who’d lost loved ones to cancer saw the verdict as a hopeful sign. And the usual assortment of criminal defendants, divorcing spouses, battered women, bankrupt businesses, slip-and-fall hustlers, and fired employees called or even stopped by in pursuit of these famous lawyers. Very few could pay a decent fee.

Legitimate personal injury cases, however, had proven scarce. The “Big One,” the perfect case with clear liability and a defendant with deep pockets, the case upon which retirement dreams often rest, had not
yet found its way to the Payton law firm. There were a few more car wrecks and workers’ compensation cases, but nothing worth a trial.

Wes worked feverishly to close as many files as possible, and with some success. The rent was now current, at least at the office. All past-due wages had been paid. Huffy and the bank were still on edge but afraid to push harder. No payments had been made, either on principal or on interest.

T
hey settled on a man named Ron Fisk, a lawyer unknown outside of his small town of Brookhaven, Mississippi, an hour south of Jackson, two hours west of Hattiesburg, and fifty miles north of the Louisiana state line. He was selected from a pool of similar résumés, though none of those considered had the slightest hint that their names and backgrounds were being so carefully evaluated. Young white male, one marriage, three children, reasonably handsome, reasonably well dressed, conservative, devout Baptist, Ole Miss law school, no ethical glitches in the law career, not a hint of criminal trouble beyond a speeding ticket, no affiliation with any trial lawyer group, no controversial cases, no experience whatsoever on the bench.

There was no reason anyone outside of Brookhaven would ever have heard the name of Ron Fisk, and that was exactly what made him their ideal candidate. They
picked Fisk because he was just old enough to cross their low threshold of legal experience, but still young enough to have ambitions.

He was thirty-nine years old, a junior partner in a five-man firm that specialized in defending lawsuits involving car wrecks, arson, injured workers, and a myriad of other routine liability claims. The firm’s clients were insurance companies who paid by the hour, thus allowing the five partners to earn comfortable but not lucrative salaries. As a junior partner, Fisk made $92,000 the year before. A far cry from Wall Street but not bad money in small-town Mississippi.

A supreme court justice was currently earning $110,000.

Fisk’s wife, Doreen, earned $41,000 as the assistant director of a privately owned mental health clinic. Everything was mortgaged—home, both cars, even some furniture. But the Fisks had a perfect credit rating. They vacationed once a year with their children in Florida, where they rented a condo in a high-rise for a thousand bucks a week. There were no trust funds and nothing significant to be expected from their parents’ estates.

The Fisks were squeaky-clean. There was nothing to dig up in the heat of a nasty campaign. Absolutely nothing, they were certain of that.

__________

T
ony Zachary entered the building at five minutes before 2:00 p.m. and stated his business. “I have an appointment with Mr. Fisk,” he said politely, and a
secretary disappeared. As he waited, he examined the place. Sagging bookshelves laden with dusty tomes. Worn carpet. The musty smell of a fine old building in need of some work. A door opened, and a handsome young man stuck out a hand. “Mr. Zachary, Ron Fisk,” he said warmly, as he probably did to all new clients.

“A pleasure.”

“This is my office,” Fisk said, sweeping his hand at the door. They walked through it, closed it, then settled around a large busy desk. Zachary declined coffee, water, a soda. “I’m fine, thanks,” he said.

Fisk had his sleeves rolled up and his tie loosened, as if he’d been performing manual labor. Zachary liked the image immediately. Nice teeth, just a touch of gray above the ears, strong chin. This guy was definitely marketable.

They played Who-do-you-know? for a few minutes, with Zachary claiming to be a longtime resident of Jackson, where he’d spent most of his career in government relations, whatever that meant. Since he knew that Fisk had no history of political involvement, he had little fear of being exposed. In truth, he’d lived in Jackson less than three years and until very recently had worked as a lobbyist for an association of asphalt contractors. There was a state senator from Brookhaven they both knew, and they chatted about him for a few minutes, anything to pass the time.

When things were comfortable, Zachary said, “Let me apologize, I’m really not a new client. I’m here on some much more important business.”

Fisk frowned and nodded. Keep talking, sir.

“Have you ever heard of a group called Judicial Vision?”

“No.”

Few people had. In the murky world of lobbying and consulting, Judicial Vision was a newcomer.

Zachary moved on. “I’m the executive director for the state of Mississippi. It’s a national group. Our sole purpose is to elect quality people to the appellate courts. By quality, I mean conservative, business oriented, temperate, highly moral, intelligent, and ambitious young judges who can literally, Mr. Fisk, and this is the core of what we believe, change the judicial landscape of this country. And if we can do that, then we can protect the rights of the unborn, restrict the cultural garbage that is consumed by our children, honor the sanctity of marriage, keep homosexuals out of our classrooms, fight off the gun-control advocates, seal our borders, and protect the true American way of life.”

Both took a deep breath.

Fisk wasn’t sure where he fit into this raging war, but his pulse was definitely up ten beats per minute. “Yes, well, sounds like an interesting group,” he said.

“We’re committed,” Zachary said firmly. “And we’re also determined to bring sanity back to our civil litigation system. Runaway verdicts and hungry trial lawyers are robbing us of economic advancement. We’re scaring companies away from Mississippi, not attracting them.”

“There’s no doubt about that,” Fisk said, and Zachary wanted to shout for joy.

“You see all the frivolous stuff they file. We work hand in hand with the national tort-reform groups.”

“That’s good. And why are you in Brookhaven?”

“Are you politically ambitious, Mr. Fisk? Ever thought about tossing your hat in the ring for elective office?”

“Not really.”

“Well, we’ve done our research, and we think you’d be an excellent candidate for the supreme court.”

Fisk instinctively laughed at such foolishness, but it was the sort of nervous laugh that leads you to believe that whatever is supposed to be humorous is really not. It’s serious. It can be pursued.

“Research?” he said.

“Oh yes. We spend a lot of time looking for candidates who (
a
) we like and (
b
) can win. We study the opponents, the races, the demographics, the politics, everything, really. Our data bank is unmatched, as is our ability to generate serious funds. Care to hear more?”

Fisk kicked back in his reclining rocker, put his feet on his desk and his hands behind his head, and said, “Sure. Tell me why you’re here.”

“I’m here to recruit you to run against Justice Sheila McCarthy this November in the southern district of Mississippi,” he announced confidently. “She is very beatable. We don’t like her or her record. We have analyzed every decision she’s made in her nine years on the
bench, and we think she’s a raging liberal who manages to hide her true colors, most of the time. Do you know her?”

Fisk was almost afraid to say yes. “We met once, just in passing. I don’t really know her.”

Actually, according to their research, Justice McCarthy had participated in three rulings in cases involving Ron Fisk’s law firm, and each time she had ruled the other way. Fisk had argued one of the cases, a hotly disputed arson mess involving a warehouse. His client lost on a 5-to-4 vote. It was quite likely that he had little use for Mississippi’s only female justice.

“She is very vulnerable,” Zachary said.

“What makes you think I can beat her?”

“Because you are a clean-cut conservative who believes in family values. Because of our expertise in running blitzkrieg campaigns. Because we have the money.”

“We do?”

“Oh yes. Unlimited. We partner with some powerful people, Mr. Fisk.”

“Please call me Ron.”