"Here's what I can tell you," Mariin said, with a rare eyeball-to-eyeball glance at Clete. "Fifteen years ago, in a county far away from here, a young man and his young family returned home from church one night. They didn't know it, but two black punks were in the house, a very nice house, and they were burglarizing the hell out of it. The punks were hopped up on crack, pistols in every pocket, nasty characters.

When the young family came home and surprised them, things got out of control. The girls got raped. Everybody got a bullet in the head, then the punks set the house on fire. Cops caught them the next day. Full confessions, DNA, the works. They'vebeen on death row at Parchman ever since. Turns out the young man's family has serious money. His father had a nervous breakdown, went insane, poor guy. But he's back and he's pissed. He's furious that the punks are still alive. He's livid that his beloved state never executes anybody. He hates the judicial system, and he especially hates the nine honorable members of the supreme court. He, Clete, is where the money is coming from."

It was all a lie, but lying was a part of the job.

"I like that story," Clete said, nodding.

"The money is peanuts to him. It's yours if you jump in the race and talk about nothing but the death penalty. Hell, it's a natural. The people here love the death penalty. We got polls that show almost 70 percent believe in it and more than that are upset because we don't use it enough in Mississippi.

You can blame it on the supreme court. It's a perfect issue."

Clete was still nodding. For a week he'd thought of little else. It was indeed the perfect issue, and the court was the perfect target. A race would be a hell of a lot of fun.

"You mentioned a couple of groups," he said, slugging his double rum.

"There are several, but two in particular. One is Victims Watching, a tough bunch who've lost loved ones and been chewed up by the system. They don't have a lot of members, but they are committed. Between me and you, Mr. X is also secretly funding this group. The other is the Law Enforcement Coalition, a very legitimate law-and-order group with some clout. Both of these will jump on board."

Clete was nodding, grinning, watching a cocktail waitress glide by with a tray loaded with drinks. "Such balance," he said, just loud enough to be heard.

"I really have nothing else to add," Marlin said without pushing.

"Where's the money?"

Marlin took a deep breath and couldn't conceal a smile. "In the trunk of my car.

Half of it, fifty grand. Take that now, and the day you officially announce, you get the other fifty."

"Fair enough."

They shook hands, then both grabbed their drinks. Marlin pulled keys out of a pocket.

"My car is a green Mustang with a black top, on your left when you leave. Take the keys, take the car, take the money, I don't want to see it. I'll sit here and play blackjack until you return."

Clete grabbed the keys, struggled to his feet, then strutted across the casino floor and out the door.

Marlin waited for fifteen minutes, then called the cell phone of Tony Zachary "Looks like we've hooked us one," he said.

"He took the money?" Tony asked.

"The deal is going down now, but, yes, you'll never see that money again. I suspect that the Lucky Jack will get its share, but, regardless, he's in."

"Excellent."

"This guy is going to be a scream, you know? The cameras will love him."

"Let's hope so. I'll see you tomorrow."

Marlin found a spot at a $5 table and managed to lose a hundred bucks in half an hour.

Clete was back, grinning, the happiest man in Natchez. Marlin was certain that his trunk was now empty.

They returned to the bar and drank until midnight.

Two weeks later, Ron Fisk was leaving baseball practice when his cell phone rang.

He was the head coach of his son Josh's Little League team, the Raiders, and the first game was a week away. Josh was in the backseat with two of his teammates, sweaty and dirty and very happy.

At first, Ron ignored the phone, then glanced at the caller ID. It was Tony Zachary.

They talked at least twice a day. "Hello, Tony," he said.

"Ron, you got a minute?" Tony always asked this, as if he were willing to call back later. Ron had learned that Tony was never willing to call back later. Every call was urgent.

"Sure."

"A bit of a wrinkle, I'm afraid. Looks like the race might be more crowded than we thought. Are you there?"

"Yes."

"Just got it from a good source that some crackpot named Clete Coley, from Natchez, I believe, will announce tomorrow that he is running against Judge McCarthy."

Ron took a deep breath, then pulled onto the street next to the city's baseball complex.

"Okay, I'm listening."

"Ever heard of him?"

"No." Ron knew several lawyers in Natchez, but not this one.

"Me neither. We're doing a background check now. The preliminary stuff is not too impressive. Sole practitioner, not much of a reputation, at least as a lawyer. Got his license suspended eight years ago for six months, something to do with neglecting clients. Two divorces.

No bankruptcies. One DUI but no other criminal record. That's about all we know, but we're digging."

"Where does this fit?"

"Don't know. Let's wait and see. I'll call when I hear more."

Ron dropped off Josh's friends, then rushed home to tell Doreen. They fretted over dinner, then stayed up late tossing around scenarios.

At ten the following morning, Clete Coley wheeled to a stop at the edge of High Street, directly in front of the Carroll Gartin Justice Building. Two rented vans were behind him. All three vehicles were parked illegally, but then their drivers were looking for trouble. A half-dozen volunteers quickly spilled out of the vans and began carrying large posters up a few steps to the sweeping concrete terrace that surrounded the building. Another volunteer hauled up a makeshift podium.

A capitol policeman noticed this activity and strolled over to inquire.

"I'm announcing my candidacy for the supreme court," Clete explained at full volume.

He was flanked by two beefy young men in dark suits, one white, one black, both almost as large as Clete himself.

"You got a permit?" the officer asked.

"Yep. Got it from the attorney general's office."

The cop disappeared, in no particular hurry. The display was put together rapidly, and when it was complete, it stood twenty feet high, thirty feet long, and was nothing but faces. High school graduation portraits, candid snapshots, family photos, all enlarged and in color.

The faces of the dead.

As the volunteers scurried about, the reporters began arriving. Cameras were mounted on tripods. Microphones were mounted on the podium. Photographers began snapping away, and Clete was ecstatic More volunteers arrived, some with homemade posters with proclamations such as "Vote the Liberals Out," "Support the Death Penalty," and "Victims Have Voices."

The cop was back. "I can't seem to find anyone who knows anything about your permit," he said to Clete.

"Well, you found me, and I'm telling you that I have permission."

"From who?"

"One of those assistant attorney generals in there."

"You got a name?"

"Oswalt."

The cop left to go find Mr. Oswalt.

The commotion attracted the attention of those inside the building, and work came to a halt. Rumors flew, and when word reached the fourth floor that someone was about to announce a campaign for a seat on the court, three of its justices dropped everything and hustled to a window. The other six, those whose terms expired in later years, likewise ventured over out of curiosity.

Sheila McCarthy's office faced High Street, and it was soon filled with her clerks and staff, all suddenly alarmed. She whispered to Paul, "Why don't you go down there and see what's up?"