Goliath.
On the political right, there is the establishment, the money, and big business and the myriad groups it finances. On the left, there are the minorities, labor unions, schoolteachers, and the trial lawyers. Only the trial lawyers have money, and it's pocket change compared with big business.
Though there were times when Wes wanted to choke them as a whole, he felt at home here. These were his colleagues, his fellow warriors, and he admired them. They could be arrogant, bullish, dogmatic, and they were often their own worst enemies. But no one fought as hard for the little guy.
As they lunched on cold chicken and even colder broccoli, the chairman of the legislative affairs committee delivered a rather bleak update on various bills that were still alive over at the capitol. The tort reformers were back and pushing hard to enact measures designed to curtail liability and close courthouse doors. He was followed by the chairman of political affairs, who was more upbeat. Judicial elections were in November, and though it was too early in the year to be sure, it appeared as though their 'good' judges at both the trial and the appellate levels would not draw serious opposition.
After frozen pie and coffee, Wes Payton was introduced and received a rousing welcome.
He began by apologizing for the absence of his co-counsel, the real brains behind the Bowmore litigation. She hated to miss the event but believed she was needed more at home with the kids. Wes then launched into a long recap of the Baker trial, the verdict, and the current state of other lawsuits against Krane Chemical.
Among such a crowd, a $41 million verdict was a much-revered trophy, and they couldhave listened for hours to the man who obtained it. Only a few had felt firsthand the thrill of such a victory, and all of them had swallowed the bitter pill of a bad verdict.
When he finished, there was another round of boisterous applause, then an impromptu question-and-answer session. Which experts had been effective? How much were the litigation expenses? (Wes politely refused to give the amount. Even in a room of big spenders, the sum was too painful to discuss.) What was the status of settlement talks, if any? How would the class action affect the defendant? What about the appeal?
Wes could have talked for hours and kept his audience.
Later that afternoon, during an early cocktail hour, he held court again, answering more questions, deflecting more gossip. A group that was circling a toxic dump in the northern part of the state descended on him and wheedled advice.
Would he take a look at their file? Recommend some experts? Come visit the site?
He finally escaped by going to the bar, and there he bumped into Barbara MeUinger, the savvy and battle- weary executive director of the MTA and its chief lobbyist.
'Got a minute?' she asked, and they retreated to a corner where no one could hear them.
'I've picked up a frightening rumor,' she said, sipping gin and watching the crowd.
MeUinger had spent twenty years in the halls of the capitol and could read the terrain like no other. And she was not prone to gossip. She heard more than anyone, but when she passed along a rumor, it was usually more than just that.
'They're coming after McCarthy,' she said.
'They?' Wes was standing next to her, also watching the crowd.
'The usual suspects-Commerce Council and that group of thugs.'
'They can't beat McCarthy.'
'Well, they can certainly try.'
'Does she know it?' Wes had lost interest in his diet soda.
'I don't think so. No one knows it.'
'Do they have a candidate?'
'If they do, I don't know who it is. But they have a knack for finding people to run.'
What, exactly, was Wes supposed to say or do? Campaign funding was the only defense, and he couldn't contribute a dime.
'Do these guys know?' he asked, nodding at the little pockets of conversation.
'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 assesdown 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.
