Over a quiet drink, Rex told Keith that the trial lawyers needed a friend and they saw him as a rising star. He was young, but youth was needed. They wanted him in the governor’s mansion to help with their fight against the rising tide of tort reform.
Keith made no promises but happily took the money. He quickly hired a Jackson consulting firm to organize his campaign. He hired a driver/gofer and opened a small office in Biloxi. By late March there were four other men in the race, two from Jackson and two from further up north. Keith and his consultants were delighted by the growing field and hoped that even more would join the fray. Their internal polls continued to show him ahead and extending his lead. Roughly 40 percent of the state’s population lived in the twenty southernmost counties, and the Rudy name was recognized by 70 percent of those polled. Number two came in at a whopping 8 percent.
But the best campaigns were fueled by the fear of losing, and Keith never slowed down. Beginning in April, he left Egan in control of the DA’s office and hit the road. He kissed Ainsley goodbye before dawn on Monday and gave her a big hug when he returned after dark on Friday. In between, he and his team swarmed every courthouse in the state. He spoke at rallies, churches, backyard cookouts, bar lunches, judges’ conferences, and had coffee in the offices of countless small-town lawyers. Every weekend, though, he was at home with Ainsley and the girls, and every Sunday the family attended Mass with Agnes.
His thirty-fifth birthday fell on a Saturday in April. Rex Dubisson hosted a beach party and invited two hundred friends and campaign workers. July Fourth fell on a Monday, and a huge crowd gathered for an old-fashioned stump speech at the Harrison County Fairgrounds. Bill Allain and five others were in a hot race for the governorship, and all six were on the card. Keith was well received by the home crowd and promised virtually everything. Two of his opponents spoke as well. Both were older men and veteran politicians who seemed to realize they were trespassing on Rudy territory. The contrast was revealing. Youth versus age. The future versus the past.
Two weeks later, on July 17, the Gulf Coast Register and the Hattiesburg American ran editorial endorsements of Keith Rudy. It proved contagious. The following week a dozen county newspapers, almost all of them near the Coast, followed suit. Not surprisingly, the Tupelo daily endorsed the state senator from that part of the state, but on Sunday, July 31, two days before the primary election, the state’s largest paper, The Clarion Ledger in Jackson, endorsed Keith.
On August 2, almost 700,000 voters went to the polls in the Democratic primary. With massive support from the southern end of the state, Keith led the ticket with 38 percent of the vote, double that of his second-place opponent. As usual, success attracted money, and it came from all directions, including some powerful business groups eager to make friends and join the parade. The Rudy consultants were ready, and within three days the campaign was running slick television ads in the biggest markets. His opponent was broke and could not answer.
In the August 23 runoff, Keith Rudy walked off with 62 percent of the vote, a landslide that not even his consultants predicted.
In November’s general election, he would face much weaker opposition from a Republican. At thirty-five, he would become the youngest AG in the state’s history, and the youngest in the country.
Chapter 54
The post-election partying came to an abrupt halt a week later when a far more sensational story gripped the state. The winners and losers were suddenly forgotten when it became apparent that Mississippi was about to use its cherished gas chamber for the first time in over ten years. A notorious murderer ran out of appeals and his date with the executioner became front-page news.
In 1972, the U.S. Supreme Court, in Furman v. Georgia, stopped all executions. The Court split 5–4, and in a bewildering hodgepodge of opinions, concurrences, and dissents, left little guidance for the states to follow. The law was cleared up somewhat in 1976 when the Court, again split 5–4, but with a different composition, gave the green light for the death states to resume the killing. Most did so with great enthusiasm.
In Mississippi, though, officials became frustrated with the slow pace, and from 1976 to 1983 there was not a single execution at Parchman. Politicians of every stripe and from every corner of the state railed against the system that seemed soft on crime. At least 65 percent of the people believed in the death penalty, and if other states had been turned loose, then what was wrong with Mississippi? Finally, one death row inmate lost his appeals and emerged as the likeliest contender.