How to Bounce Back From Setbacks

Meanwhile, as weeks turned into months, Espy realized that the road back would be much longer than he'd ever imagined. "I didn't have control of the process surrounding me, so I had to take control of my life," he says. He found a mentor in Tony Coelho, the onetime congressional leader who'd had his share of setbacks. Coelho met with Espy in the winter of 1995 for what would be a memorable lunch. Coelho drew a pie chart and divided it into six slices. "You start with a vision of what you will look like when you're at your ultimate state, and you fill in the pieces with what it will take to get you there," Espy recalls Coelho saying. One half of Espy's pie represented different aspects of himself that he had to rehabilitate. First slice: finances. Coelho suggested scheduling enough speaking engagements to bring in a good income. Second slice: mental outlook. To take Espy's mind off his troubles, Coelho suggested that he teach at a local college. Third slice: reputation. Getting involved in a well-known charity would improve Espy's image and his esteem. He joined Feed the Children as a consultant (he became a board member in 1999) and worked with the antihunger organization's international offices to use donations more efficiently.

Espy tried to resurface in the public eye, but he discovered that he couldn't. He scouted for legal jobs in Washington, DC but received no offers. He returned to Jackson and took a job at a 20-person law firm. There was no pomp, no army of staff. "I kept my door shut a lot, my head down, and my focus on myself," he recalls. "But I had to generate income for the firm. They wouldn't let me wallow in self-pity." Then, in 1997, he was officially indicted.

Espy's reaction was to get tougher -- and to be tougher on himself, rather than blaming others. When he learned that Independent Counsel Donald Smaltz did 100 push-ups a day, he worked toward doing 200 a day. He also perfected his tae kwon do technique (he has a black belt). After learning that the independent counsel had given everyone on his staff a watch with Espy's name engraved on it as a holiday gift, Espy decided to take the high road, instead of firing back. He struggled with his attitude so he wouldn't sound bitter. And in his public statements, he was careful not to blame his predicament on race or politics alone.

Espy also decided to take the long road to vindication, rather than the easy road to a quick settlement. He refused three plea offers. "I could have gotten out early on a misdemeanor charge and run up only $100,000 in legal bills," he says with his arms folded, eyes cast down. "But how do you put a price on your good name?" In 1998, after testimony from a parade of witnesses -- including fellow cabinet officers, former friends, and an artist who gave Espy a painting for his office -- Espy was exonerated. Nine counts were dismissed, and a jury acquitted Espy of the remaining 30 counts. A Washington Post article detailing the road to his acquittal is framed on a wall at his law firm. Tucked inside the frame is one of the watches with Espy's name on it that Smaltz gave to his staff.

But the acquittal didn't allow Espy simply to return to the career path he'd been on before the scandal. Bouncing back from a setback often means taking a different road. Although Mississippi residents said in a poll that they'd welcome him as lieutenant governor, Espy is more than a little gun-shy about returning to public life. He's now with Mississippi's largest law firm, working hard to perfect his litigation techniques. He may never return to a career in politics, but he has escaped from the scandal that threatened to destroy him. "It's not about the test," he says. "It's about how you pass the test."

Michael Dowd: Don't Walk Away From a Fight

Peeking out from the teetering piles of paperwork on Michael Dowd's desk are pink slips -- the good kind, the ones that receptionists use for phone messages. One is from a mother who has called Dowd about representing her son in a landmark abuse case against the Archdiocese of New York. One is from writer Peter Maas, whom Dowd represented in connection with Maas's book about mafia hitman Sammy "the Bull" Gravano. But Dowd ignores the slips, as well as his ringing phone, to consult with a lawyer who has walked in with a question. Then Dowd glances at the breathtaking vista of lower Manhattan. He is at the peak of his game. His caseload represents some of the most high-profile lawsuits in New York this past year. It's hard to imagine that Dowd didn't -- couldn't -- practice law for four years.

In the 1980s, Michael Dowd, now 58, made a name for himself defending women who had attacked or killed their abusive spouses. Dowd pioneered legal defenses that won his clients seemingly impossible acquittals. Courtroom sketches from one watershed case hang above his desk. But while his work set precedents, it didn't pay the bills. So when Dowd was offered a partnership in a side business collecting on overdue parking tickets, he took it. He ended up getting much more than he had bargained for.