The Runaway Jury 15 страница

Hoppy had just poured the water into the Mr. Coffee when he heard the buzzer. He tightened the belt of his ragged terry-cloth bathrobe and tried to straighten his unkempt hair with his fingers. Must be the Boy Scouts selling doughnuts at this ungodly hour. Surely it wasn't the Jehovah's Witnesses again. He'd let them have it this time. Nothing but a cult! He moved quickly because the upstairs was filled with comatose teenagers. Six at last count. Five of his and a guest someone had dragged home from junior college. A typical Friday night at the Dupree home.

He opened the front door and met two serious young men, both of whom instantly reached into their pockets and whipped out gold medallions stuck to black leather. In the quick rush of syllables, Hoppy caught “FBI” at least twice, and nearly fainted.

“Are you Mr. Dupree? ” Agent Nitchman asked.

Hoppy gasped. “Yes, but—”

“We'd like to ask you some questions, ” said Agent Napier as he somehow managed to take a step even closer.

“About what? ” Hoppy asked, his voice dry. He tried to look between them, at the street, across it where Mildred Yancy was no doubt watching all of this.

Nitchman and Napier exchanged a harsh, conspiratorial look. Then Napier said to Hoppy, “We can do it here, or perhaps somewhere else. ”

“Questions about Stillwater Bay, Jimmy Hull Moke, things like that, ” Nitchman said for clarification, and Hoppy clutched the door frame.

“Oh my god, ” he said as the air was sucked from his lungs and most vital organs froze.

“May we come in? ” Napier said.

Hoppy lowered his head and rubbed his eyes as if to weep. “No, please, not here. ” The children! Normally they'd sleep till riine or ten, or even noon for that matter if Millie let them, but with voices downstairs they'd be up in a minute. “My office, ” he managed to say.

“We'll wait, ” Napier said.

“Make it quick, ” Nitchman said.

“Thank you, ” Hoppy said, then quickly closed the door, and locked it. He fell onto a sofa in the den, and stared at the ceiling, which was spinning clockwise. No sounds from upstairs. The kids were still sleeping. His heart pounded fiercely and for a full minute he thought he might just lie there and die. Death would be welcome now. He could close his eyes and float away, and in a couple of hours the first kid down would see him and call 911. He was fifty-three, and bad hearts ran in his family, on his mother's side. Millie would get a hundred thousand in life insurance.

When he realized his heart was determined to continue, he slowly swung to his feet. Still dizzy, he groped his way to the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee. It was five minutes after seven, according to the digital on the oven. Fourth day of November. Undoubtedly one of the worst days of his life. How could he have been so stupid!

He thought about calling Todd Ringwald, and he thought about calling Millard Putt, his lawyer. He decided to wait. He was suddenly in a hurry. He wanted to leave the house before the kids got up, and he wanted those two agents out of his driveway before the neighbors noticed. Besides, Millard Putt did nothing but real estate law, and was not very good at that. This was a criminal matter.

A criminal matter! He skipped a shower and dressed in seconds. He was halfway through the brushing of his teeth when he finally looked at himself in the mirror. Betrayal was written all over his face, stamped in his eyes for all to see. He couldn't lie. Deceit was not in him. He was just Hoppy Du-pree, an honest man with a fine family, good reputation, and all. He'd never cheated on his tax returns!

So why, Hoppy, were there two FBI agents waiting outside for a trip downtown, not to jail yet, though that would surely come, but to a private place where they could eat him for breakfast and lay bare his fraud? He decided not to shave. Perhaps he should call his minister. He brushed his swirling hair and thought of Millie, and the public disgrace, and the kids, and what would everybody think.

Before leaving the bathroom, Hoppy vomited.

Outside, Napier insisted that he ride with Hoppy. Nitchman in the black Chrysler followed. Not a word was spoken.

DUPREE REALTY was not the sort of commercial enterprise that attracted early risers. This was true on Saturday, as it was for the rest of the week. Hoppy knew the place would be deserted until at least nine, maybe ten. He unlocked doors, turned on lights, said nothing until it was time to ask if they wanted coffee. Both declined and seemed quite anxious to proceed to the slaughter. Hoppy sat on his side of the desk. They huddled together like twins across from him. He was unable to hold their gaze.

Nitchman got it started by saying, “Are you familiar with Stillwater Bay? ”

“Yes. ”

“Have you met a man by the name of Todd Ringwald? ”

“Yes. ”

“Have you signed any type of contract with him? ”

“KT] No.

Napier and Nitchman looked at each other as if they knew this to be false. Napier said, smugly, “Look, Mr. Dupree, this will go a lot smoother for you if you tell the truth. ”

“I swear I'm telling the truth. ”

“When did you first meet Todd Ringwald? ” Nitchman asked as he pulled a narrow notepad from his pocket and began scribbling.

“Thursday. ”

“Do you know Jimmy Hull Moke? ”

“Yes. ”

“When did you first meet him? ”

“Yesterday. ”

“Where? ”

“Right here. ”

“What was the purpose of the meeting? ”

“To discuss the development of Stillwater Bay. I'm supposed to represent a company called KLX Properties. KLX wants to develop Stillwater Bay, which is in Mr. Moke's supervisor's district in Hancock County. ”

Napier and Nitchman stared at Hoppy and pondered this for what seemed like an hour. Hoppy silently repeated his words to himself. Had he said something? Something that would speed along his journey to prison? Perhaps he should stop this right now and seek legal counsel.

Napier cleared his throat. “We've been investigating Mr. Moke for the past six months, and two weeks ago he agreed to enter into a plea bargain arrangement whereby he will receive a light sentence in exchange for his assistance. ”

This legal crap-speak meant little to Hoppy. He heard it, but things weren't registering clearly right now.

“Did you offer money to Mr. Moke? ” Napier asked.

“No, ” Hoppy said because there was no way he could say yes. He said it quickly, without force or conviction, it just came out. “No, ” he said again. He hadn't actually offered money. He had cleared the way for his client to offer money. At least, that was his interpretation of what he'd done.

Nitchman slowly reached into his coat pocket, slowly felt around until his fingers were just right, slowly removed a slender pocket something or other which he slowly placed in the center of the desk. “Are you sure? ” he asked, almost taunting.

“Sure I'm sure, ” Hoppy said, staring slack-jawed at the sleek hideous device.

Nitchman gently pressed a button. Hoppy held his breath and clenched his fists. Then, there was his voice, chirping along nervously about local politics and casinos and fishing with an occasional entry by Moke. “He was wired! ” Hoppy exclaimed, breathless and totally defeated.

“Yes, ” one of them said gravely.

Hoppy could only stare at the recorder. “Oh no, ” he mumbled.

The words had been uttered and recorded less than twenty-four hours earlier, right there at that very desk over chicken clubs and iced tea. Jimmy Hull had sat where Nitchman was and arranged a bribe for a hundred grand, and he did so with an FBI wire stuck somewhere to his body.

The tape dragged painfully on until the damage was done and Hoppy and Jimmy Hull were offering their hurried good-byes. “Shall we listen to it again? ” Nitchman asked as he touched a button.

“No, please, ” Hoppy said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Should I talk to a lawyer? ” he asked without looking up.

“Not a bad idea, ” Napier said sympathetically.

When he finally looked at them his eyes were red and wet. His lip quivered but he thrust his chin outward and tried to be bold. “So what am I looking at? ” he asked.

Napier and Nitchman relaxed in unison. Napier stood and walked to a bookcase. “It's hard to say, ” Nitchman said, as if the issue would be determined by someone else. “We've busted a dozen supervisors in the past year. The judges are sick of it. The sentences are getting longer. ”

“I'm not a supervisor, ” Hoppy said.

“Good point. I'd say three to five years, federal, not state. ”

“Conspiracy to bribe a government official, ” Napier added helpfully. Napier then returned to his seat next to Nitchman. Both men sat on the edges of their chairs as if ready to leap across the desk and flog Hoppy for his sins.

The mike was the cap of a blue Bic disposable ballpoint sitting harmlessly with a dozen other pencils and cheap pens in a dusty fruit jar on Hoppy's desk. Ringwald had left it there Friday morning when Hoppy had gone to the rest room. The pens and pencils gave the appearance of never being used, the type of collection which would sit untouched for months before being rearranged. In the event Hoppy or someone else decided to use the blue Bic, it was out of ink and would find itself immediately in the wastebasket. Only a technician could disassemble it and discover the bug.

From the desk, the words were relayed to a small, powerful transmitter hidden behind the Lysol and air freshener under a rest room vanity, next to Hoppy's office. From the transmitter, the words were sent to an unmarked van across the street in a shopping center. In the van, the words were recorded on tape and delivered to Fitch's office.

Jimmy Hull had not been wired, was not working with the feds, had in fact been doing what he did best-hustling bribes.

Ringwald, Napier, and Nitchman were all ex-cops who were now private agents employed by an international security firm in Bethesda. It was a firm Fitch used often. The Hoppy sting would cost The Fund eighty thousand dollars.

Chicken feed.

HOPPY MENTIONED the possibility of legal counsel again. Napier stonewalled it with a lengthy recitation of the FBI's efforts to stop rampant corruption on the Coast. He blamed all ills on the gambling industry.

It was imperative to keep Hoppy away from a lawyer. A lawyer would want names and phone numbers, records and paperwork. Napier and Nitchman had enough fake credentials and quick lies to bluff poor Hoppy, but a good lawyer would force them to disappear.

What had begun as a routine probe of Jimmy Hull and graft of the local garden variety had turned into a much broader investigation into gaming and, the magic words, “organized crime, ” according to Napier's lengthy narrative. Hoppy listened when he could. It was difficult though. His mind raced away with concerns for Millie and the kids and how they would survive for the three to five years he was gone.

“So we didn't target you, ” Napier said, wrapping things up.

“And, frankly, we'd never heard of KLX Properties, ” added Nitchman. “We sort of just stumbled into this. ”

“Can't you just stumble out? ” Hoppy asked, and actually managed a soft, helpless smile.

“Maybe, ” Napier said deliberately, then glanced at Nitchman as if they had something even more dramatic to lay on Hoppy.

“Maybe what? ” he asked.

They withdrew from the edge of the desk in unison, their timing perfect as if they'd either rehearsed for hours or done this a hundred times. They both stared hard at Hoppy, who wilted and looked at the desktop.

“We know you're not a crook, Mr. Dupree, ” Nitchman said softly.

“You just made a mistake, ” added Napier.

“You got that right, ” Hoppy mumbled.

“You're being used by some awfully sophisticated crooks. They roll in here with big plans and big bucks, and well, we see it all the time in drug cases. ”

Drugs! Hoppy was shocked but said nothing. Another pause as the stares continued.

“Can we offer you a twenty-four-hour deal? ” Napier asked.

“How can I say no? ”

“Let's keep this quiet for twenty-four hours. You don't tell a soul, we don't tell a soul. You keep it from your lawyer, we don't pursue you. Not for twenty-four hours. ”

“I don't understand. ”

“We can't explain everything right now. We need some time to evaluate your situation. ”

Nitchman leaned forward again, elbows on desk. “There might be a way out for you, Mr. Dupree. ”

Hoppy was rallying, however faintly. “I'm listening. ”

“You're a small, insignificant fish caught in a large net, ” Napier explained. “You might be expendable. ”

Sounded good to Hoppy. “What happens in twenty-four hours? ”

“We meet again right here. Nine o'clock in the morning. ”

“It's a deal. ”

“One word to Ringwald, one word to anyone, even your wife, and your future is in serious jeopardy. ”

“You have my word. ”

THE CHARTERED BUS left the Siesta Inn at ten with all fourteen jurors, Mrs. Grimes, Lou Dell and her husband Benton, Willis and his wife Ruby, five part-time deputies in plain clothes, Earl Hutto, the Sheriff of Harrison County, and his wife Claudelle, and two assistant clerks from Gloria Lane's office. Twenty-eight in all, plus the driver. All approved by Judge Harkin. Two hours later they rolled along Canal Street in New Orleans, then exited the bus at the corner of Magazine. Lunch was in a reserved room in the back of an old oyster bar on Decatur in the French Quarter, and paid forby the taxpayers of Harrison County.

They were allowed to scatter throughout the Quarter. They shopped at outdoor markets; strolled with the tourists through Jackson Square; gawked at naked bodies in cheap dives on Bourbon; bought T-shirts and other souvenirs. Some rested on benches along the Riverwalk. Some ducked into bars and watched football. At four, they gathered at the river and boarded a paddle wheeler for a sightseeing trip. At six they ate dinner at a pizza and po-boy deli on Canal.

By ten they were locked in their rooms in Pass Christian, tired and ready for sleep. Busy jurors are happy jurors.

Twenty-one

With the Hoppy show proceeding flawlessly, Fitch made the decision late Saturday to launch the next assault against the jury. It was a strike made without the advantage of meticulous planning, and it would be as severe as the Hoppy sting was slick.

Early Sunday morning, Pang and Dubaz, both dressed in tan shirts with a plumber's logo above the pockets, picked the lock on the door of Easter's apartment. No alarm sounded. Dubaz went straight to the vent above the refrigerator, removed the screen, and yanked out the hidden camera that had caught Doyle earlier. He placed it in a large toolbox he'd brought to remove the goods.

Pang went to the computer. He had studied the hurried photos taken by Doyle during the first visit, and he had practiced on an identical unit which had been installed in an office next to Fitch's. He twisted screws and removed the back cover panel of the computer. The hard drive was precisely where he'd been told. In less than a minute it was out. Pang found two stacks of 3. 5-inch discs, sixteen in all, in a rack by the monitor.

While Pang performed the delicate removal of the hard drive, Dubaz opened drawers and quietly turned over the cheap furniture in the search for more discs. The apartment was so small and had so few places to hide anything, his task was easy. He searched the kitchen drawers and cabinets, the closets, the cardboard boxes Easter used to store his socks and underwear. He found nothing. All computer-related paraphernalia were apparently stored near the computer.

“Let's go, ” Pang said, ripping cords from the computer, monitor, and printer.

They practically threw the system on the ragged sofa, where Dubaz piled on cushions and clothing, then poured charcoal lighter fluid from a plastic jug. When the sofa, chair, computer, cheap rugs, and assorted clothing were sufficiently doused, the two men walked to the door and Dubaz threw a match. The ignition was rapid and virtually silent, at least to anyone who might have been listening outside. They waited until the flames were lapping the ceiling and black smoke was boiling throughout the apartment, then made a hasty departure, locking the door behind them. Down the stairs, on the first level, they pulled a fire alarm. Dubaz ran back upstairs where the smoke was seeping from the apartment, and began yelling and beating on doors. Pang did the same on the first level. Screams followed quickly as the hallways filled with panicked people in bathrobes and sweatsuits. The shrill clanging of ancient firebells added to the hysteria.

“Make damned sure you don't kill anyone, ” Fitch had warned them. Dubaz pounded on doors as the smoke thickened. He made certain every apartment near Easter's was empty. He pulled people by the arms; asked if everyone was out; pointed to the exits. ^ As the crowd spilled into the parking lot, Pang and Dubaz separated and slowly retreated. Sirens could be heard. Smoke appeared in the windows of two upstairs apartments-Easter's and one next door. More people scrambled out, some wrapped in blankets and clutching babies and toddlers. They joined the crowd and waited impatiently for the fire trucks.

When the firemen arrived, Pang and Dubaz dropped farther back, then vanished.

NO ONE DIED. No one was injured. Four apartments were completely destroyed, eleven severely damaged, nearly thirty families homeless until cleanup and restoration.

Easter's hard drive proved impenetrable. He had added so many passwords, secret codes, anti-tampering and antiviral barriers that Fitch's computer experts were stumped. He'd flown them in Saturday from Washington. They were honest people with no idea where the hard drive and the discs came from. He simply locked them in a room with a system identical to Easter's and told them what he wanted. Most of the discs had similar protections. About halfway through the stack, though, the tension was broken when they were able to evade passwords on an older disc Easter had neglected to adequately secure. The files list showed sixteen entries with document names which revealed nothing. Fitch was notified as the first document was being printed. It was a six-page summary of current news items about the tobacco industry, dated October 11, 1994. Stories from Time, The Wall Street Journal, and Forbes were mentioned. The second document was a rambling two-page narrative describing a documentary Easter had just seen about breast implant litigation. The third was a gawky poem he'd written about rivers. The fourth was another compilation of recent news articles about lung cancer trials.

Fitch and Konrad read each page carefully. The writing was clear and straightforward, obviously hurriedly done because the typos were almost cumbersome. He wrote like an unbiased reporter. It was impossible to determine whether Easter was sympathetic to smokers or just keenly interested in mass tort litigation.

There were more dreadful poems. An aborted short story. And finally, pay dirt. Document number fifteen was a two-page letter to his mother, a Mrs. Pamela Blanchard in Gardner, Texas. Dated April 20, 1995, it began: “Dear Mom: I'm now living in Biloxi, Mississippi, on the Gulf Coast, ” and proceeded to explain how much he loved salt water and beaches and could never again live in farm country. He apologized at length for not writing sooner, apologized for two long paragraphs about his tendency to drift, and promised to do better with his letter writing. He asked about Alex, said he hadn't talked to him in three months and couldn't believe he'd finally made it to Alaska and found a job as a fishing guide. Alex appeared to be a brother. There was no mention of a father. No mention of a girl, certainly not anyone named Marlee.

He said he'd found a job working in a casino, and it was fun for the moment but not much of a future.

THE RUNAWAY JURY He still thought about being a lawyer, and was sorry about law school, but he doubted he'd ever go back. He confessed to being happy, living simply with little money and even fewer responsibilities. Oh well, gotta run now. Lots of love. Say hello to Aunt Sam-mie and he'd call soon.

He signed off simply as “Jeff. ” “Love Jeff. ” No last name appeared anywhere in the letter.

Dante and. Joe Boy left on a private jet an hour after the letter was first read. Fitch instructed them to go to Gardner and hire every private snoop in town.

The computer people cracked one more disc, the next to the last of the bunch. Again, they were able to sidestep the antitampering barriers with a complicated series of password clues. They were very impressed by Easter's hacking ability.

The disc was filled with part of one documentthe voter registration rolls of Harrison County. Starting with A and running through K, they printed over sixteen thousand names with addresses. Fitch checked on them periodically throughout the printing. He too had a complete printout of all registered voters in the county. It was not a secret list, in fact it could be purchased from Gloria Lane for thirty-five dollars. Most political candidates made the purchase during election years.

But two things were odd about Easter's list. First, it was on a computer disc, which meant he had somehow managed to enter Gloria Lane's computer and steal the information. Second, what did a part-time computer hack/part-time student need with such a list?

If Easter accessed the clerk's computer, then he certainly could tamper with it enough to have his own name entered as a prospective juror in the Wood case.

The more Fitch thought about it, the more it made perfect sense.

HOPPY'S EYES were red and puffy as he drank thick coffee at his desk early Sunday and waited for 9 A. M. He hadn't eaten a bite since a banana Saturday morning while the Folgers brewed in his kitchen just minutes before the doorbell rang and Napier and Nitchman entered his life. His gastrointestinal system was shot. His nerves were ragged. He'd sneaked too much vodka Saturday night, and he'd done it at the house, something Millie prohibited.

The kids had slept through it all Saturday. He hadn't told a soul, hadn't been tempted to, really. The humiliation helped keep the loathsome secret safe.

At precisely nine, Napier and Nitchman entered with a third man, an older man who also wore a severe dark suit and severe facial expressions as if he'd come to personally whip and flay poor Hoppy. Nitchman introduced him as George Cristano. From Washington! Department of Justice!

Cristano's handshake was cold. He didn't make small talk.

“Say, Hoppy, would you mind if we had this little chat somewhere else? ” Napier asked as he looked scornfully around the office.

“It's just safer, ” Nitchman added for clarification.

“You never know where bugs might show up, ” Cristano said.

“Tell me about it, ” Hoppy said, but no one caught the humor. Was he in a position to say no to anything? “Sure, ” he said.

They left in a spotless black Lincoln Town Car, Nitchman and Napier in the front, Hoppy in the back with Cristano, who matter-of-factly began to explain that he was some type of high-ranking Assistant Attorney General from deep inside Justice. The closer they got to the Gulf the more odious his position became. Then he was silent.

“Are you a Dernocrat or a Republican, Hoppy? ” Cristano asked softly during one particularly long lull in the conversation. Napier turned at the shore and headed west along the Coast.

Hoppy surely didn't want to offend anyone. “Oh, I don't know. Always vote for the man, you know. I don't get hung up on parties, know what I mean? ”

Cristano looked away, out the window, as if this wasn't what he wanted. “I was hoping you were a good Republican, ” he said, still looking through the window at the sea.

Hoppy could be any damned thing these boys wanted. Absolutely anything. A card-carrying, wild-eyed, fanatical Communist, if it would please Mr. Cristano.

“Voted for Reagan and Bush, ” he said proudly. “And Nixon. Even Goldwater. ”

Cristano nodded ever so slightly, and Hoppy managed to exhale.

The car became silent again. Napier parked it at a dock near Bay St. Louis, forty minutes from Biloxi. Hoppy followed Cristano down a pier and onto a deserted sixty-foot charter boat named Afternoon Delight. Nitchman and Napier waited by the car, out of sight.

“Sit down, Hoppy, ” Cristano said, pointing to a JOHNGRISHAM foam-padded bench on the deck. Hoppy sat. The boat rocked ever so slightly. The water was still. Cristano sat across from him and leaned forward so that their heads were three feet apart.

“Nice boat, ” Hoppy said, rubbing the imitation leather seat.

“It's not ours. Listen, Hoppy, you're not wired, are you? ”

Instinctively, he bolted upright, shocked by the suggestion. “Of course not! ”

“Sorry, but these things do happen. I guess I should frisk you. ” Cristano looked him up and down quickly. Hoppy was horrified at the thought of being fondled by this stranger, alone on a boat.

“I swear I am not wired, okay, ” Hoppy said, so firmly that he was proud of himself. Cristano's face relaxed. “You wanna frisk me? ” he asked. Hoppy glanced around to see if anyone was within view. Look sorta odd, wouldn't it? Two grown men rubbing each other in broad daylight on an anchored boat?

“Are you wired? ” Hoppy asked.

“No. ”

“Swear? ”

“I swear. ”

“Good. ” Hoppy was relieved and quite anxious to believe the man. The alternative was simply unthinkable.

Cristano smiled then abruptly frowned. He leaned in. The small talk was over. “I'll be brief, Hoppy. We have a deal for you, a deal which will enable you to walk away from this without a scratch. Nothing. No arrest, no indictment, no trial, no prison. No face in the newspaper. In fact, Hoppy, no one will ever know. ”

He paused to catch his breath, and Hoppy charged in. “So far so good. I'm listening. ”

“It's a bizarre deal, one we've never attempted. Has nothing to do with law and justice and punishment, nothing like that. It's a political deal, Hoppy. Purely political. There'll be no record of it in Washington. No one will ever know, except for me, you, those two guys waiting by the car, and less than ten people deep inside Justice. We cut the deal, you do your part, and everything is forgotten. ”

“You got it. Just point me in the right direction. ”

“Are you concerned about crime, drugs, law and order, Hoppy? ”

“Of course. ”

“Are you sick of graft and corruption? ”

Odd question. At this very moment, Hoppy felt like the poster child for the campaign against corruption. “Yes! ”

“There are good guys and bad guys in Washing-tori, Hoppy. There are those of us at Justice who've devoted our lives to fighting crime. I mean serious crime, Hoppy. I mean drug payoffs to judges and congressmen who take money from foreign enemies, criminal activity that could threaten (our democracy. Know what I mean? ”

If Hoppy didn't know for sure, then he certainly was sympathetic to Cristano and his fine friends in Washington. “Yes, yes, ” he said, hanging'on every word.

“But everything's political these days, Hoppy. We're constantly fighting with Congress and we're fighting with the President. Do you know what we need in Washington, Hoppy? ”

Whatever it was, Hoppy wanted them to have it.

Cristano didn't give him the chance to answer.

“We need more Republicans, more good, conservative Republicans who'll give us money and get out of our way. The Democrats are always meddling, always threatening budget cuts, restructuring, always concerned about the rights of these poor criminals we're picking on. There's a war raging up there, Hoppy. We fight it every day. ”

He looked at Hoppy as if he should say something, but Hoppy was momentarily trying to adjust to the war. He nodded gravely, then looked at his feet.

“We have to protect our friends, Hoppy, and this is where you come in. ”

“Okay. ”

“Again, this is a strange deal. Take it, and our tape of you bribing Mr, Moke will be destroyed. ”

“I'll take the deal. Just tell me what it is. ”

Cristano paused and looked up and down the pier. Some fishermen were making noises far away. He leaned closer and actually touched Hoppy on the knee. “It's about your wife, ” he said, almost under his breath, then reared back to let it sink in.

“My wife? ”

“Yes. Your wife. ”

“Millie? ”

“That's her. ”

“What the hell—”

“I'll explain. ”

“Millie? ” Hoppy was flabbergasted. What could sweet Millie have to do with a mess like this?

“It's the trial, Hoppy, ” Cristano said, and the first piece of the puzzle plunged roughly into place.

“Guess who contributes the most money to Republican congressional candidates? ”

Hoppy was too stunned and confused to offer an intelligent guess.

“That's right. The tobacco companies. They pour millions into races because they're afraid of the PDA and they're fed up with government regulations. They're free-enterprise people, Hoppy, same as you. They believe people smoke because they choose to smoke, and they're sick of the government and the trial lawyers trying to run them out of business. ”

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