Nat spent little money at the Jackson stations and much more on the Coast. McCarthy would never be able to saturate like Fisk. Nat speculated that Fisk and all those wealthy folks behind him were burning $200,000 a week on the anti-gay-marriage ads alone.
Sheila's first round was about half of that, and the response was lukewarm. The ad was called "uncreative" by her coordinator in Jackson County. A noisy trial lawyer, no doubt an expert in all things political, sent an angry e-mail in which he blasted Nat for such a soft approach. You gotta fight fire with fire and answer the attack ads with more of the same. He reminded Nat that his firm had contributed $30,000 and might forgo any more if McCarthy didn't take off the gloves.
Women seemed to like the ad. Men were more critical. After reading a few dozen e-mails, Nat realized he was wasting his time.
Barry Rinehart had been waiting impatiently for some television from the McCarthy strategists. When he finally saw her first ad, he laughed out loud. What an old-fashioned, out-of-date, pathetically lame effort-judge in black robe, at a bench, thick law books as props, even a gavel for good measure. She looked sincere, but she was a judge, not a television presence. Her eyes moved as she read from the teleprompter.
Her head was as rigid as a deer in headlights.
A weak response indeed, but it had to be answered. It had to be buried. Rinehart reached into his video library, his arsenal, and selected his next grenade.
Ten hours after McCarthy began running her ad, she was blown off the television by an attack ad that stunned even the most jaded political junkies. It began with the sharp crack of a rifle shot, then a black-and-white photo of Justice McCarthy, one from the court's official Web site. A powerful, barbed voice announced, "Justice Sheila McCarthy does not like hunters. Seven years ago she wrote, "The hunters of this state have a poor record on safety' This quote was splashed across her face.
The photo changed to one from a newspaper story with Sheila shaking hands at a rally.
The voice continued, "And Justice Sheila McCarthy does not like gun owners. Five years ago she wrote, "The ever vigilant gun lobby can always be expected to attack any statute that might in any way restrict the use of handguns in vulnerable areas.
Regardless of how sensible a proposed statute might be, the gun lobby will descend upon it with a vengeance."This, too, was printed rapidly, word for word, across the screen. Then there was another blast, this one from a shotgun firing at a blue sky.
Ron Fisk appeared, decked out like the real hunter he was. He lowered his shotgun and chatted with the voters for a few seconds. Memories of his grandfather, hunting in these woods as a child, love of nature, a vow to protect the sacred rights of hunters and gun owners. It ended with Ron walking along the edge of the woods, a pack of frisky dogs behind him.
Some small, quick print at the end of the ad gave credit to an organization called Gunowners United Now (GUN). The truth:
The first case mentioned in the ad involved the accidental shooting death of a deer hunter. His widow sued the man who shot him, a nasty trial ensued, and the jury in Calhoun County awarded her $600,000, the highest ever in that courtroom. The trial was as sordid as a divorce, with allegations of drinking and pot smoking and bad behavior. The two men were members of a hunting club and had been at deer camp for a week. During the trial, a contentious issue was safety, and several experts testified about gun laws and hunter education.
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."