Three Classic Thrillers

by John Grisham

  “The deal is going down now, but, yes, you’ll never see that money again. I suspect that the Lucky Jack will get its share, but, regardless, he’s in.”

  “Excellent.”

  “This guy is going to be a scream, you know? The cameras will love him.”

  “Let’s hope so. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Marlin found a spot at a $5 table and managed to lose a hundred bucks in half an hour.

  Clete was back, grinning, the happiest man in Natchez. Marlin was certain that his trunk was now empty.

  They returned to the bar and drank until midnight.

  __________

  Two weeks later, Ron Fisk was leaving baseball practice when his cell phone rang. He was the head coach of his son Josh’s Little League team, the Raiders, and the first game was a week away. Josh was in the backseat with two of his teammates, sweaty and dirty and very happy.

  At first, Ron ignored the phone, then glanced at the caller ID. It was Tony Zachary. They talked at least twice a day. “Hello, Tony,” he said.

  “Ron, you got a minute?” Tony always asked this, as if he were willing to call back later. Ron had learned that Tony was never willing to call back later. Every call was urgent.

  “Sure.”

  “A bit of a wrinkle, I’m afraid. Looks like the race might be more crowded than we thought. Are you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just got it from a good source that some crackpot named Clete Coley, from Natchez, I believe, will announce tomorrow that he is running against Judge McCarthy.”

  Ron took a deep breath, then pulled onto the street next to the city’s baseball complex. “Okay, I’m listening.”

  “Ever heard of him?”

  “No.” Ron knew several lawyers in Natchez, but not this one.

  “Me neither. We’re doing a background check now. The preliminary stuff is not too impressive. Sole practitioner, not much of a reputation, at least as a lawyer. Got his license suspended eight years ago for six months, something to do with neglecting clients. Two divorces. No bankruptcies. One DUI but no other criminal record. That’s about all we know, but we’re digging.”

  “Where does this fit?”

  “Don’t know. Let’s wait and see. I’ll call when I hear more.”

  Ron dropped off Josh’s friends, then rushed home to tell Doreen. They fretted over dinner, then stayed up late tossing around scenarios.

  __________

  At ten the following morning, Clete Coley wheeled to a stop at the edge of High Street, directly in front of the Carroll Gartin Justice Building. Two rented vans were behind him. All three vehicles were parked illegally, but then their drivers were looking for trouble. A half-dozen volunteers quickly spilled out of the vans and began carrying large posters up a few steps to the sweeping concrete terrace that surrounded the building. Another volunteer hauled up a makeshift podium.

  A capitol policeman noticed this activity and strolled over to inquire.

  “I’m announcing my candidacy for the supreme court,” Clete explained at full volume. He was flanked by two beefy young men in dark suits, one white, one black, both almost as large as Clete himself.

  “You got a permit?” the officer asked.

  “Yep. Got it from the attorney general’s office.”

  The cop disappeared, in no particular hurry. The display was put together rapidly, and when it was complete, it stood twenty feet high, thirty feet long, and was nothing but faces. High school graduation portraits, candid snapshots, family photos, all enlarged and in color. The faces of the dead.

  As the volunteers scurried about, the reporters began arriving. Cameras were mounted on tripods. Microphones were mounted on the podium. Photographers began snapping away, and Clete was ecstatic. More volunteers arrived, some with homemade posters with proclamations such as “Vote the Liberals Out,” “Support the Death Penalty,” and “Victims Have Voices.”

  The cop was back. “I can’t seem to find anyone who knows anything about your permit,” he said to Clete.

  “Well, you found me, and I’m telling you that I have permission.”

  “From who?”

  “One of those assistant attorney generals in there.”

  “You got a name?”

  “Oswalt.”

  The cop left to go find Mr. Oswalt.

  The commotion attracted the attention of those inside the building, and work came to a halt. Rumors flew, and when word reached the fourth floor that someone was about to announce a campaign for a seat on the court, three of its justices dropped everything and hustled to a window. The other six, those whose terms expired in later years, likewise ventured over out of curiosity.

  Sheila McCarthy’s office faced High Street, and it was soon filled with her clerks and staff, all suddenly alarmed. She whispered to Paul, “Why don’t you go down there and see what’s up?”

  Others, from the court and from the attorney general’s office, eased down, too, and Clete was thrilled with the mob that was quickly gathering in front of his podium. The cop returned with reinforcements, and just as Clete was about to give his speech, he was confronted by the officers. “Sir, we’re gonna have to ask you to leave.”

  “Hang on, boys, I’ll be through in ten minutes.”

  “No, sir. This is an illegal gathering. Disband it now, or else.”

  Clete stepped forward, chest to chest with the much smaller officer, and said, “Don’t show your ass, okay? You got four television cameras watching everything. Just be cool, and I’ll be outta here before you know it.”

  “Sorry.”

  With that, Clete strode to the podium, and a wall of volunteers closed ranks behind him. He smiled at the cameras and said, “Good morning, and thanks for coming. My name is Clete Coley. I’m a lawyer from Natchez, and I’m announcing my candidacy for the supreme court. My opponent is Judge Sheila McCarthy, without a doubt the most liberal member of this criminal-coddling, do-nothing supreme court.” The volunteers roared with approval. The reporters smiled at their good fortune. A few almost laughed.

  Paul swallowed hard at this unbelievable volley. The man was loud, fearless, and colorful and was loving every second of the attention.

  And he was just warming up. “Behind me you see the faces of one hundred and eighty-three people. Black, white, grandmothers, babies, educated, illiterate, from all over the state and from all walks of life. All innocent, all dead, all murdered. Their killers are, as we speak, preparing for lunch up at Parchman, on death row. All duly convicted by juries in this state, all properly sent to death row to be executed.” He paused and grandly waved at the faces of the innocents.

  “In Mississippi, we have sixty-eight men and two women on death row. They’re safe there, because this state refuses to execute them. Other states do not. Other states are serious about following their laws. Since 1978, Texas has executed 334 killers. Virginia, 81; Oklahoma, 76; Florida, 55; North Carolina, 41; Georgia, 37; Alabama, 32; and Arkansas, 24. Even northern states like Missouri, Ohio, and Indiana. Hell, Delaware has executed 14 killers. Where is Mississippi? Currently in nineteenth place. We have executed only 8 killers, and that, my friends, is why I’m running for the supreme court.”

  The capitol police now numbered almost a dozen, but they seemed content to watch and listen. Riot control was not a specialty, and besides, the man was sounding pretty good.

  “Why don’t we execute?” Clete yelled at the crowd. “I’ll tell you why. It’s because our supreme court pampers these thugs and allows their appeals to drag on forever. Bobby Ray Root killed two people in cold blood during the robbery of a liquor store. Twenty-seven years ago. He’s still on death row, getting three meals a day, seeing his mother once a month, with no execution date in sight. Willis Briley murdered his four-year-old stepdaughter.” He stopped and pointed to the photo of a little black girl at the top of the display. “That’s her, cute little thing in the pink dress. She’d be thirty years old now. Her murderer, a man she trusted, has been on death ro
w for twenty-four years. I could go on and on, but the point is well made. It’s time to shake up this court and show all of those who have committed murder or who might do so that, in this state, we’re serious about enforcing our laws.”

  He paused for another boisterous round of applause, one that obviously inspired him.

  “Justice Sheila McCarthy has voted to reverse more murder convictions than any other member of the court. Her opinions are filled with legalistic nit-pickings that warm the soul of every criminal defense lawyer in the state. The ACLU loves her. Her opinions drip with sympathy for these murderers. They give hope to the thugs on death row. It is time, ladies and gentlemen, to take away her robe, her pen, her vote, her power to trample the rights of the victims.”

  Paul considered scribbling down some of this, but he was too petrified to move. He wasn’t sure his boss voted so often in favor of capital defendants, but he was certain that virtually all of their convictions were affirmed. Regardless of shoddy police work, racism, malice by prosecutors, stacked juries, and boneheaded rulings by presiding judges, regardless of how horribly defective the trial was, the supreme court rarely reversed a conviction. Paul found it sickening. The split was usually 6–3, with Sheila leading a vocal but overmatched minority. Two of the justices had never voted to reverse a capital conviction. One had never voted to reverse a criminal conviction.

  Paul knew that privately his boss was opposed to capital punishment, but she was also committed to upholding the laws of the state. A great deal of her time was spent on death cases, and he had never once seen her substitute her personal beliefs for a strict following of the law. If the trial record was clean, she did not hesitate to join the majority and affirm a conviction.

  Clete did not yield to the temptation of speaking too long. He’d made his points. His announcement was a fabulous success. He lowered his voice, grew more sincere, and finished by saying: “I urge all Mississippians who care about law and order, all who are sick of random, senseless crimes, to join with me in turning this court upside down. Thank you.” More applause.

  Two of the larger officers moved in close to the podium. The reporters began to throw questions. “Have you ever served as a judge? How much financial support do you have? Who are these volunteers? Do you have specific proposals to shorten the appeals?”

  Clete was about to begin with his answers when an officer grabbed his arm and said, “That’s it, sir. Party’s over.”

  “Go to hell,” Clete said as he yanked his arm away. The rest of the police contingent scurried forward, jostling through the volunteers, many of whom began yelling at them.

  “Let’s go, buddy,” the officer said.

  “Get lost.” Then to the cameras he boomed, “Look at this. Soft on crime but to hell with the freedom of speech.”

  “You’re under arrest.”

  “Arrest! You’re arresting me because I’m making a speech.” As he said this, he gently, and voluntarily, placed both hands behind his back.

  “You don’t have a permit, sir,” one officer said as two more slapped on the handcuffs.

  “Look at these supreme court guards, sent down from the fourth floor by the very people I’m running against.”

  “Let’s go, sir.”

  As he moved from the podium, Clete kept yelling, “I won’t be in jail long, and when I get out, I’ll hit the streets telling the truth about these liberal bastards. You can count on that.”

  Sheila watched the spectacle from the safety of her window. Another clerk, standing near the reporters, relayed the news via cell phone.

  That nut down there had chosen her.

  __________

  Paul lingered until the display was removed and the crowd drifted away, then he raced up the steps to Sheila’s office. She was at her desk, with the other clerk and Justice McElwayne. The air was heavy, the mood somber. They looked at Paul as if he might by chance have some good news.

  “This guy’s crazy,” he said. They nodded their agreement.

  “He doesn’t appear to be a pawn for big business,” McElwayne said.

  “I’ve never heard of him,” Sheila said softly. She appeared to be in shock. “I guess an easy year just became very complicated.”

  The idea of starting a campaign from scratch was overwhelming.

  “How much did your race cost?” Paul asked. He had just joined the court two years earlier, when Justice McElwayne was under assault.

  “One point four million.”

  Sheila grunted and laughed. “I have $6,000 in my campaign account. It’s been there for years.”

  “But I had a legitimate opponent,” McElwayne added. “This guy is a nut.”

  “Nuts get elected.”

  __________

  Twenty minutes later, Tony Zachary watched the show in his locked office, four blocks away. Marlin had captured it all on video, and was more than pleased to see it again.

  “We’ve created a monster,” Tony said, laughing.

  “He’s good.”

  “Maybe too good.”

  “Anybody else you want in the race?”

  “No, I think the ballot is complete at this point. Nice work.”

  Marlin left, and Tony punched the number for Ron Fisk. Not surprisingly, the busy lawyer answered after the first ring. “I’m afraid it’s true,” Tony said gravely, then recounted the announcement and the arrest.

  “The guy must be crazy,” Ron said.

  “Definitely. My first impression is that this is not all bad. In fact, it could help us. This clown will generate a lot of coverage, and he seems perfectly willing to take a hatchet to McCarthy.”

  “Why do I have a knot in my stomach?”

  “Politics is a rough game, Ron, something you’re about to learn. I’m not worried, not right now. We stick to our game plan, nothing changes.”

  “It seems to me that a crowded field only helps the incumbent,” Ron observed. And he was right, as a general rule.

  “Not necessarily. There’s no reason to panic. Besides, we can’t do anything about others who jump in. Stay focused. Let’s sleep on it and talk tomorrow.”

  C H A P T E R 18

  Clete Coley’s colorful launch landed with perfect timing. There was not another interesting story throughout the entire state. The press seized Coley’s announcement and beat it like a drum. And who could blame them? How often does the public get to see vivid footage of a lawyer getting handcuffed and dragged away while yelling about those “liberal bastards.” And such a loud, large lawyer at that? His haunting display of dead faces was irresistible. His volunteers, especially the relatives of the victims, were more than happy to chat with the reporters and tell their stories. His gall in holding the rally directly under the noses of the supreme court was humorous, even admirable.

  He was rushed downtown to central headquarters, and there he was booked, fingerprinted, and photographed. He assumed, correctly, that his mug shot would find its way to the press in short order, and so he had a few moments to think about its message. An angry scowl might confirm the suspicion that this guy was a bit off his rocker. A goofy smile might lead to questions about his sincerity—who smiles when he’s just arrived at the jail? He settled on a simple blank face, with just a trace of a curious glare, as if to say, “Why are they picking on me?”

  Procedures called for every inmate to strip, shower, and change into an orange jumpsuit, and this usually happened before the mug shot. But Clete would have none of it. The charge was simple trespass, with a maximum fine of $250. Bail was twice that, and Clete, his pockets bulging with $100 bills, flashed enough money around to let the authorities know he was on his way out of jail, not the other way around. So they skipped the shower and the jumpsuit, and Clete was photographed in his nicest brown suit, starched white shirt, paisley silk tie in a perfect knot. His long, graying hair was in place.

  The process took less than an hour, and when he emerged a free man, he was thrilled to see that most of the reporters had followed him. On a ci
ty sidewalk, he answered their questions until they finally grew weary.

  On the evening news, he was the lead story, with all the drama of the day. On the late night news, he was back. He watched it all on a wide-screen TV in a bikers’ bar in south Jackson, where he was holed up for the night, buying drinks for everyone who could get in the door. His tab was over $1,400. A campaign expense.

  The bikers loved him and promised to turn out in droves to get him elected. Of course, not a single one was a registered voter. When the bar closed, Clete was driven away in a bright red Cadillac Escalade, just leased by the campaign at a thousand dollars a month. Behind the wheel was one of his new bodyguards, the white one, a young man only slightly more sober than his boss. They made it to the motel without further arrest.

  __________

  At the offices of the Mississippi Trial Advocates on State Street, Barbara Mellinger, executive director and chief lobbyist, met for an early round of coffee with her assistant, Skip Sanchez. For the first cup, they mulled over the morning newspapers. They had copies of four of the dailies from the southern district—Biloxi, Hattiesburg, Laurel, and Natchez—and Mr. Coley’s face was on the front page of all four. The Jackson paper reported little else. The Times-Picayune out of New Orleans had a readership along the Coast, and it ran an AP story, with photo (handcuffs) on page 4.

  “Perhaps we should advise all our candidates to get themselves arrested when they do their announcements,” Barbara said drily and with no attempt at humor. She hadn’t smiled in twenty-four hours. She drained her first cup and went for more.

  “Who the hell is Clete Coley?” Sanchez asked, staring at the various photos of the man. Jackson and Biloxi had the mug shot—the look of a man who would throw a punch and ask questions after it landed.

  “I called Walter last night, down in Natchez,” she was saying. “He says Coley has been around for years, always on the edge of something shady but smart enough not to get caught. He thinks that at one time he did oil and gas work. There was a bad deal with some small business loans. Now he fancies himself a gambler. Never been seen within six blocks of the courthouse. He’s unknown.”