The Boys from Biloxi: A Legal Thriller (14 page)

Keith was playing on a semi-pro team in the Coast League and felt like he was wasting his time. He still enjoyed the game but was also accepting the reality that his baseball days were numbered. He was immersed in politics and learning its lessons firsthand. He thrived on the challenge of putting together a campaign and its goal of getting more votes than the opponent. He quit the team, and baseball, and never looked back.

Occasionally he bumped into Joey, Denny, and other old pals from the Point, but he had not seen Hugh Malco in months. According to his friends, Hugh was keeping a low profile and busy working for his father. Keith suspected they were meddling in the local races, but there had yet to be any evidence of it. The slashed tires were the first indication that the mob was getting antsy. And, there was no way to prove who was behind the vandalism. The list of possible suspects was long.

Jesse cautioned his family and volunteers to be vigilant.

Election laws required all candidates to file quarterly reports as to funds raised and moneys spent. As of June 30, Jesse had raised almost $11,000 and spent all of it. Rex Dubisson’s campaign reported $14,000 in income and $9,000 in expenses. The reporting laws were riddled with loopholes, and, of course, covered only those funds “above the table.” No one seriously believed that Rex was relying on such paltry sums. And, since the next reports were not due until September 30, long after the August 4 primary, the
serious money was being hoarded with no worries about reporting laws.

The attack began on July 10, three weeks before the election, when every registered household received in the mail a packet of professionally printed materials, including an eight-by-ten sheet with a large mug shot of one Jarvis Decker, a black man with a menacing scowl. Above it, the question screamed: “Why Is Jesse Rudy Soft On Crime?” Below the mug shot was a two-paragraph story of how Jesse Rudy, only two years earlier, had represented Jarvis Decker in a domestic abuse case and “got the thug off scot-free.” Decker, a convicted felon with a “violent past,” had beaten his wife, who filed charges, only to see the case “swept out of court” by the shifty legal work of Jesse Rudy. Once free, Decker left the area and drifted to Georgia, where he was convicted of not one but two rapes. He was serving a life sentence and would never be paroled.

If not for Jesse Rudy, Decker would have been convicted in Biloxi, sent away, and been “off the streets.” The slanted narrative left little doubt that Jesse Rudy was responsible for the rapes.

The truth was that Jesse had been appointed by the court to represent Decker. His wife, the alleged victim, had failed to show up in court and asked the police to drop the charges. They then divorced, and Jesse never heard from the client again.

But the truth was not important. Jesse, a lawyer who represented many guilty criminals, was soft on crime. A brochure in the packet touted the fierceness of Rex Dubisson, a veteran prosecutor known to be “Tough On Crime.”

The mailing was devastating, not only because it barely nibbled at the edges of the truth, but more importantly because Jesse had no discernible means to counter it. Such a mass mailing cost thousands and there was almost no time, and certainly no money, to put together a response.

The large conference room of the Rudy Law Firm had been converted into the campaign’s headquarters, with posters and maps
covering the walls, and volunteers coming and going. He met there with Keith, Agnes, and a few others, and tried to measure the impact of the mailing. The room was tense and gloomy. They had been punched in the gut and it seemed almost senseless to hustle back to the streets and resume knocking on doors.

Simultaneously, eight prominent billboards along Highway 90 sprang up with a handsome image of Rex Dubisson under the banner:
tough on crime
. Radio ads began running on the hour touting Dubisson’s record as a regular crime-buster.

Driving along the Coast, and listening to the radio, Jesse passed billboard after billboard and acknowledged the obvious. His opponent and his supporters had stockpiled their money, carefully planned the last-minute ambush, and delivered a crushing blow. With less than a month to go, his campaign looked hopeless.

Keith worked all night and mocked up a brochure that he presented to his father early one morning over coffee. The idea was to blanket the district with a mailing that did not mention Dubisson but went after the organized crime that was the real reason for their campaign. It would have photographs of the more infamous nightclubs where gambling, prostitution, and drugs had been allowed to flourish for years. Keith had the details and explained that such a mailing would cost $5,500. They had no time to raise the money from supporters, who were tapped out anyway. Keith, who’d never borrowed a dime, asked if there was any possible way to get a loan.

Jesse and Agnes had casually, and quietly, discussed the idea of getting a second mortgage to help fund the campaign, but were hesitant to do so. Now the idea was back on the table and Keith was all in. He was confident the money could be repaid. If Jesse won the election, he would have no shortage of new friends, along with a powerful position. The bank would be impressed and better terms could be negotiated. If Jesse lost the election, the family could double down with the law practice and find a way to satisfy the mortgage.

Their son’s courage convinced them to go to the bank. Keith
went to the printer and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Over a long weekend, a team of a dozen volunteers worked around the clock addressing and stuffing envelopes. On Monday morning, Keith hauled almost 7,000 thick packets to the post office and demanded expedited deliveries. Every registered home, apartment, and trailer in the district would receive the mailing.

The response was encouraging. Jesse and his team had learned the hard lesson that direct mail was extremely effective.

As the wealthiest elected official in the state, Fats Bowman owned an impressive portfolio of property. He and his wife lived in a quiet neighborhood in West Biloxi, in a modest home any honest sheriff could afford. They had been there for twenty years and still made monthly mortgage payments, just like everybody else on the street. To get away, they vacationed in their condo in Florida or their cabin in the Smokies, homes they rarely discussed. With a partner, Fats owned beachfront property in Waveland, next door in Hancock County. Unknown to his wife, he also had an interest in a new development at Hilton Head.

His favorite hiding place was his hunting camp deep in the piney woods of Stone County, twenty miles to the north of Biloxi. There, far away from prying eyes, Fats liked to call in his boys and associates and discuss business and politics.

Two weeks before the election, he invited some friends to his camp for steaks and drinks. They gathered on a covered patio at the edge of a small lake and sat in wicker rockers under a rattling ceiling fan. Rudd Kilgore, his chief deputy, chauffeur, and primary bagman, poured bourbon and kept an eye on the grill. Lance Malco was accompanied by Tip and Nevin Noll. Rex Dubisson came by himself.

Copies of the Rudy campaign’s recent mailing were passed around. Lance was irritated by the fact that the slick brochure included a color photo of Red Velvet, his flagship club, and the narrative said bad things about it. For Lance, it was the first sign of open warfare from Jesse Rudy.

“Just keep your cool,” Fats drawled, a black cigar wedged between two fingers, a bourbon in the other hand. “I don’t see any movement in Rudy’s direction. Boy’s broke and I guess he’s borrowing money, but it won’t be enough. We got everything teed up.” He looked at Dubisson and asked, “How much cash you got?”

“We’re okay,” Rex said. “Our last mailing goes out tomorrow and it’s pretty rough. He won’t be able to respond.”

“You said that last time,” Lance said.

“I did.”

“I don’t know,” Lance said, waving the brochure. “This is getting some attention from the do-gooders. You’re not worried?”

“Of course I’m worried,” Rex said. “It’s politics and anything can happen. Rudy’s run a good campaign and worked his ass off. Keep in mind, guys, I haven’t run a hard race in eight years. This is something new for me.”

“You’re doing a good job,” Fats said. “Just keep listening to me.”

“What about the black vote?” Lance asked.

“Well, there ain’t much of it, as you know. Less than twenty percent, if they go vote. I got the preachers lined up and we’ll deliver the cash Sunday before the election. They tell me there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Can you trust them?” Rex asked.

“They’ve always delivered in the past, haven’t they. The preachers will haul their people to the polls in church buses.”

“Rudy looks strong on the Point,” Rex said. “I was over there last weekend and got a rather cool reception.”

Lance said, “I know the Point as well as Rudy. That’s his base and he might carry it, but it’ll be close.”

“Give him the Point,” Fats said, blowing smoke. “There’s fourteen other boxes in Harrison County and I control them.”

“What about Hancock and Stone?” Lance asked.

“Well, first of all, there are four times more votes in Harrison than the other two combined. Hell, ain’t nobody to speak of in
Stone County. The votes are in Biloxi and Gulfport, boys, you know that. Y’all need to relax.”

“We’re okay in Stone County,” said Dubisson. “My wife’s from there and her family has influence.”

Fats laughed and said, “You just keep hitting him with the mail and the radio and leave the rest to me.”

Three days later, the district was blanketed with another flood of brochures. The color photo was of an ailing white woman in a wheelchair, with an oxygen tube stuck to her nose. She appeared to be about fifty years old, with long stringy gray hair, and lots of wrinkles. In bold black print above the photo, the caption, in quotation marks, read, “I Was Raped By Jarvis Decker.”

She said her name was Connie Burns, and she described what happened when Decker broke into her home in rural Georgia, tied her up, and left two hours later. After the ordeal and the nightmare of the trial, her world completely collapsed. Her husband left her; her health deteriorated. There was no one to support her, and so on. She was now living in a nursing home and was unable to afford her medications.

Her story ended with: “Why was Jarvis Decker allowed to roam free and rape me and other women? He should have been serving time in Mississippi, and he would have been if not for the slick moves of criminal defense attorney Jesse Rudy. Please don’t elect this man. He cozies up to violent criminals.”

Jesse was so upset he locked himself in his office, stretched out on the floor, and tried to breathe deeply. Agnes was down the hall, in the restroom, vomiting. The campaign volunteers huddled in the conference room and stared in muted horror at the mailing. The secretary ignored the phone, which rang nonstop.

Ten days before the election, Jesse Rudy filed suit in chancery court seeking to enjoin Rex Dubisson from distributing campaign materials containing blatant falsehoods. He demanded an expedited hearing on the matter.

The damage was done and the court did not have the power to repair it. The chancellor could order Dubisson to stop future mailings and ads that were not true, but, in the heat of a campaign, such injunctions were rare. Jesse knew he could not win the court battle, but winning was not the reason for the lawsuit. He wanted publicity. He wanted the story on the front page of the
Gulf Coast Register
so the voters could see what a sleazy campaign their district attorney was running. Moments after he filed in court, he drove to the newspaper’s office and hand-delivered a copy of his complaint to the editor. The following morning, it was front-page news.

That afternoon, the chancellor called the matter for a hearing and a nice crowd materialized. In the front row were several reporters. As the complaining party, Jesse went first and began with an angry description of the “rape ad,” as he called it. He paced around the courtroom, waving the ad, calling it “blatantly false” and a “sleazy campaign trick designed to inflame the voters.” Connie Burns was an alias for a woman who was probably paid by the Dubisson campaign to use her fictitious story. The real victims of Jarvis Decker were Denise Perkins and Sybil Welch, and he had copies of the indictments and plea agreements to prove it. He entered those into evidence.

The problem with his case was that he had no real proof, other than the paperwork. Connie Burns, or whoever she was, had not been found, nor had the two rape victims. With time and money, Jesse could have located them and tried to cajole them into either traveling to Biloxi or signing affidavits, but that could not be done with only a week to go.

Veteran trial lawyers knew the old adage: “When the case is weak, go heavy on theatrics.” Jesse was angry, indignant, wounded, the victim of a dirty campaign trick. When he finally wound down,
he yielded the floor and Rex Dubisson had the chance to respond. He seemed taken aback, as if he’d been caught red-handed. After a few disjointed statements, the chancellor interrupted with “And so who, exactly, is Connie Burns?”

“It’s an alias, Your Honor. The poor lady is the victim of a violent sexual assault and does not want to get involved.”

“Get involved? She allowed you to use her photograph and statement, didn’t she?”

“Yes, but only with an alias. She lives far away and any publicity generated here will not find its way there. We’re being protective of her identity.”

“And you’re trying to blame Jesse Rudy for her being raped, right?”

“Well, not directly, Your—”

“Come on, Mr. Dubisson. That’s exactly what you’re doing. The sole purpose of this ad is to lay blame on Mr. Rudy and convince the voters that it’s all his fault.”

“The facts are the facts, Your Honor. Mr. Rudy represented Jarvis Decker and got him off. If he had gone to prison here in Mississippi, he would not have been able to rape women in Georgia. It’s that simple.”

“Nothing’s that simple, Mr. Dubisson. I find these ads repulsive.”

The lawyers took turns haggling and the hearing grew even more contentious. When the chancellor asked Jesse what type of relief he wanted, he demanded that Dubisson do another mailing in which he retracted his ads, admitted the truth, and apologized for deliberately misleading the voters.

Dubisson objected hotly and argued that the court did not have the authority to require him to spend money. Jesse retorted that he, Dubisson, evidently had plenty of it to spend.

Back and forth they went like two heavyweights in the center of the ring, neither yielding an inch. It was magnificent theater and the reporters scribbled away. When both were on the verge of throwing punches, the chancellor ordered them to their seats and
settled the matter. He ruled: “I do not have the power to undo what has been done with these ads. However, I do order both campaigns to immediately cease the promulgation of ads, either in print or on the air, that are not supported by the facts. Failure to follow this order will result in severe fines, perhaps even jail time for contempt of court.”

For Rex Dubisson, the victory was immediate but somewhat hollow. He had no plans for more mailings and attack ads.

For Jesse, victory came the following morning when the front page of the
Register
ran the priceless quote: “I Find These Ads Repulsive.”

The campaign’s final days were a whirlwind of stump speeches, barbecues, rallies, and canvassing. Jesse and his volunteers knocked on doors from mid-morning until after dark. He and Keith disagreed sharply over tactics. Keith wanted to take the Connie Burns ad, put in the tagline “I Find These Ads Repulsive,” run several thousand copies at the print shop, and flood the district with them. But Jesse disagreed because he thought the ads had done enough damage already. Reminding the voters of his ties to a rapist would only solidify their belief that he had done something wrong.

Over the last weekend of the campaign, “the money hit the streets,” as they say. Sacks of cash were delivered to black ministers who promised to deliver voters by the busload. Fats Bowman’s ward bosses took more cash and distributed it among their own teams of drivers. Absentee ballots by the hundreds were prepared using the names of those who had died since the last election.

On August 4, Election Day, Jesse, Agnes, and Keith voted early at their precinct in an elementary school. For Keith, a new voter, it was an honor casting a ballot for his father. And it was a pleasure voting against Fats and several other politicians on his payroll.
Turnout was heavy in all precincts along the Coast and the Rudys spent the day visiting their poll workers. There were no complaints of harassment or intimidation.

When the polls closed at 6:00
p.m.
, the arduous task of hand-counting the ballots began. It was almost 10:00
p.m.
before the first precinct captains arrived at the courthouse with their tallies and boxes of ballots, all of which were counted for the second time by election clerks. Jesse and his team waited nervously in his conference room as they worked the phones. Stone County, the least populous of the five, reported its final tally at 10:45. Jesse and Dubisson evenly split the vote, an encouraging sign. The excitement waned when Hancock County went 62 percent for Dubisson.