"What's the cost?"

"We can scale back some. I'd say two hundred thousand."

"Can we afford it?"

"As of today, I would say no. Let's revisit it in ten days."

"Agreed, but can't we do an e-mail blast and at least respond?"

"I've already written it."

The response was a two-paragraph message sent that day to forty-eight thousand e-mail addresses. Justice McCarthy issued a strong rebuke to Ron Fisk for pledging his vote on a case he was far away from hearing. Had he been a member of the court, he would have been chastised. Dignity demands that the justices keep matters confidential and refrain from any comment whatsoever about pending cases. In the one he mentioned, no briefs had been filed in the appeal. No arguments heard. Nothing was before the court as of this date.

Without knowing the facts or the law, how could Mr. Fisk, or anyone else for that matter, possibly decide on a final ruling?

Sadly, it was just another example of Mr. Fisk's woeful inexperience injudicial matters.

Clete Coley's losses were piling up at the Lucky Jack, and he confided this to Marlin late one night in a saloon in Under-the-Hill. Marlin was passing through, checking on the candidate, who seemed to have forgotten about the race.

"I have a great idea," Marlin said, warming up to the real reason for his visit.

"There are fourteen casinos on the Gulf Coast, big, beautiful, Vegas-style-"

"I've seen them."

"Right. I know the guy who owns Pirate's Cove. He'll put you up three nights a week for the next month, penthouse suite, great view of the Gulf. Meals are on the house.

You can play cards all night, and during the day you can do a bit of campaigning.

Folks down there need to hear your message. Hell, that's where the votes are. I can line up some audiences. You do the politicking. You've got a great speech and people love it."

Clete was visibly taken with the idea. "Three nights a week, huh?"

"More if you want it. You gotta be tired of this place."

"Only when I'm losing."

"Do it, Clete. Look, the folks who put up the money would like to see more activity.

They know it's a long shot, but they are serious about their message."

Clete admitted it was a great idea. He ordered more rum and began thinking of those beautiful new casinos down there.

Mary Grace and Wes stepped off the elevator on the twenty-sixth floor of the tallest building in Mississippi, and into the plush reception suite of the state's largest law firm. She immediately noticed the wallpaper, the fine furniture, the flowers, things that had once mattered.

The well-dressed woman at the desk was sufficiently polite. An associate in the standard-issuenavy suit and black shoes escorted them to a conference room, where a secretary asked if they wanted something to drink. No, they did not. The large windows looked down at the rest of Jackson. The dome of the capital dominated the view. To its left was the Gartin building, and somewhere in there on someone's desk was the case of Jeannette Baker v. Krane Chemical.

The door opened and Alan York appeared with a big smile and warm handshake. He was in his late fifties, short and heavy and a bit sloppy-wrinkled shirt, no jacket, scuffed shoes-unusual for a partner in such a hidebound firm. The same associate was back, carrying two large expandable files. After greetings and small talk they took their places around the table.

The lawsuit the Paytons filed in April on behalf of the family of the deceased pulpwood cutter had sped through the early rounds of discovery. No trial date was set, and that possibility was at least a year away. Liability was clear-the truck driver who caused the accident had been speeding, at least fifteen miles per hour over the limit. Two eyewitnesses had been deposed and provided detailed and damning testimony about the speed and recklessness of the truck driver. In his deposition, the driver admitted to a long history of moving violations.

Before taking to the road, he worked as a pipe fitter but had been fired for smoking pot on the job. Wes had found at least two old DUIs, and the driver thought there might be another one, but he couldn't remember.

In short, the case wouldn't get anywhere near a jury. It would be settled, and after four months of vigorous discovery Mr. Alan York was ready to begin the negotiations.

According to him, his client, Littun Casualty, was anxious to close the file.

Wes began by describing the family, a thirty-three-year-old widow and mother with a high school education and no real job skills and three young children, the oldest being twelve. Needless to say, the loss was ruinous in every way.

As he talked, York took notes and kept glancing at Mary Grace. They had spoken on the phone but never met. Wes was handling the case, but York knew she was not there simply because she was pleasant to look at. One of his close friends was Frank Sully, the

Hattiesburg lawyer hired by Krane Chemical to add bodies to the defense table.

Sully had been pushed to the rear by Jared Kurtin and was still bitter about it.

He had passed along to York many stories about the Baker trial, and it was Sully's opinion that the Payton tag team worked best when Mary Grace was chatting with the jury. She was tough on cross-examination, very quick on her feet, but her strength was connecting with people. Her closing argument was brilliant, powerful, and, obviously, very persuasive.

York had been defending insurance companies for thirty-one years. He won more than he lost, but there had been a few of those awful moments when juries failed to see the case his way and nailed him for big verdicts. It was part of the business. He had never, though, been in the neighborhood of a $41 million award. It was now a legend in the state's legal circles. Add the drama of the Paytons risking everything, losing their home, office, cars, and borrowing heavily to sustain a four-month trial, and the legend kept growing. Their fate was well-known and much discussed at bar meetings and golf tournaments and cocktail parties. If the verdict stood, they would be primed to rake in huge fees. A reversal, and their survival was seriously in doubt.

As Wes went on, York couldn't help but admire them.

After a brief review of the liability, Wes summed up the damages, added a chunk for the carelessness of the trucking company, and said, "We think two million is a fair settlement."

"I bet you do," York said, managing the customary defense lawyer reaction of shock and dismay. Eyebrows arched in disbelief. Head shaking slowly in bewilderment. He grabbed his face with his hand and squeezed his cheeks, frowning. His quick smile was long gone.

Wes and Mary Grace managed to convey apathy while their hearts were frozen.

"To get two million," York said, studying his notes, "you have to factor in some element of punitive damages, and, frankly, my client is simply not willing to pay these."

"Oh yes," Mary Grace said coolly. "Your client will pay whatever the jury tells it to pay." Such blustering was also part of the business. York had heard it a thousand times, but it did indeed sound more ominous coming from a woman who, during her last trial, extracted a huge punitive award.

"A trial is at least twelve months away," York said as he looked at his associate for confirmation, as if anyone could project a trial date so far in the future. The associate dutifully confirmed what his boss had already said.

In other words, if this goes to trial, it will be months before you receive a dime in fees. It's no secret that your little firm is drowning in debt and struggling to survive, and everyone knows that you need a big settlement, and quick.

"Your client can't wait that long," York said.

"We've given you a number, Alan," Wes replied. "Do you have a counteroffer?"