Authors: John Grisham
“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.
__________
P
aul 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.”
__________
T
wenty 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
lete 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 city 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.
__________
A
t 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.”
“Not anymore.”
Barbara got up and moved slowly around the office. She refilled the cups, then sat down and resumed her study of the newspapers.
“He’s not a tort reformer,” Skip said, though not without some doubt. “He doesn’t fit their mold. He’s got too much baggage for a hard campaign. There’s at least one DUI, at least two divorces.”
“I think I agree, but if he’s never been involved before, then why is he suddenly screaming about the death penalty? Where does this conviction come from? This passion? Plus, his show yesterday was well organized. He’s got people. Where do they come from?”
“Do we really care? Sheila McCarthy beats him two to one. We should be thrilled he is what he is—a buffoon who, we think, is not being financed by the Commerce Council and all the corporate boys. Why aren’t we happy?”
“Because we’re trial lawyers.”
Skip turned gloomy again.
“Should we arrange a meeting with Judge McCarthy?” Barbara asked after a long, heavy pause.
“In a couple of days. Let the dust settle.”
__________
J
udge McCarthy was up early, and why not? She certainly couldn’t sleep. At 7:30 she was seen leaving her condo. She was trailed to the Belhaven section of Jackson, an older neighborhood. She parked in the driveway of the Honorable Justice James Henry McElwayne.
Tony was hardly surprised by this little get-together.
Mrs. McElwayne greeted her warmly and invited her inside, through the den and kitchen and all the way back to his study. Jimmy, as he was known to his friends, was just finishing the morning papers.
McElwayne and McCarthy. Big Mac and Little Mac, as they were sometimes referred to. They spent a few minutes chatting about Mr. Coley and his astounding press coverage, then got down to business.
“Last night, I went through my campaign files,” McElwayne said as he handed over a folder an inch thick. “The first section is a list of contributors, beginning with the heavy hitters and going south. All the big checks were written by trial lawyers.”
The next section summarized his campaign’s expenses, numbers that Sheila found hard to believe. After that there were reports from consultants, sample ads, poll results, a dozen other campaign-related reports.
“This brings back bad memories,” he said.
“Sorry. This is not what I wanted, believe me.”
“You have my sympathy.”
“Who’s behind this guy?”
“I thought about it all night. He could be a decoy. He’s definitely a nut. Whatever he is, you can’t take him lightly. If he’s your only opponent, sooner or later the bad guys will find their way into his camp. They’ll bring their money. And this guy with a fat checkbook could really be frightening.”
McElwayne had once been a state senator, then an elected chancery court judge. He’d fought the political wars. Two years earlier, Sheila watched helplessly as he was savaged and abused in a bitter campaign. At its lowest point, when his opponent’s television ads (later known to be financed by the American Rifle Association) accused him of being in favor of gun control (there is no greater sin in Mississippi), she had told herself that she would never, under any circumstances, allow herself to be so degraded. It wasn’t worth it. She would scamper back to Biloxi, open a little boutique firm, and see her grandchildren every other day. Someone else could have the job.
Now she wasn’t so sure. She was angered by Coley’s attacks. Her blood was not yet boiling, but it wouldn’t take much more. At fifty-one, she was too young to quit and too old to start over.
They talked politics for over an hour. McElwayne spun yarns of old elections and colorful politicians, and Sheila gently nudged him back to the battles she now faced. His campaign had been expertly run by a young lawyer who took a leave of absence from a large Jackson firm. McElwayne promised to call him later in the day
and check his pulse. He promised to call the big donors and the local operatives. He knew the editors of the newspapers. He would do whatever he could to protect her seat on the bench.
Sheila left at 9:14, drove nonstop to the Gartin building, and parked.
__________
T
he Coley announcement was noted at Payton & Payton, but little was said. On April 18, the day after, three important events occurred, and the firm had no interest in other news. The first event was well received. The others were not.