The Fall of the House of Zeus

by Curtis Wilkie

  As November approached, the New Albany partners saw they couldn’t make their payroll. Not only had Norm Gillespie and others “of counsel” failed to get their $1,000 payments, but the principal members of the firm had stopped returning their phone calls.

  Balducci was asked by one of their employees if a contingency plan existed to keep the firm afloat.

  “I have Band-Aids to get us through if Zeke sends the money,” Balducci said. “But if Zeke doesn’t send the money, there is no contingency for that. It’s just a gauze pad. We need fucking surgery, open heart surgery. We don’t need a fucking Bayer aspirin.”

  CHAPTER 18

  As Halloween approached, the Mississippi partners of Patterson, Balducci and Biden papered over their financial woes by considering the upcoming evening. Patterson playfully announced that he intended to be the Incredible Hulk and asked Balducci about his disguise. “I’m going to be a squirrel,” Balducci replied, chirping squirrel-like clicks of his tongue.

  In Oxford, Halloween had grown into an extravaganza in recent years. On the witching night, hundreds of children—infants in red wagons pulled by parents and schoolkids in elaborate costumes representing all sorts of characters from Batman and Princess Leia to angels and skeletons—clogged the residential sidewalks in an informal parade, seeking treats at every home near the square.

  Few found their way to the Scruggs’s new mansion, tucked away on a wooded hill several blocks from the revelry, where the owner had other concerns on his mind. State elections would be held the next week, and though the Democrats had no chance of unseating Governor Haley Barbour, Scruggs continued to pour money into the campaign of Gary Anderson, the party’s candidate for insurance commissioner.

  Scruggs had already spent hundreds of thousands of dollars to drive George Dale out of office in the primary, and now he was dumping thousands more into a one-man effort to ensure that a sympathetic figure would govern state policy for insurance over the next four years.

  He called Patterson to inquire about ways of routing another $100,000 to buy more advertising. Scruggs said he was willing to make the expenditure because he had been told that Anderson was “within the margin of error” in polls that showed him still trailing the Republican. “I need you to contact Howard Dean,” he said, referring to the chairman of the Democratic National Committee.

  Patterson said he did not know Dean and preferred to deal with Congressman Bennie Thompson, who represented the predominantly black Mississippi Delta and presumably had an interest in seeing Anderson, another African American, elected.

  But there was confusion. Thompson agreed that the DNC could handle Scruggs’s contribution, while Anderson maintained it was illegal to channel the money through the party apparatus. The candidate suggested that it be sent to a friend, who would then pass it on to the campaign. When Patterson mentioned this approach to Jere Nash, a Democratic operative working with Scruggs, Nash emphatically discouraged the idea. “I don’t think Dick wants to be within five hundred miles of any kind of fucking conduit going to Gary Anderson.”

  Nash was able to speak from his own experience. Ten years earlier, after serving as a consultant in a Teamsters election, he had pleaded guilty to a federal charge of illegal fund-raising and was put on two years’ probation. It had been an embarrassing experience for a man ordinarily identified with liberal causes.

  Patterson reported the problem to Scruggs, who said he was willing to send the money “as long as it’s kosher.” He said he would not pass it through Anderson’s friend. “I’m not going to do anything like that, that blows back on him or me.”

  Patterson was relieved until Scruggs told him he had already sent Anderson “two hundred grand last week as a loan to him along with a promissory note. He’s loaned that to his campaign.” The transfer of money was of questionable legality.

  Patterson called Nash again. “The plot thickens,” he said. “Guess where the loan came from?”

  “Oh, no,” Nash said, moaning. “That is not pretty.”

  “Jere, what kind of idiot is it that does that when he’s just been through this crap with Minor and all that crowd?”

  “And got his hands full in Alabama,” Nash added. “You’re right. And Minor’s going to jail.”

  The next day dawned with barely a hint of autumn chill, the sky clear of clouds and the early sun winking on the land.

  As he drove toward Calhoun City, Tim Balducci was able to forget some of his financial worries because he had an important task ahead: delivering the remaining $20,000 in cash due to Judge Lackey.

  Though some of his associates teased him for “trying to be Joey” in his choice of clothing, Balducci was hardly dressed for a court appearance. He wore a light button-down-collar shirt, jeans, and boots. Nor did he have the air of a supplicant before the bench when he sat down in Lackey’s office to talk with the judge. Making himself comfortable, Balducci twirled a cord attached to the telephone on Lackey’s desk while he discussed one of his clients, whom he described as “just a habitual fuck-up.”

  The young man, Balducci explained, was the nephew of a state official, and he faced a drunk driving manslaughter charge. His father had already paid Joey Langston a $30,000 fee in cash—“which Joey pockets”—to deal with the case.

  “He’s eaten up with money,” the judge observed.

  Balducci, who despised Langston, his former boss, agreed. “I’m not going to just screw people over like that,” he said.

  The drunk driving case was still pending, and Balducci was ready to take it.

  With confidence that he and the judge had formed a partnership to fix cases, Balducci boldly mentioned a new deal. If Judge Lackey could intervene by postponing the trial and quashing his client’s indictment, it could prove profitable.

  Balducci said he would be able to tell the father of the defendant, “I think I’ve got a good theory. I can get the legs cut out of this beforehand. Gimme twenty grand to do it.” Then he looked to the judge. “If he does, then I thought me and you could split it and we could get it taken care of.”

  “We can do that,” Lackey said, still playing the role of a corrupt judge willing to sell decisions to get over a personal hump.

  They also talked about the attorney general’s race, which would be decided the next week. Balducci said he believed Jim Hood would “pull it out.”

  “Maybe he’ll get that tit out of Joey’s mouth,” the judge said, referring to Langston’s agreement with Hood to represent the state in recovering back taxes from the bankrupt company MCI/WorldCom. In the current campaign, Hood was under fire from Republicans for the pact with Langston, who had earned $7 million in the case.

  As Balducci prepared to go, he left an envelope containing cash on Lackey’s desk. The two men shook hands, then shared a hearty embrace.

  When Balducci was gone, the judge thumbed through the bills for a moment, paused, then held his hands to his head. “Oh Lord,” he said, sighing, as if in recognition of the lives, including that of his younger friend, that would soon be devastated by the sequence of events nearing their climax. “Oh Lord.”

  While Lackey sat at his desk with his head bowed, the torso of an FBI agent became visible on the video, walking toward the hidden camera to shut it down. It was as if the curtain fell on the last act of the short life of Patterson, Balducci and Biden.

  Shortly after Balducci drove away from Lackey’s office, he was pulled over by Bill Delaney and another FBI agent, Gil Surles. The two men had a disk recording of his encounter with the judge minutes before, and they did not have to play much of it for Balducci to realize he was trapped. The agents gave him options. He could be taken to the Lafayette County Detention Center in Oxford, which doubled as a federal jail, or he could talk with the chief U.S. prosecutor, Tom Dawson. If he refused, he would be free to go, but he could not escape the consequences. He agreed to go see Dawson, and was driven to Oxford in a car with tinted glass.

  Along the way, they passed pastoral scenes in the Nort
h Mississippi landscape. Hills where cattle grazed. Fields where the remnants of the year’s cotton crop still clung to stalks like scattered popcorn. It was the first day of November, and though the oaks had lost much of their summer luster, the leaves had not yet fallen. Balducci was unable to appreciate the scenery. In a few minutes, his dreams of a rich life had been destroyed, and all he could now consider were ways in which he might salvage something out of his dilemma.

  To ensure that no one saw him, the FBI team drove Balducci into a parking garage in the basement of a building housing the U.S. Attorney’s Office, a couple of blocks from the Oxford square. Dawson, who had been notified by Delaney, sent for another prosecutor, Bob Norman, to join them.

  Balducci was led into an interrogation room upstairs. Dawson told Balducci that he was not under arrest, but needed to understand that “your life, as you know it, is over.” Oddly, Balducci did not ask for a lawyer to represent him. He said he would do it himself.

  Dawson informed him that he could plead guilty to one felony charge of conspiracy that carried a maximum sentence of five years. If Balducci cooperated, he would be able to see his twin sons graduate from high school.

  Balducci said he understood the situation and wanted to cooperate. Then he began to pour out some of the history of the last seven months. His cooperation would also involve a role as the newest undercover agent for the federal government. He attempted to make a telephone call to Scruggs’s office that would be recorded, but Murphy’s Law—the theory that had hampered the investigation all fall—intervened. The recording device did not work. So Balducci, who appeared remarkably composed, said he would deal with the contact personally. He knew his future depended on it.

  Less than four hours after he had been intercepted in Calhoun City, Balducci was back on the street in Oxford and off to meet his friends at the Scruggs Law Firm. This time Balducci wore, under his clothing, a device given to him by the FBI. Before he dealt with anyone, he cleared his throat and announced:

  “My name is Tim Balducci. Today’s date is November the first, 2007. The time is approximately one twenty p.m., Central time. I’m attempting to make a consensual recording of a conversation between myself and Sid Backstrom at the Scruggs Law Firm—and possibly with Richard Scruggs.”

  He was standing on the west side of the square when he spotted Dick and Zach Scruggs walking back to their office after lunch. Without betraying any trace of his traumatic morning, Balducci greeted them: “Hey, man. What’s happening?” He said he had come to see Backstrom, but needed to talk with Scruggs as well. As they climbed the stairs leading to the firm’s second-floor office. Scruggs seemed preoccupied. He said he had to deal with something “time critical”—the new transfusion to the Gary Anderson campaign—so Balducci wound up talking with Zach for a few minutes.

  “I just hate how bad our Kentucky thing turned out,” Zach said. “Joey came over on Sunday.”

  (A few days before, the Scruggs firm had pulled out of plans to work with the other Mississippi lawyers on the Kentucky coal miners’ mask litigation. The arrangement had collapsed after bickering broke out between the pair from New Albany and Langston, who was attempting to get in on the deal. To undermine his rivals, Langston had routed to Kentucky some uncomplimentary documents concerning Patterson and Balducci. Patterson and Balducci, in a snit, withdrew from the project, too, sending a colorful letter declaring they had no interest in “filthy lucre.”

  (The quarrel among the three men had become increasingly unpleasant to Scruggs. He had been visited the previous weekend by Langston, while Scruggs tried to relax beside his swimming pool. Langston warned Scruggs about his association with Patterson and Balducci. “Look,” he said, “I’m telling you this as a friend. You don’t need to be doing business with these guys.” Langston made the same argument with Scruggs’s son while he was in Oxford that day.)

  The dispute still burned four days later when Balducci, wearing the FBI wire, encountered Zach. “I know Joey’s been dumping on me a lot,” Balducci said. “That issue is squarely just a pissing match between Joey and us, and I feel like y’all have gotten caught in the crossfire. I hate it.”

  “Joey didn’t intend that consequence, either,” Zach said. Like his father, Zach was reluctant to choose a side in the feud. Langston, after all, had been like a solicitous older brother, introducing Zach to criminal defense strategy in the two trials they worked together.

  Balducci, whose mission was to record incriminating remarks by Backstrom, strolled toward his office in the rear of the suite.

  “When did you get here?” Backstrom asked. “I thought you were coming before lunch.”

  “Well, I got tied up,” Balducci said. “You know how it is.”

  During his painful session with the federal authorities, Balducci agreed to try to strengthen their case against Scruggs. He had no choice other than to betray some of his closest friends and associates to spare himself a harsh prison sentence. To develop more explicit evidence, he said he could go talk to Scruggs and Backstrom to ask for another $10,000 to fix the Jones case. If he could implicate Zach Scruggs, all the better.

  Balducci had a good relationship with the firm. He had been professionally associated with them when, working for Langston, he helped represent Scruggs in the bitter litigation with Luckey and Wilson. Backstrom, in particular, had become a close friend. Balducci seemed to be able to draw out a playful side of Backstrom’s personality. While Backstrom usually appeared serious and rarely seasoned his conversations with profanity, he grew robust in Balducci’s company. They greeted each other with salutations such as “dude” and “my man” and exchanged wisecracks. Mutual friends, curious about the unlikely fellowship that had developed between the two men, wondered if Backstrom seized upon Balducci as a source for high spirits, as a means to lift him out of the boredom of the straight and narrow. Whatever the reason, Backstrom represented Balducci’s strongest link to the Scruggs Law Firm.

  In the privacy of Backstrom’s office, Balducci told him he had “a couple of things I wanted to run through with you. First things first, let me tell you about the deal with Judge Lackey.”

  Concocting a false story, Balducci said that Grady Tollison, Jones’s lawyer, had “filed a bunch of shit” before Lackey could enter his order sending the case to arbitration. The new motions by Tollison, he explained, were forcing the judge to draft different language in his order.

  As they inspected the proposed order, Balducci hovered close to Backstrom to ensure that the recording device caught their conversation.

  Zach Scruggs, who had left to take a call, returned. It was an opportunity for Balducci to implicate him, too, so he said, “Zach, let me bring you up to speed,” and he repeated his tale of complications.

  Trying to understand, Zach asked, “So he’s drafted a new order …”

  Balducci completed Zach’s sentence: “… addressing that recent filing. He wanted me to approve it. The problem is I didn’t have the institutional knowledge of the case to know if it was okay or not. So I wanted y’all to look at it and tell me if it’s okay, and if not, make whatever edits need to be made.”

  Backstrom said he was confused by the wording of the document, purportedly sent by Lackey. Zach agreed. “I don’t know how to clean it up because I don’t know what he’s trying to say.”

  “I’m not sure, either,” Balducci volunteered. His claims of new Tollison motions set off a brief tirade against the Oxford lawyer, who was rapidly becoming as implacable an enemy to Scruggs’s interests as Charlie Merkel.

  Zach complained that Tollison had been using the Jones case as a device to obtain information from the Scruggs firm in connection with the State Farm action. Tollison was known to be close to the pair of lawyers in Jackson, Danny Cupit and Crymes Pittman, who were advising Attorney General Jim Hood on a separate track in the State Farm negotiations.

  Zach speculated that Tollison had obtained some of Backstrom’s emails regarding State Farm through the discovery proce
ss—in which rival sides can demand material that might otherwise be unavailable—in the Jones case. “They’re citing Sid’s email, just one little part of it—just chickenshit shit,” Zach said. “I mean, State Farm is using Johnny Jones’s action and all the shit they’re getting from it. They’re getting all these internal emails.” He said the latest filings in the Jones case might reflect “all kinds of crooked shit” invented by Tollison. “There’s no telling. He might have pulled all kinds of crazy-ass emails.”

  “I think he’s probably doing that because he knows that it’s causing us pain elsewhere,” Backstrom added.

  “What do we do about him releasing privileged stuff?” Zach asked. “Do we file a bar complaint that he’s filing a bunch of stuff that has nothing to do with his dispute against us to try to get it in the public domain?”

  Backstrom said Lackey’s order should be entered, followed by a request to seal the Jones case “because there’s a bunch of shit in here that is just inflammatory and not helpful to us in connection with the other litigation.”

  Balducci offered a suggestion. “Let’s get this order entered, and then if you want to go back to the well later and get an order sealing the file, we can do that later.”

  “What if Judge Lackey retires on the bench and some other asshole gets a hold of it?” Zach asked.

  “Well, if he compels it to arbitration, then they gotta wait until arbitration is over,” Backstrom said.

  Balducci offered a solution. “Do you wanna put in there that the action’s dismissed? Put that it’s compelled to arbitration, and the proceedings before this court are dismissed? He could dismiss it without prejudice instead of staying it.”

  That sounded reasonable to Zach. “I might be overlooking a drawback to doing that. I don’t know what it would be. I mean, Lackey’s fine. But you know, who the fuck else is gonna get this thing?”