John Grisham - The Appeal

Though the evidence was hotly disputed, it appeared, from the record, that the bulk of the testimony proved that the state's record on safety lagged behind others'.

In the second case, the City of Tupelo, in response to a schoolyard shooting that killed none but injured four, passed an ordinance banning the possession of a firearm within a hundred yards of any public school. Gun advocates sued, and the American Rifle Association wedged itself into the picture by filing a portentous and overblown friend-of-the-court brief. The court struck down the ordinance on Second Amendment grounds, but Sheila dissented. In doing so, she couldn't resist the temptation to take a swipe at the ARA.

Now the swipe was back. She watched Fisk's latest ad in her office, alone and with the sinking feeling that her chances were fading. On the stump, she had the time to explain her votes and point out the unfairness of taking her words out of context.

But on television, she had thirty seconds. It was impossible, and the clever handlers of Ron Fisk knew it.

After a month at Pirate's Cove, Clete Coley had overstayed his welcome. The owner was fed up with giving away a penthouse suite, and he was fed up with feeding Coley's astounding appetite. The candidate was getting three meals a day, many of them sent to his room.

At the blackjack tables, he drank rum like it was water and got hammered every night. He badgered the dealers, insulted the other players, and groped the cocktail waitresses. The casino had pocketed about $20,000 from Coley, but his expenses were at least that much.

Marlin found him at the bar early one evening, having a drink and limbering up for another long night at the tables. After small talk, Marlin cut to the chase. "We'd like for you to drop out of the race," he said. "And while you're leaving, endorse Ron Fisk."

Clete's eyes narrowed. Deep wrinkles tightened around his forehead. "Say what?"

"You heard me."

"I'm not so sure I did."

"We're asking you to withdraw and endorse Fisk. It's simple."

Coley gulped the rum without taking his eyes off Marlin. "Keep talking," he said.

"There's not much to say. You're a long shot, to put it mildly. You've done a good job of stirring things up, attacking McCarthy, but it's time to bail out and help elect Fisk."

"What if I don't like Fisk?"

"I'm sure he doesn't like you. It's immaterial. The party's over. You've had your jollies, gotten some headlines, met lots of interesting folks along the way, but you've made your last speech."

"The ballots have been printed. My name is on them."

"That means that a handful of your fans won't hear the news. Big deal."

Another long pull on the rum, and Coley said, "Okay, a hundred thousand to get in, how much to get out?"

"Fifty."

He shook his head and glanced at the blackjack tables in the distance. "That's not enough."

"I'm not here to negotiate. It's fifty thousand cash. Same suitcase as before, just not as heavy."

"Sorry. My figure is a hundred."

"I'll be here tomorrow, same time, same place." And with that, Marlin disappeared.

At nine the next morning, two FBI agents banged on the door to the penthouse suite.

Eventually, Clete staggered to the door and demanded, "Who the hell is it?"

"FBI. Open up."

Clete cracked the door and peered over the chain. Twins. Dark suits. Same barber.

"What do you want?"

"We'd like to ask you some questions, and we prefer not to do it from this side of the door."

Clete opened it and waved them in. He was wearing a T-shirt and a pair of NBA-style shorts that fell to his knees and sagged halfway down his ass. As he watched them sit at the small dining table, he racked his muddled brain for some recollection of which law he'd broken. Nothing recent sprang to mind, but then nothing would at this miserable time of the day. He maneuvered his cumbersome stomach-how much weight had he gained in the last month?-into a chair and glanced at their badges.

"Does the name Mick Runyun ring a bell?" one asked.

It did, but he wasn't ready to admit anything. "Maybe."

"Meth dealer. You represented him three years ago in federal court. Pled to ten years, cooperated with the government, real nice boy."

"Oh, that Mick Runyun."

"Yes, that one. Did he pay you a fee?"

"My records are at the office in Natchez."

"Great. We have a warrant for them. Can we meet there tomorrow?"

"Love to."

"Anyway, we're betting that your records don't tell us too much about the fees paid by Mr. Runyun. We have a real good source telling us that he paid you in cash, twenty thousand bucks, and that this was never reported."

"Do tell."

"And if this is true, then it's a violation of RICO and a few other federal statutes."

"Good ole RICO. You boys wouldn't be in business without it."

"What time tomorrow?"

"I was planning on campaigning tomorrow. The election is in two weeks."

They looked at this bleary-eyed, wild-haired, hungover beast and found it comical that he was a candidate for the supreme court.

"We'll be at your office in Natchez at noon tomorrow. If you don't show| then we'll have a warrant for your arrest. That should impress the voters."

They marched out of the room and slammed the door behind them.

Late that afternoon, Marlin appeared, as promised. He ordered coffee, which he didn't touch. Clete ordered rum and soda and smelled as though it was not the first one of the day.

"Can we agree on fifty, Clete?" Marlin asked after a long spell of gazing at the cocktail waitresses scurrying about.

"I'm still thinking."

"Were those two Fibbies nice to you this morning?"

Clete absorbed this without a flinch, without the slightest twitch to indicate his surprise. In fact, he wasn't surprised at all. "Nice boys," he said. "The way I figure it, Senator Rudd is meddling again. He wants Fisk to win because they're from the same tribe. Of course we know that Rudd is the uncle of the U.S. attorney down here, a real imbecile who got the job only because of his connections. Damned sure couldn't find a job anywhere else. Rudd leans on his nephew, who brings in the FBI to twist my arm. I drop out while singing the praises of Ron Fisk, and he squeaks out a great victory. He's happy. Rudd's happy. Big business is happy. Ain't life grand?"

"You're very close," Marlin said. "And you also took a $20,000 cash fee from a drug dealer and didn't report it. Pretty stupid, but not the end of the world. Nothing that can't be fixed by The Senator. You play along now, take your cash, bow out gracefully, and you'll never hear from the Fibbies again. Case closed."

Clete's red eyes settled on Marlin's blue ones. "You swear?"

"I swear. We shake hands now, you can forget the meeting at noon tomorrow in Natchez."

"Where's the money?"

"Outside, to the right. Same green Mustang." Marlin gently laid his keys on the bar.

Clete grabbed them and disappeared.

With only fifteen days left before the election, Barry Rinehart was invited to dinner at the Vietnamese hole-in-the-wall on Bleecker Street. Mr. Trudeau wanted an update.

On the flight from Boca, Barry gloated over his latest poll. Fisk was sixteen points ahead, a lead that could not be lost. The gay marriage issue had bumped him four points. The GUN attacks on McCarthy added three more. Clete Coley's rather lame farewell added another three. The campaign itself was running smoothly. Ron Fisk was a workhorse who did exactly what Tony Zachary told him to do. There was plenty of money. Their television ads were hitting all markets with perfect regularity. The responses from their direct mail were nothing short of astonishing. The campaign had raised $320,000 from small donors who were upset about gays and guns. McCarthy was running hard to catch up and falling further behind.