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.
Chapter 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