Johnson sighs like a man trying to hold an intelligent conversation with a two-year-old. “If this case was dragged through the newspapers, it would whip white resentment in this town to a fever pitch. Black people can’t afford that. Race relations isn’t about laws and courts anymore. It’s about attitudes. Perceptions. A lot of whites in Mississippi want to do the right thing. They felt the same way in the sixties. But every group has the instinct to protect its own. Liberals keep silent and protect rednecks for the same reason good doctors protect bad ones. It’s a tribal reaction. You’ve got to let those whites find their way to the good place. Suddenly Del Payton is the biggest obstacle I can see to that.”

“I suppose whites get to that good place by voting for Shad Johnson?”

“You think Wiley Warren’s helping anybody but himself?”

“I’m not Warren’s biggest fan, but I’ve heard some good things about his tenure.”

“You hear he’s a drunk? That he can’t keep his dick in his pants? That he’s in the pocket of the casino companies?”

“You have evidence?”

“It’s tough to get evidence when he controls the police.”

“There are plenty of black cops on the force.”

Johnson’s phone buzzes. He frowns, then hits a button and picks up the receiver. “Shad Johnson,” he says in his clipped Northern accent. Five seconds later he cries “My brother!” and begins chattering in the frenetic musical patois of a Pine Street juke, half words and grunts and wild bursts of laughter. Noticing my stare, he winks as if to say: Look how smoothly I handle these fools.

As he hangs up, his assistant sticks his head in the door. “Line two.”

“No more calls, Henry.”

“It’s Julian Bond.”

Johnson sniffs and shoots his cuffs. “I’ve got to take this.”

Now he’s the urbane attorney again, sanguine and self-effacing. He and Bond discuss the coordination of black celebrity appearances during the final weeks of Johnson’s mayoral campaign. Stratospheric names are shuffled like charms on a bracelet. Jesse. Denzel. Whitney. General Powell. Kweisi Mfume. When the candidate hangs up, I shake my head.

“You’re obviously a man of many talents. And faces.”

“I’m a chameleon,” Johnson admits. “I’ve got to be. You know you have to play to your jury, counselor, and I’ve got a pretty damn diverse one here.”

“I guess running for office in this town is like fighting a two-front war.”

“Two-front war? Man, this town has more factions than the Knesset. Redneck Baptists, rich liberals, yellow dog Democrats, middle-class blacks, young fire eaters, Uncle Toms, and bone-dumb bluegums working the bottomland north of town. It’s like conducting a symphony with musicians who hate each other.”

“I’m a little surprised by your language. You sound like winning is a lot more important to you than helping your people.”