close relationship with his uncle Trent, and he found Republicans appealing. Lott, whose male aides tended to be Sigma Nus, gave his nephew an unpaid position one summer in Washington, and Zach grew intoxicated with the political air he breathed there. After graduation, he returned to Washington and worked for a year on the staff of a North Mississippi Republican congressman, Roger Wicker, an Ole Miss Sigma Nu, a protégé of Lott’s, and an increasingly important part of the state’s conservative network.
But Zach’s personal politics began to change in law school, when he became disillusioned over Republican attacks on Attorney General Mike Moore, who was like an uncle to young Scruggs. The GOP’s negativity pushed him closer to his father’s Democratic views.
After graduating from law school, with cum laude honors and a spot on the
Law Journal
staff, Zach took a job with a Jackson law firm to begin his own five-year plan for himself and his family. A son, Jackson, was born just before Christmas 2002, and a daughter, Augusta, would follow in a couple of years. Zach intended to spend the time in Jackson gaining experience in different phases of law practice, but there had always been an understanding that he would someday join his father’s firm.
Even though he was nearly a decade removed from undergraduate school, Zach retained the appearance of a guileless sophomore. He had his mother’s delicate features and a habit of sweeping from his forehead a fall of hair worn moderately long, in the style favored by fraternity boys at Ole Miss.
Zach plunged into the practice of law, yet continued to be drawn to public service. He was bright, energetic, and ambitious, and after being approached by prominent Democrats, he entertained notions of running for office. They suggested that Zach become a candidate for secretary of state, a position that might serve as a stepping stone to higher things. But Moore felt the move would be premature for his young friend, and he counseled against it. There would be a better time, he suggested.
Even though he had moved away from the Republican Party, Zach valued the advice of his uncle Trent, who also discouraged him from mounting a statewide campaign at an early age.
His life seemed in order. But after only three years at the Jackson firm, Zach ended his apprenticeship to join his father as a junior partner in Oxford.
Before making the move, Zach already had the opportunity for firsthand criminal defense work under the tutelage of his father’s friend Joey Langston. In 2002, he had gotten a message from the skilled Booneville attorney: Would Zach be interested in assisting in the defense of two Lee County deputy sheriffs charged in federal court with the death of a suspect in a sensational shoot-’em-up near Tupelo? Of course he would.
Had the case not been so tragic it could have been an episode in
The Dukes of Hazzard.
It started at a routine Fourth of July roadblock when a motorist refused to hand over his driver’s license for inspection. Instead, Billy Ray Stone produced a gun, suspecting that the officer could see that his passenger in the work truck was a woman who had been assaulted, kidnapped, bound with duct tape, and stuffed into the well between the dashboard and front seat. A shot was fired and a chase ensued, with bullets flying in the summer night. Stone wrecked the truck, and his hostage was killed in the melee, but he managed to escape into the woods. After a manhunt, he was cornered in a country outhouse. He died in a climactic confrontation, but not before fatally wounding the Lee County sheriff, Harold Ray Presley, a second cousin of Elvis.
Sometime well after the dust had settled, the federal government brought criminal charges against two deputies, saying that Stone had actually been beaten to death after his capture. Since the state had no interest in prosecuting its own deputies, the U.S. Attorney’s Office invoked the same charges—deprivation
But Zach’s personal politics began to change in law school, when he became disillusioned over Republican attacks on Attorney General Mike Moore, who was like an uncle to young Scruggs. The GOP’s negativity pushed him closer to his father’s Democratic views.
After graduating from law school, with cum laude honors and a spot on the
Law Journal
staff, Zach took a job with a Jackson law firm to begin his own five-year plan for himself and his family. A son, Jackson, was born just before Christmas 2002, and a daughter, Augusta, would follow in a couple of years. Zach intended to spend the time in Jackson gaining experience in different phases of law practice, but there had always been an understanding that he would someday join his father’s firm.
Even though he was nearly a decade removed from undergraduate school, Zach retained the appearance of a guileless sophomore. He had his mother’s delicate features and a habit of sweeping from his forehead a fall of hair worn moderately long, in the style favored by fraternity boys at Ole Miss.
Zach plunged into the practice of law, yet continued to be drawn to public service. He was bright, energetic, and ambitious, and after being approached by prominent Democrats, he entertained notions of running for office. They suggested that Zach become a candidate for secretary of state, a position that might serve as a stepping stone to higher things. But Moore felt the move would be premature for his young friend, and he counseled against it. There would be a better time, he suggested.
Even though he had moved away from the Republican Party, Zach valued the advice of his uncle Trent, who also discouraged him from mounting a statewide campaign at an early age.
His life seemed in order. But after only three years at the Jackson firm, Zach ended his apprenticeship to join his father as a junior partner in Oxford.
Before making the move, Zach already had the opportunity for firsthand criminal defense work under the tutelage of his father’s friend Joey Langston. In 2002, he had gotten a message from the skilled Booneville attorney: Would Zach be interested in assisting in the defense of two Lee County deputy sheriffs charged in federal court with the death of a suspect in a sensational shoot-’em-up near Tupelo? Of course he would.
Had the case not been so tragic it could have been an episode in
The Dukes of Hazzard.
It started at a routine Fourth of July roadblock when a motorist refused to hand over his driver’s license for inspection. Instead, Billy Ray Stone produced a gun, suspecting that the officer could see that his passenger in the work truck was a woman who had been assaulted, kidnapped, bound with duct tape, and stuffed into the well between the dashboard and front seat. A shot was fired and a chase ensued, with bullets flying in the summer night. Stone wrecked the truck, and his hostage was killed in the melee, but he managed to escape into the woods. After a manhunt, he was cornered in a country outhouse. He died in a climactic confrontation, but not before fatally wounding the Lee County sheriff, Harold Ray Presley, a second cousin of Elvis.
Sometime well after the dust had settled, the federal government brought criminal charges against two deputies, saying that Stone had actually been beaten to death after his capture. Since the state had no interest in prosecuting its own deputies, the U.S. Attorney’s Office invoked the same charges—deprivation
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