The strong rush of adrenaline was only a sample of what was coming. He imagined a great victory in November. He could see himself springing from the mundane anonymity of a smalltown law practice to the prestige of the supreme court. It all lay before him.

Tony followed closely behind, relaying a quick update to Barry Rinehart.

At the City Hall in McComb, Ron announced again. The crowd was small but loud. There were a few friends, but the rest were total strangers. After two quick interviews, with photos, he was driven to the McComb airstrip, where he boarded a Lear 55, a handsome little jet built like a rocket, although, as Ron couldn't help but notice, much smaller than the G5 that had whisked him to Washington. Doreen barely managed to suppress her excitement at her first encounter with a private jet. Tony joined the flight. Guy raced ahead with the SUV Fifteen minutes later they landed in Hattiesburg, population forty-eight thousand, the third-largest city in the district. At 1:00 p.m., Ron and Doreen were the guests at a Prayer Lunch thrown together by a loose coalition of fundamentalist pastors. The setting was an old Holiday Inn. Tony waited in the bar.

Over badly fried chicken and butter beans, Ron did more listening than talking. Several of the preachers, evidently still inspired by their Sunday labors, felt the need to bless him with their views on various issues and evils. Hollywood, rap music, celebrity culture, rampant pornography, the Internet, underage drinking, underage sex, and on and on. Ron nodded sincerely and was soon ready to escape. When he did say a few words, he chose all the right ones. He and Doreen had prayed about this race and felt the Lord's hand in it. Laws created by man should strive to emulate the laws of God. Only men of clear moral vision should judge the problems of others.

And so on. He was unequivocally endorsed on the spot.

Freed from the meeting, Ron addressed a group of two dozen supporters outside the Forrest County Circuit Court building. The event was covered by the Hattiesburg TV station. After a few questions, he walked along Main Street, shaking hands with any and all, passing out his slick brochures, and ducking into every law office for a quick heyhowdy. At 3:30, the Lear 55 took off and headed to the Coast. At eight thousand feet and climbing, it flew over the southwest corner of Cancer County.

Guy was waiting with the Suburban at the Gulfport-Biloxi Regional Airport. Ron kissed Doreen goodbye, and the plane took her back to Mc-Comb. Another driver there would take her to Brookhaven. At the Harrison County Courthouse, Ron announced again, answered the same questions, then sat down for a long interview with the Sun Herald.

Biloxi was the home of Sheila McCarthy. It was adjacent to Gulf-port, the largest city in the southern district, with a population of sixty-five thousand. Biloxi and Gulfport were the center of the Coast region, a three-county area along the Gulf with 60 percent of the votes. To the east was Ocean Springs, Gautier, Moss Point, Pascagoula, and then Mobile. To the west was Pass Christian, Long Beach, Waveland, Bay St. Louis, then New Orleans.

Tony planned for Ron to spend at least half of his time there during the campaign. At 6:00 p.m., the candidate was introduced to his Coast office, a renovated fast-food franchise on Highway 90, the heavily traveled four-lane at the beach. Brightly colored campaign signs blanketed the area around the headquarters, and a large crowd gathered to hear and meet their candidate. Ron knew none of them. Nor did Tony. Virtually all were employees of some of the companies indirectly financing the campaign. Half worked in the regional office of a national auto insurance company. When Ron arrived and saw his headquarters, its decorations, and the crowd, he marveled at the organizational skills of Tony Zachary. This might be easier than he thought.

The Gulf Coast's economy is now fueled by casinos, so he throttled back his high moral comments and dwelled on his conservative approach to judicial thought. He talked about himself, his family, his son Josh's undefeated Little League team. And for the first time, he voiced concern over the state's crime rate and its seeming indifference to executing condemned killers.

Clete Coley would've been proud.

Dinner that night was a fancy fund-raiser at the Biloxi Yacht Club, a thousand dollars a plate. The crowd was a mix of corporate suits, bankers, doctors, and insurance defense lawyers. Tony counted eighty-four present.

Late that night, with Ron asleep in the room next door, Tony called Barry Rinehart with a summary of the great day. It wasn't as colorful as Clete's dramatic entrance, but it was far more productive. Their candidate had handled himself well.

Day two began with a 7:30 Prayer Breakfast at a hotel in the shadows of the casinos.

It was sponsored by a newly organized group known as the Brotherhood Coalition. Most of those in attendance were fundamentalist pastors from a dozen strains of Christianity.

Ron was quickly learning the strategy of adapting to his audience, and he felt at home talking about his faith and how it would shape his decisions on the supreme court. He emphasized his long service to the Lord as a deacon and Sunday school teacher, and almost choked up when he recalled the story of his son's baptism.

Again, he was endorsed on the spot.

At least half the state awoke to morning newspapers with full-page ads for candidate Ron Fisk. The ad in Jackson's Clarion-Ledger had a handsome photograph above the bold caption 'Judicial Reform." Smaller print gave Ron's pertinent biographical data, with emphasis on his membership in his church, civic organizations, and the American Rifle Association. Still smaller print listed an impressive collection of endorsements: family groups, conservative Christian activists, panels of ministers, and associations that seemed to represent the rest of humanity; doctors, nurses, hospitals, dentists, nursing homes, pharmacists, retail merchants, real estate agents, banks, savings and loans, finance companies, brokerage firms, mortgage banks, insurance companies (health, life, medical, fire, casualty, malpractice), highway contractors, architects, energy companies, natural gas producers, and three "legislative relations" groups that represented the manufacturers of virtually every product to be found in any store.

In other words, everyone who might get sued and therefore paid insurance premiums as protection. The list reeked of money and proclaimed that Ron Fisk, heretofore unknown, was now in the race as a serious player.

The ad cost $12,000 in the Jackson Clarion-Ledger, $9,000 in the Biloxi Sun Herald, and $5,000 in the Hattiesburg American.

The two-day cost of the Fisk rollout was roughly $450,000, which did not include travel expenses, the jet, and the Internet assault. The bulk of the money was spent on direct mail.

Ron spent the rest of Tuesday and Wednesday on the Coast, with every minute planned with precision. Campaigns habitually run late, but not with Tony in charge. They announced at the courthouses in Jackson and Hancock counties, prayed with preachers, stopped at dozens of law offices, worked a few busy streets handing out brochures, and shook hands. Ron even kissed his first baby. And it was all recorded by a film crew.

On Thursday, Ron made six more stops throughout south Mississippi, then hurried back to Brookhaven for a quick change of clothes. The game began at six. Doreen was already there with the kids. The Raiders were warming up, and Josh was pitching. The team was in the dugout listening to an assistant when Coach Fisk hustled in and took charge.

There was a nice crowd at the game. Ron already felt like a celebrity.

Rather than researching law, Sheila's two clerks spent the day collecting press accounts of the Ron Fisk rollout. They gathered copies of the full-page ads from the different newspapers. They tracked the news online. As the file grew thicker, their moods sank.