Three Classic Thrillers

by John Grisham

  “Not yet. We’re lying low right now, waiting. McCarthy, typically, has no money in the bank. The Supremes think they’re invincible, above politics and all that, and by the time an opponent pops up, they’ve been lulled to sleep.”

  “You got a plan?”

  “No. It’s wait and see for now. And pray that it’s only a rumor. Two years ago, in the McElwayne race, they waited until the last minute to announce, and by then they had a million plus in the bank.”

  “But we won that race.”

  “Indeed. But tell me you were not terrified.”

  “Beyond terrified.”

  An aging hippie with a ponytail lurched forward and boomed, “Y’all kicked their asses down there.” His opening gave every impression that he would consume at least the next half hour of Wes’s life. Barbara began her escape. “To be continued,” she whispered.

  __________

  Driving home, Wes savored the occasion for a few miles, then slipped into a dark funk over the McCarthy rumor. He kept nothing from Mary Grace, and after dinner that night they slipped out of the apartment and went for a long walk. Ramona and the children were watching an old movie.

  Like all good lawyers, they had always watched the supreme court carefully. They read and discussed every opinion, a habit they started when their partnership began and one they clung to with conviction. In the old days, membership on the court changed little. Openings were created by deaths, and the temporary appointments usually became permanent. Over the years, the governors had wisely chosen the fill-ins, and the court was respected. Noisy campaigns were unheard-of. The court took pride in keeping politics out of its agenda and rulings. But the genteel days were changing.

  “But we beat them with McElwayne,” she said more than once.

  “By three thousand votes.”

  “It’s a win.”

  Two years earlier, when Justice Jimmy McElwayne got himself ambushed, the Paytons had been too mired in the Bowmore litigation to contribute financially. Instead, they had devoted what little spare time they had to a local committee. They had even worked the polls on Election Day.

  “We’ve won the trial, Wes, and we’re not losing the appeal,” she said.

  “Agreed.”

  “It’s probably just a rumor.”

  __________

  The following Monday afternoon, Ron and Doreen Fisk sneaked away from Brookhaven and drove to Jackson for a late meeting with Tony Zachary. There were some people they needed to meet.

  It had been agreed that Tony would serve as the official director of the campaign. The first person he brought into the conference room was the proposed director of finance, a sharply dressed young man with a long history of statewide campaigns, in a dozen states no less. His name was Vancona, and he quickly, and confidently, laid out the basic structure of their financial plan. He used a laptop and a projector and everything was flashed against a white screen, in vivid color. On the income side, the coalition of supporters would contribute $2.5 million. Many of these were the folks Ron had met in Washington, and for good measure Vancona presented a long list of groups. The names were a blur, but the sheer number was impressive. They could expect another $500,000 from individual donors around the district, moneys that would be generated when Ron hit the stump and began to win friends and impress folks.

  “I know how to raise the money,” Vancona said more than once, but without being offensive. Three million dollars was the magic number, and it virtually guaranteed a win. Ron and Doreen were overwhelmed.

  Tony watched them carefully. They weren’t stupid. They were just as easily misled as anyone else would be under the circumstances. They asked a few questions, but only because they had to.

  On the expense side, Vancona had all the numbers. Television, radio, and newspaper ads, direct mail, travel, salaries (his would be $90,000 for the venture), office rental, all the way down to bumper stickers, yard signs, billboards, and rental cars. His grand total was $2.8 million, which left some wiggle room.

  Tony slid over two thick binders, each majestically labeled: “SUPREME COURT, SOUTHERN DISTRICT, RON FISK VERSUS SHEILA MCCARTHY. CONFIDENTIAL.”

  “It’s all in there,” he said.

  Ron flipped some pages, asked a few benign questions.

  Tony nodded gravely as if his boy had genuine insight.

  The next visitor—Vancona stayed in the room, a member of the team now—was a saucy sixty-year-old woman from D.C. whose specialty was advertising. She introduced herself as Kat something or other. Ron had to glance at his notebook to confirm—Broussard. Next to her name was her title: Director of Advertising.

  Where had Tony found all these people?

  Kat was filled with big-city hyperactivity. Her firm specialized in state races and had worked in over a hundred.

  What’s your winning percentage? Ron wanted to ask, but Kat left few openings for questions. She adored his face and voice and felt confident they would put together the “visuals” that would adequately convey his depth and sincerity. Wisely, she spent most of her time looking at Doreen as she talked, and the girls connected. Kat took a seat.

  Communications would be handled by a Jackson firm. Its boss was another fast-talking lady named Candace Grume, and, not surprisingly, she had vast experience in these matters. She explained that a successful campaign must coordinate in communications at all times. “Loose lips sink ships,” she chirped. “They also lose elections.” The current governor was a client, and she saved the best for last. Her firm had represented Senator Rudd for over a decade. Enough said.

  She yielded the floor to the pollster, a brainy statistician named Tedford who managed to claim, in less than five minutes, that he had correctly predicted the outcome of virtually every race in recent history. He was from Atlanta. If you’re from the big city of Atlanta and you find yourself in the outback, then it’s important to remind everyone there that you are indeed from Atlanta. After twenty minutes they were tired of Tedford.

  The field coordinator was not from Atlanta but from Jackson. His name was Hobbs, and Hobbs looked vaguely familiar, at least to Ron. He boasted that he had been running successful campaigns in the state—sometimes out front, sometimes in the background—for fifteen years. He threw out the names of his winners without a thought of mentioning his losers. He preached about the necessity of local organization, grassroots democracy, knocking on doors, turning out the vote, and so on. He had an oily voice, and at times his eyes glowed with the fervor of a street preacher. Ron disliked him immediately. Later, Doreen would admit she found him charming.

  Two hours after the parade began, Doreen was almost catatonic, and Ron’s notepad was bristling with the drivel he wrote in an effort to remain engaged.

  The team was now complete. Five well-paid professionals. Six including Tony, but his salary would be covered by Judicial Vision. Ron, poring through his notebook while Hobbs was ranting, found the column that projected “professional salaries” at $200,000 and “consultants” at $175,000. He made a note to quiz Tony about these amounts later. They seemed much too high, but then what did he know about the ins and outs of a high-powered campaign?

  They broke for coffee, and Tony herded the others out of the room. They left with warm farewells, excitement about the thrilling race ahead, and promises to meet again as soon as possible.

  When Tony was alone again with his clients, he suddenly looked tired. “Look, I know this is a lot. Forgive me, but everybody is busy and time is crucial. I thought one big meeting would work better than a bunch of smaller ones.”

  “No problem,” Ron managed to say. The coffee was working.

  “Remember, this is your campaign,” Tony continued, straight-faced.

  “Are you sure about that?” Doreen asked. “Doesn’t really feel like it.”

  “Oh yes, Doreen. I’ve assembled the best team available, but you can cut any one of them right now. Just say the word, and I’ll be on the phone finding a replacement. Someone you don’t like?”
>
  “No, it’s just that—”

  “It’s overwhelming,” Ron admitted. “That’s all.”

  “Of course it is. It’s a major campaign.”

  “Major campaigns don’t have to be overwhelming. I realize I’m a novice here, but I’m not naive. Two years ago in the McElwayne race, the challenger raised and spent about two million dollars and ran a great race. Now we’re tossing around numbers that are far more than that. Where is the money coming from?”

  Tony snapped on his reading glasses and reached for a binder. “Well, I thought we covered that,” he said. “Vancona went over the numbers.”

  “I can read, Tony,” Ron shot across the table. “I see the names and amounts. That’s not the question. I want to know why these people are willing to pony up three million bucks to support someone they’ve never heard of.”

  Tony slowly peeled off his reading glasses with an air of exasperation. “Ron, haven’t we covered this a dozen times? Last year, Judicial Vision spent almost four million to elect a guy in Illinois. We spent close to six million in Texas. These numbers are outrageous, but winning has become very expensive. Who’s writing the checks? The folks you met in Washington. The economic development movement. The conservative Christians. Doctors who are being abused by the system. These are people who are demanding change, and they are willing to pay for it.”

  Ron drank some more coffee and looked at Doreen. A long, silent moment passed.

  Tony re-shifted, cleared his throat, and said softly, “Look, if you want out, then just say the word. It’s not too late.”

  “I’m not quitting, Tony,” Ron said. “But this is too much for one day. All these professional consultants and—”

  “I’ll handle these people. That’s my job. Yours is to hit the stump and convince the voters you’re the man. The voters, Ron and Doreen, will never see these people. They will never see me, thank God. You are the candidate. It’s your face, your ideas, your youth and enthusiasm that will convince them. Not me. Not a bunch of staff members.”

  Fatigue overcame them and the conversation lagged. Ron and Doreen gathered up the bulky notebooks and said their goodbyes. The drive home was quiet, but not unpleasant. By the time they drove through an empty downtown Brookhaven, they were once again excited by the challenge.

  The Honorable Ronald M. Fisk, Justice, Mississippi Supreme Court.

  C H A P T E R 16

  Justice McCarthy eased into her office late Saturday morning and found it deserted. She flipped through her mail as she turned on her computer. Online, at her official e-mail address, there was the usual court business. At her personal address, there was a note from her daughter confirming dinner that night at her home in Biloxi. There were notes from two men, one she’d been dating and one who was still a possibility.

  She wore jeans, sneakers, and a brown tweed riding jacket her ex-husband gave her many years ago. There was no weekend dress code at the supreme court because only the clerks showed up.

  Her chief clerk, Paul, materialized without a sound and said, “Good morning.”

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “The usual. Reading briefs.”

  “Anything of interest?”

  “No.” He tossed a magazine on her desk and said, “This one is on the way. Could be fun.”

  “What is it?”

  “The big verdict from Cancer County. Forty-one million dollars. Bowmore.”

  “Oh yes,” she said, picking up the magazine. Every lawyer and judge in the state claimed to know someone who knew something about the Baker verdict. The coverage had been extensive, during the trial and especially afterward. It was often discussed by Paul and the other clerks. They were already watching it, anticipating the arrival in a few months of the appellate briefs.

  The article covered all aspects of the Bowmore waste site and the litigation it created. There were photos of the town, desolate and boarded up; photos of Mary Grace peering at the razor wire outside the Krane plant and sitting with Jeannette Baker under a shade tree, each holding a bottle of water; photos of twenty of the alleged victims—blacks, whites, kids, and old folks. The central character, though, was Mary Grace, and her importance grew as the paragraphs flew by. It was her case, her cause. Bowmore was her town and her friends were dying.

  Sheila finished the article and was suddenly bored with the office. The drive to Biloxi would take three hours. She left without seeing another person and headed south, in no particular hurry. She stopped for gas in Hattiesburg and, on a whim, turned east, suddenly curious about Cancer County.

  __________

  When she presided over trials, Judge McCarthy often sneaked to the scene of the dispute for a furtive firsthand look at the site. The murky details of a tanker collision on a busy bridge became much clearer after she spent an hour on the bridge, alone, at night, at the precise moment of the accident. In a murder case, the defendant’s claim of self-defense was discounted by her after she ventured into the alleyway where the body was found. A light from a warehouse window glared down, illuminating the spot. During the trial of a wrongful death at a railroad crossing, she drove the street night and day, twice stopping for trains, and became convinced the driver was at fault. She kept these opinions to herself, of course. The jury was the trier of fact, not the judge, but a strange curiosity often attracted her to the scene. She wanted to know the truth.

  Bowmore was as bleak as the article said. She parked behind a church two blocks from Main Street and took a walk. It was unlikely that she would see another red BMW convertible in the town, and the last thing she wanted was attention.

  Even for a Saturday, traffic and commerce were slow. Half the storefronts were boarded up, and only a few of the survivors were open. A pharmacy, a discount store, a few other retail merchants. She paused at the office of F. Clyde Hardin & Associates. He was mentioned in the article.

  As was Babe’s Coffee Shop, where Sheila took a stool at the counter in anticipation of learning something about the case. She would not be disappointed.

  It was almost 2:00 p.m. and no one else was at the counter. Two mechanics from the Chevrolet place were having a late lunch in a front booth. The diner was quiet, dusty, in need of paint and refinished floors, and apparently hadn’t changed much in decades. The walls were covered with football schedules dating back to 1961, class pictures, old newspaper articles, anything anybody wanted to display. A large sign announced: “We Use Only Bottled Water.”

  Babe appeared across the counter and began with a friendly “What would you like, dear?” She wore a starched white uniform, spotless burgundy apron with “Babe” embroidered in pink, white hose, and white shoes, and could have stepped from a 1950s movie. She had probably been around that long, though her teased hair was still aggressively colored. It almost matched her apron. She had the wrinkled eyes of a smoker, but the wrinkles were no match for the thick layer of foundation Babe caulked on every morning.

  “Just some water,” Sheila said. She was curious about the water.

  Babe performed most of her tasks while gazing forlornly at the street through the large windows. She grabbed a bottle and said, “You’re not from around here.”

  “Just passing through,” Sheila said. “I have some kinfolks over in Jones County.” And it was true. A distant aunt, one she thought might still be alive, had always lived next door in Jones County.

  In front of her, Babe placed a six-ounce bottle of water with the simple label “Bottled for Bowmore.” She explained that she, too, had kinfolks in Jones County. Before they went too far down the genealogical road, Sheila hastily changed subjects. In Mississippi, sooner or later, everyone is related.

  “What’s this?” she asked, holding the bottle.

  “Water,” Babe said with a puzzled look.

  Sheila held it closer, allowing Babe to take charge of the conversation. “All our water here in Bowmore is bottled. Trucked in from Hattiesburg. Can’t drink the stuff they pump here. It’s contaminated. Wher
e you from?”

  “The Coast.”

  “You ain’t heard about the Bowmore water?”

  “Sorry.” Sheila unscrewed the cap and took a swig. “Tastes like water,” she said.

  “You oughta taste the other stuff.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Good Lord, honey,” Babe said and glanced around to see if anyone else had heard this shocking question. There was no one else, so Babe popped the top on a diet soda and sidled up the counter. “You ever heard of Cancer County?”

  “No.”

  Another look of disbelief. “That’s us. This county has the highest rate of cancer in the country because the drinking water is polluted. There used to be a chemical plant here, Krane Chemical, buncha smart boys from New York. For many years—twenty, thirty, forty, depending on who you believe—they dumped all kinds of toxic crap—pardon my language—into some ravines behind the plant. Barrels and barrels, drums and drums, tons and tons of the crap went into the pit, and it eventually filtered into an underground aquifer that the city—run by some real dunces, mind you—built a pump over back in the late eighties. The drinking water went from clear to light gray to light yellow. Now it’s brown. It began smelling funny, then it began stinking. We fought with the city for years to clean it up, but they stonewalled us. Boy, did they ever. Anyway, the water became a huge fight, and then, honey, the bad stuff started. Folks started dying. Cancer hit like the plague around here. Folks were dying right and left. Still are. Inez Perdue succumbed in January. I think she was number sixty-five. Something like that. It all came out in the trial.” She paused to examine two pedestrians who were strolling along the sidewalk.

  Sheila carefully sipped the water. “There was a trial?” she asked.

  “You ain’t heard of the trial either?”

  Sheila gave an innocent shrug and said again, “I’m from the Coast.”

  “Oh, boy.” Babe switched elbows and leaned on the right one. “For years there was talk about lawsuits. I get all the lawyers in here for their little coffee chats and no one taught those boys how to whisper. I heard it all. Still hearing it. Big talk for a long time. They’re gonna sue Krane Chemical for this and for that, but nothing happened. I think that the suit was just too big, plus you’re taking on a big chemical company with lots of money and lots of slick lawyers. The talk died down, but the cancer didn’t. Kids were dying of leukemia. Folks with tumors in their kidneys, liver, bladder, stomach, and, honey, it’s been awful. Krane made a fortune off a pesticide called pillamar 5, which was outlawed twenty years ago. Outlawed here, but not down in Guatemala and places like that. So they kept making pillamar 5 here, shipping it off to the banana republics, where they sprayed it on their fruits and vegetables and then shipped ’em all back here for us to eat. That came out in the trial, too, and they tell me it really ticked off the jury. Something sure ticked ’em off.”