John Grisham - The Appeal

As 7:00 p.m. approached and the session was mercifully winding down, Sterling Bintz could not restrain himself. "I'm not sure how much longer I can sit here and watch this little exercise," he announced rudely as he approached the table at the far end, away from Judge Rosenthal. "I mean, I've been here for two days and I haven't been allowed to speak. Which, of course, means my clients have been ignored. Enough is enough. I represent a class action of over three hundred injured people, and you all seem determined to screw them."

Wes started a rebuke, but thought better of it. Let him ramble. They were about to adjourn anyway.

"My clients are not going to be ignored," he practically shouted, and everyone grew still. There was a hint of madness in his voice and certainly in his eyes, and perhaps it was best to let him rant a little. "My clients have suffered greatly, and are still suffering. And you people are not concerned with them. I can't hang around here forever. I'm due in San Francisco tomorrow afternoon for another settlement.

I got eight thousand cases against Schmeltzer for their laxative pills. So, since everyone here seems quite content to chat about everything but money, let me tell you where I am."

He had their attention. Jared Kurtin and the money boys perked up and stiffened a bit. Mary Grace watched every wrinkle in Kurtin's face. If this nut was about to throw a figure on the table, she wanted her adversary's reaction.

"I'm not settling my cases for less than a hundred thousand each," Bintz said with a sneer. "Maybe more, depending on each client."

Kurtin's face was frozen, but then it usually was. One of his associates shook his head, another one smiled a silly smile of amusement. The two Krane executives frowned and shifted as they dismissed this as absurd.

As the notion of $30 million floated around the room, Wes did the simple math. Bintz would probably take a third, throw a few crumbs at F. Clyde Hardin, then quickly move on to the next mass tort bonanza.

F. Clyde was cowering in a far corner, the same spot he'd occupied for many hours now. The paper cup in his hand was filled with orange juice, crushed ice, and four ounces of vodka. It was, after all, almost 7:00 p.m. on a Saturday. The math was so simple he could do it in his sleep. His cut was 5 percent of the total fees, or $500,000 under the rather reasonable scheme being so boldly suggested by his co-counsel.

Their arrangement also paid F. Clyde $500 per client, and with three hundred clients he should have already received $150,000. He had not. Bintz had passed along about a third of that, but seemed disinclined to discuss the rest. He was a very busy lawyer and hard to get on the phone. Surely, he would come through as promised.

F. Clyde gulped his drink as Bintz's declaration rattled around the room.

Bintz continued. "We're not taking peanuts and going home," he threatened. "At some point in these negotiations, and the sooner the better, I want my clients' cases on the table."

"Tomorrow morning at nine," Judge Rosenthal suddenly barked. "As for now, we are adjourned."

"A Pathetic Campaign" was the tide of the lead editorial in Sunday's Clarion-Ledger out of Jackson. Using a page out of Nat Lester's report, the editors damned the Ron Fisk campaign for its sleazy advertising. They accused Fisk of taking millions from big business and using it to mislead the public. His ads were filled with half-truths and statements taken wholly out of context. Fear was his weapon-fear of homosexuals, fear of gun control, fear of sexual predators. He was condemned for labeling Sheila McCarthy a "liberal" when in fact her body of work, which the editrtrs had studied, could only be considered quite moderate. They blasted Fisk for promising to vote this way or that on cases he had yet to review as a member of the court.

The editorial also decried the entire process. So much money was being raised and spent, by both candidates, that fair and unbiased decision making was in jeopardy.

How could Sheila McCarthy, who had so far received over $1.5 million from trial lawyers, be expected to ignore this money when those same lawyers appeared before the supreme court?

It finished with a call to abolish judicial elections and have the judges appointed based on merit by a nonpartisan panel.

The Sun Herald from Biloxi was even nastier. It accused the Fisk campaign of outright deceit and used the Darrel Sackett mailing as its prime example. Sackett was dead, not loose and on the prowl. He'd been dead for four years, something Nat Lester had learned with a couple of quick phone calls.

The Hattiesburg American challenged the Fisk campaign to retract its negative and misleading ads and to disclose, before Election Day, its contributions from big donors outside the state. It urged both candidates to clean up the race and honor the dignity of the supreme court.

On page 3 of section A of the New York Times, Gilbert's expose ran with photos of Meyerchec and Spano, as well as Fisk and McCarthy.

It covered the race in general, then focused on the gay marriage issue created and injected into the race by the two men from Illinois. Gilbert did a thorough job of accumulating evidence that the two men were longtime residents of Chicago and had virtually no ties to

Mississippi. He did not speculate that they were being used by conservative political operatives to sabotage McCarthy. He didn't have to. The punch line was delivered in the final paragraph. Nat Lester was quoted as saying:

"These guys are a couple of stooges being used by Ron Fisk and his backers to create an issue that does not exist. Their goal is to fire up the right-wing Christians and march them down to the polls."

Ron and Doreen Fisk were at the kitchen table, ignoring their early coffee, rereading the Jackson editorial, and fuming. The campaign had gone so smoothly. They were ahead in all the polls. Nine days to go and they could see the victory Why, then, was Ron suddenly being described as "deceitful" and "dishonest" by the state's largest newspaper?

It was a painful, humiliating slap, one that they had no idea was coming. And it was certainly not deserved. They were honest, upstanding, clean-cut Christian people.

Why this?

The phone rang and Ron grabbed it. Tony's tired voice said, "Have you seen the Jackson paper?"

"Yes, we're looking at it now."

"Have you seen the one from Hattiesburg and the Sun Herald?"

"No. Why?"

"Do you read the New York Times?"

"No."

"Check them out online. Call me in an hour."

"Is it bad?"

"Yes."

They read and fumed for another hour, then decided to skip church. Ron felt betrayed and embarrassed and was in no mood to leave the house. According to the latest numbers from his pollster in Atlanta, he had a comfortable lead. Now, though, he felt defeat was certain.

No candidate could survive such a thrashing. He blamed the liberal press.

He blamed Tony Zachary and those who controlled the campaign. And he blamed himself for being so naive. Why did he place so much trust in people he barely knew?

Doreen assured him it was not his fault. He had thrown himself so completely into the campaigning that he'd had little time to watch everything else. Any campaign is chaotic. No one can monitor the actions of all the workers and volunteers.

Ron unloaded on Tony during a lengthy and tense phone conversation. "You've embarrassed me," Ron said. "You've humiliated me and my family to the point that I really don't want to leave the house. I'm thinking about quitting."

"You can't quit, Ron, you have too much invested," Tony replied, trying to control his panic and reassure his boy.

"That's the problem, Tony. I've allowed you guys to generate too much cash, and you cannot handle it. Stop all television ads right now."