The Runaway Jury 24 страница

Hoppy went to his office at ten. He had called Napier at eight Sunday morning with the news that he had important trial developments to discuss; said he'd made much progress with his wife and she was now scoring major points with other jurors. He wanted to meet with Napier and Nitchman at his office to give a full report, and to receive further instructions.

Napier took the call in a run-down two-room apartment he and Nitchman were using as a front for the scam. Two phone lines were temporarily installed-one as the office number, the other as their residence for the duration of their hard-charging investigation into corruption along the Gulf Coast. Napier chatted with Hoppy, then called Cristano for orders. Cristano's room was at a Holiday Inn near the beach. Cristano in turn called Fitch, who was delighted with the news. Finally, Millie was off dead-center and moving their way. Fitch had begun to wonder if his investment would pay off. He green-lighted the meeting at Hoppy's office.

Wearing their standard dark suits and dark sunshades, Napier and Nitchman arrived at the office at eleven to find Hoppy brewing coffee and in great spirits. They settled around his desk and waited for the coffee. Millie was in therefighting like hell to save her husband, Hoppy said, and she felt quite confident she had already convinced Mrs. Gladys Card and Rikki Coleman. She had shared the Robilio memo with them, and they had been shocked at the man's deceit.

He poured coffee as Napier and Nitchman duti JOHNGRISHAM fully took notes. Another guest quietly entered the building through the front door, which had been left unlocked by Hoppy. He eased along the hall behind the open reception area, stepping lightly on the worn carpet until he came to a wooden door with HOPPY DUPREE painted on it. He listened for a moment, then knocked loudly.

Inside, Napier jumped and Nitchman set down his coffee, and Hoppy stared at them as if startled. “Who is it? ” he growled loudly. The door opened suddenly, and Special Agent Alan Madden stepped in, said loudly, “FBI! ” while walking to the edge of Hoppy's desk and glaring at all three. Hoppy kicked his chair back and stood as if he might have to get frisked.

Napier would've fainted had he been standing. Nitchman's mouth dropped open. Both turned pale as their hearts stopped.

“Agent Alan Madden, FBI, ” he said as he opened his badge for all to inspect. “Are you Mr. Dupree? ” he demanded.

“Yes. But the FBI is already here, ” Hoppy said, looking at Madden, then at the other two, then back at Madden.

“Where? ” he asked, scowling down at Napier and Nitchman.

“These two guys, ” Hoppy said, acting brilliantly. It was his finest moment. “This is Agent Ralph Napier, and this is Agent Dean Nitchman. You guys don't know each other? ”

“I can explain, ” Napier started, nodding confidently as if he could in fact make everything satisfactory.

“FBI? ” Madden said. “Show me some identification, ” he demanded, shoving forward an empty palm.

They hesitated, and Hoppy pounced on them. “Go ahead. Show him your badges. Same ones you showed me. ”

“Identification please, ” Madden insisted, his anger growing by the second.

Napier started to stand, but Madden returned him to his seat by pressing down on his shoulder. “I can explain, ” Nitchman said, his voice an octave higher than normal.

“Go ahead, ” Madden said.

“Well, you see, we're not really FBI agents, but instead—”

“What! ” Hoppy screamed from across the desk. He was wild-eyed and ready to throw something. “You lying sonofabitch! You've been telling me for the last ten days that you're FBI agents! ”

“Is that true? ” Madden demanded.

“Not, not really, ” Nitchman said.

“What! ” Hoppy screamed again.

“Cool it! ” Madden snapped at him. “Now continue, ” he said to Nitchman.

Nitchman didn't want to continue. He wanted to bolt through the door, kiss Biloxi good-bye, and never be seen again. “We're private investigators, and, well—”

“We work for a firm in B. C., ” Napier chimed in helpfully. He was about to add something else when Hoppy lunged for a desk drawer, yanked it open, and removed two business cards-one for Ralph Napier, one for Dean Nitchman, both labeled as FBI agents, both from the Southeast Regional Unit in Atlanta. Madden studied both cards, saw the local numbers scrawled on the back.

“What's going on here? ” Hoppy demanded.

“Who's Nitchman? ” Madden asked. There was no answer.

“He's Nitchman, ” Hoppy yelled, pointing at Nitchman.

“Not me, ” Nitchman said.

“What! ” Hoppy screamed.

Madden took two steps toward Hoppy and pointed at his chair. “I want you to sit down and shut up, okay? Not another word until I ask for it. ” Hoppy fell into his seat, his eyes glaring fiercely at Nitchman.

“Are you Ralph Napier? ” Madden asked.

“Nope, ” Napier said, looking down, away from Hoppy.

“Sonofabitches, ” Hoppy mumbled.

“Then who are you? ” Madden asked. He waited, but there was no response.

“They gave me those cards, okay? ” Hoppy said, not about to keep quiet. “I'll go to the grand jury and swear on a stack of Bibles that they gave me those cards. They've held themselves out as FBI agents, and I want them prosecuted. ”

“Who are you? ” Madden asked the one previously known as Nitchman. No response. Madden then removed a service revolver, an action that greatly impressed Hoppy, and made the two stand and spread their legs and lean forward on the desk. A quick frisk of each revealed nothing but pocket change, some keys, and a few dollars. No wallets. No fake FBI badges. No identification whatsoever. They were too well trained to make that mistake.

He handcuffed them and led them from the office to the front of the building, where another FBI agent was sipping coffee from a paper cup and waiting. Together, they loaded Napier and Nitchman into the back of a real FBI car. Madden said goodbye to Hoppy, promised to call him later, and drove away with the two stooges in the backseat, sitting on their hands. The other FBI agent followed in the fake FBI car Napier always drove.

Hoppy waved farewell.

Madden drove along Highway 90, in the direction of Mobile. Napier, the quicker wit of the two, concocted a fairly reasonable story, which Nitchman added to slightly. They explained to Madden that their firm had been hired by some vague and unnamed casino interests to investigate various parcels of real estate along the Coast. This is where they'd run into Hoppy, who was quite corrupt and had tried to shake 'em down for cash. One thing led to another, and their boss made them pose as FBI agents. No harm had been done, really.

Madden listened with hardly a word. They would later tell Fitch that he seemed not to have a clue about Hoppy's wife Millie and her current civic responsibilities. He was a young agent, obviously amused with his catch and not certain what to do with them.

For his part, Madden deemed it a minor offense, unworthy of prosecution, certainly not worth any more effort on his part. His caseload was staggering anyway. The last thing he needed was to waste time pursuing convictions for two small-time liars. When they crossed into Alabama, he delivered a stern lecture on the penalties for impersonating a federal officer. They were truly sorry. It would never happen again.

He stopped at a rest station, uncuffed them, gave them their car, and told them to stay out of Mississippi. They thanked him profusely, promised never to return, and sped away.

FITCH BROKE A LAMP with his fist when he got the call from Napier. Blood dripped from a knuckle as he seethed and cursed and listened to the story, as told from a noisy truck stop somewhere in Alabama. He sent Pang to collect the two.

Three hours after they were first handcuffed, Napier and Nitchman were seated in a room next to Fitch's office in the rear of the old dime store. Cris-tano was present.

“Start at the beginning, ” Fitch said. “I want to hear every word. ” He punched a button and a recorder started. They painstakingly collaborated on the narrative until they'd recollected virtually all of it.

Fitch dismissed them and sent them back to Washington.

Alone, he dimmed the lights in his office and sulked in the darkness. Hoppy would tell Millie tonight. Millie would be lost as a defense juror; in fact, she'd probably swing so far to the other side she'd want billions in damages for the poor widow Wood.

Marlee could salvage this disaster. Only Marlee.

Thirty-six

It was the strangest thing, Phoebe said not long into the surprise call from Beverly, because the day before yesterday some guy had called her too, claimed he was Jeff Kerr looking for Claire. She knew immediately the guy was faking, but she strung him along anyway to see what he wanted. She hadn't talked to Claire in four years.

Beverly and Phoebe compared notes about their calls, though Beverly didn't mention the meeting with Swanson or the jury trial he was investigating. They reminisced about the college days in Lawrence, . which seemed so long ago. They lied about their acting careers and the speed with which each was progressing. They promised to get together at the first opportunity. Then they said good-bye.

Beverly called back an hour later, as if she'd forgotten something. She'd been thinking about Claire. They'd parted on less than good terms, and this bothered her. It was a trivial matter they'd never resolved. She wanted to see Claire, to patch things up, if for no other reason than to relieve the guilt. But she didn't have a clue where to find her. Claire had disappeared so fast and so thoroughly.

At this point, Beverly decided to take a chance. Since Swanson had mentioned the possibility of a prior name, and since she remembered the mystery surrounding Claire's past, she decided to cast the bait and see if Phoebe would take it. “Claire, was not her real name, you know? ” she said, acting quite effectively.

“Yeah, I know, ” Phoebe said.

“She told me once, but I can't remember now. ”

Phoebe hesitated. “She had the prettiest name, not that Claire was bad. ”

“What was it? ”

“Gabrielle. ”

“Oh yes, Gabrielle. And what was her last name? ”

“Brant. Gabrielle Brant. She was from Columbia, Missouri, that's where she went to school, at the university there. Did she tell you the story? ”

“Maybe, but I don't remember. ”

“She had a boyfriend who was abusive and crazy. She tried to ditch him, and he began stalking her. That's why she left town and changed her name. ”

“Never heard that. What's her parents' name? ”

“Brant. I think her father's dead. Her mother was a professor of medieval studies at the university. ”

“Is she still there? ”

“I have no idea. ”

“I'll try to find her through her mom. Thanks, Phoebe. ”

It took an hour to get Swanson on the phone. Beverly asked him how much the information was worth. Swanson called Fitch, who needed some good news. He authorized a ceiling of five thousand dollars, and Swanson called her back with an offer of half that. She wanted more. They negotiated for ten minutes and settled on four thousand, which she wanted in cash and in hand before she'd say a word.

All four of the CEO's were in town for the closing arguments and the verdict, so Fitch had a small fleet of finely appointed corporate jets at his disposal. He sent Swanson to New York on the Pynex plane.

Swanson arrived in the city at dusk and checked into a small hotel near Washington Square. According to a roommate, Beverly was not in, was not working, but she might be at a party. He called the pizzeria where she worked, and was told she had been fired. He called the roommate again, and got himself hung up on when he asked too many questions. He slammed the phone down and stomped around his room. How the hell do you find a person on the streets of Greenwich Village? He walked a few blocks to her apartment, his feet freezing in the cold rain. He drank coffee where he'd met her before while his shoes thawed and dried. He used a pay phone for another fruitless chat with the same roommate.

MARLEE WANTED one last meeting before the big Monday. They met in her little office. Fitch could've kissed her feet when he saw her.

He decided to tell her everything about Hoppy and Millie and his great scam gone bad. Nicholas had to work on Millie immediately, to soothe her before she contaminated her friends. After all, Hoppy had told Napier and Nitchman early Sunday that Millie was now a fierce advocate for the defense, that she was in there showing copies of the Robilio memo to her comrades. Was this true? If so, what in the world would she do now when she learned the truth about Hoppy? She'd be furious, no doubt. She'd flip-flop immediately. She'd probably tell her friends what a heinous thing the defense had done to her husband in an effort to pressure her.

It would be a disaster, no question about it.

Marlee listened straight-faced as Fitch unraveled the story. She wasn't shocked, but quite amused to see Fitch sweat.

“I think we should bump her, ” Fitch declared when he was finished.

“Do you have a copy of the Robilio memo? ” she asked, completely unmoved.

He picked one out of his briefcase and handed it to her. “Some of your work? ” she asked after she'd read it.

“Yes. It's completely bogus. ”

She folded it and placed it under her chair. “A helluva scam, Fitch. ”

“Yeah, it was beautiful until we got caught. ”

“Is this something you do in every tobacco trial? ”

“We certainly try. ”

“Why'd you pick Mr. Dupree? ”

“We studied him carefully, and decided he'd be easy. Small-town realtor, barely paying his bills, lots of money changing hands with the casinos and all, lots of his friends making big bucks. He fell for it immediately. ”

“Have you been caught before? ”

“We've had to abort scams, but we've never been caught red-handed. ”

“Until today. ”

“Not really. Hoppy and Millie might suspect it was somebody working for the tobacco pompany, but they don't know who. So, in that respect, there's still some doubt. ”

“What's the difference? ” • “None. ”

“Relax, Fitch. I think her husband may have been exaggerating her effectiveness. Nicholas and Millie are quite close, and she hasn't become an advocate for your client. ”

“Our client. ”

“Right. Our client. Nicholas hasn't seen the memo. ”

“You think Hoppy was lying? ”

“Would you blame him? Your boys had him convinced he was about to be indicted. ”

Fitch breathed a little easier and almost smiled. He said, “It's imperative Nicholas talk to Millie tonight. Hoppy will go over in a couple of hours and tell her all about it. Can Nicholas get to her quickly? ”

“Fitch, Millie will vote the way he wants. Relax. '' Fitch relaxed. He removed his elbows from the table and tried to smile again. “Just out of curiosity, how many votes do we have right now? ”

“Nine. ”

“Who are the other three? ”

“Herman, Rikki, and Lonnie. ”

“He hasn't discussed Rikki's past with her? ”

“Not yet. ”

“That'll make ten, ” Fitch said, his eyes dancing, his fingers suddenly twitching. “We can get eleven if v/e can bump somebody and pick up Shine Royce, right? ”

“Look, Fitch, you're worrying too much. You've paid your money, you've hired the best, now relax and wait on your verdict. It's in very good hands. ”

JOHNGRISHAM “Unanimous? ” Fitch asked gleefully.

“Nicholas is determined to bring it back unanimous. ”

Fitch sprang down the steps of the sagging building and bounced along the short sidewalk until he hit the street. For six blocks he whistled and almost skipped in the night air. Jose met him on foot and tried to keep up. He'd never seen his boss in such good spirits.

ON ONE SIDE of the conference room sat seven lawyers who'd each paid a million dollars for the privilege of sharing this event. No one else was in the room, no one but Wendall Rohr, who stood on the other side of the conference table and paced slowly back and forth, speaking softly with measured words, to his jury. His voice was warm and rich, filled with compassion one second and harsh words for Big Tobacco the next. He lectured and he cajoled. He was comical and he was angry. He showed them photographs, and he wrote figures on a chalkboard.

He finished in fifty-one minutes, the shortest rehearsal so far. The closing had to be an hour or less, Harkin's orders. The comments from his peers were fast and mixed, some complimentary but most probing for ways to improve. No tougher audience could be found. The seven had combined for hundreds of closing arguments, arguments which had produced close to half a billion dollars in verdicts. They knew how to extract large sums of money from juries.

They had agreed to park their egos outside the door. Rohr took another beating, something he didn't do well, and agreed to perform again. It had to be perfect. Victory was so close.

CABLE UNDERWENT similar abuse. His audience was much larger-a dozen lawyers, several jury consultants, lots of paralegals. He was videotaped so he could study himself. He was determined to do it in half an hour. The jury would be appreciative. Rohr would no doubt run longer. The contrast would be nice-Cable the technician sticking to the facts versus Rohr the flamboyant mouthpiece tugging at their emotions.

He delivered his closing, then watched the video. Again and again, throughout Sunday afternoon and deep into the night.

BY THE TIME Fitch arrived at the beach house, he had managed to work himself back into his usual state of cautious pessimism. The four CEO's were waiting, having just finished a fine meal. Jankle was drunk and kept to himself by the fireplace. Fitch took some coffee and analyzed the last-minute efforts of the defense. The questions quickly got around to the wire transfers he'd demanded on Friday; two million from each of the four.

Prior to Friday, The Fund had a balance of six and a half million, certainly more than enough to complete the trial. What was the additional eight million for? And how much was in The Fund now?

Fitch explained that the defense had had a sudden, unplanned expenditure of the grandest proportions.

“Stop the games, Fitch, ” said Luther Vandemeer of Trellco. “Have you managed to finally purchase a verdict? ”

Fitch tried not to lie to these four. They were, after all, his employers. He never told them the complete truth, and they didn't expect him to. But in response to a direct question, especially one of this magnitude, he felt compelled to make some effort at honesty. “Something like that, ” he said.

“Do you have the votes, Fitch? ” asked another CEO.

Fitch paused and looked carefully at each of the four, including Jankle, who was suddenly attentive. “I believe I do, ” he said.

Jankle jumped to his feet, unsteady but quite focused, and stepped into the center of the room. “Say it again, Fitch, ” he demanded.

“You heard me, ” Fitch said. “The verdict has been purchased. ” His voice couldn't resist a touch of pride.

The other three stood too. All four eased toward Fitch, forming a loose semicircle. “How? ” one of them asked.

“I'll never tell, ” Fitch said coolly. “The details are not important. ”

“I demand to know, ” Jankle said.

“Forget it. Part of my job is to do the dirty work while protecting you and your companies. If you want to terminate me, fine. But you'll never know the details. ”

They stared at him during a long pause. The circle grew tighter. They slowly sipped their drinks and admired their hero. Eight times they'd been to the brink of disaster, and eight times Rankin Fitch had worked his dirty tricks and saved them. Now he'd done it for the ninth time. He was invincible.

And he'd never promised victory before, not like this. Just the opposite. He'd always anguished before each verdict, always predicting defeat and taking pleasure in making them miserable. This was so uncharacteristic.

“How much? ” Jankle demanded.

It was something Fitch couldn't hide. For obvious reasons, these four had the right to know where the money went. They had installed a primitive accounting format for The Fund. Each company contributed equal amounts when Fitch said so, and each CEO was entitled to a monthly list of all expenses.

“Ten million, ” Fitch said.

The drunk barked first. “You've paid ten million dollars to a juror! ” The other three were equally shocked.

“No. Not to a juror. Let's put it this way. I've purchased the verdict for ten million dollars, okay? That's all I will say. The Fund now has a balance of four-point-five million. And I'm not going to answer any questions about how the money changed hands. ”

Maybe a sack of cash under the table might make sense. Five, ten thousand bucks maybe. But it was impossible to picture any of these small-town hicks on the jury possessing brains big enough to dream of ten million dollars. Surely it wasn't all going to one person.

They hung together near Fitch in stunned silence, each having the same thoughts. Surely Fitch had worked his wizardry on ten of them. That would make sense. He'd gotten ten and offered them a million each. That made a helluva lot more sense. Ten fresh new millionaires on the Gulf Coast. But how do you hide that kind of money?

Fitch savored the moment. “Of course, nothing is guaranteed, ” he said. “You never know until the jury conies back. ”

Well, it damned sure better be guaranteed, at the rate of ten million bucks. But they said nothing. Luther Vandemeer backed away first. He poured a stiffer brandy and sat on the piano bench near the baby grand. Fitch would tell him later. He'd wait a month or two, get Fitch up to New York on business, and pick the story out of him.

Fitch said he had things to do. He wanted each of the four in the courtroom tomorrow for closing arguments. Don't sit together, he instructed.

Thirty-seven

There was a general feeling among the jurors that Sunday night would be their last in sequestration. They whispered that perhaps if they got the case by noon Monday, then certainly they could reach a verdict by Monday night and go home. This wasn't discussed openly because it necessarily involved speculation about the verdict, something Herman was quick to stifle.

The mood was light, though, and many of the jurors quietly packed and tidied up their rooms. They wanted their last visit to the Siesta Inn to be quick- a dash in from court to gather packed bags and grab toothbrushes.

Sunday was the third consecutive night of personal visits, and collectively they'd had enough of their mates. Especially the married ones. Three straight nights of coziness in a small room was trying for most marriages. Even the singles needed a night off. Savelle's woman friend stayed away. Derrick told Angel he might stop by later, but had some important business first. Loreen didn't have a boyfriend, but she'd had enough of her teenaged daughters for one weekend. Jerry and Poodle were having their first little spat.

The motel was quiet Sunday night; no football and beer in the Party Room, no checkers tournaments. Marlee and Nicholas ate pizza in his room. They covered their checklists and made final plans. Both were nervous and tense, and managed only slight humor at her recounting of Fitch's sad story about Hoppy.

Marlee left at nine. She drove her leased car to her rented condo, where she finished packing her own things.

Nicholas walked across the hall where Hoppy and Millie were waiting like a couple of honeymooners. They couldn't thank him enough. He had exposed this horrible fraud and set them free again. It was shocking to think of the extreme measures the tobacco industry would go to just to pressure a juror.

Millie expressed her concern about remaining on the jury. She and Hoppy had already discussed it, and she didn't feel she could be fair and impartial in light of what they'd done to her husband. Nicholas had anticipated this. It was his opinion that he needed Millie.

And there was a more compelling reason. If Millie told Judge Harkin about the Hoppy scam, then he'd probably declare a mistrial. And that would be a tragedy. A mistrial would mean that in a year or two another jury would be picked to hear the same case. Each side would spend another fortune doing what they were doing right now. “It's up to us, Millie. We've been chosen to decide this case, and it's our responsibility to reach a verdict. The next jury will be no smarter than us. ”

“I agree, ” Hoppy said. “This trial will be over tomorrow. It'd be a shame to have a mistrial declared here at the last minute. ”

So Millie bit her lip and found new resolve. Her friend Nicholas made everything easier.

CLEVE MET DERRICK in the sports bar of the Nugget Casino Sunday night. They drank a beer, watched a football game, said little because Derrick was pouting and trying to appear angry at the screwing he claimed to be receiving. The fifteen thousand in cash was in a small brown packet that Cleve slid across the table and which Derrick took and stuffed in a pocket, without saying thanks or anything. Pursuant to their latest deal, the other ten thousand would be paid after the verdict, assuming of course that Angel voted with the plaintiff.

“Why don't you leave now? ” Derrick said a few minutes after the money landed near his heart.

“Great idea, ” Cleve said. “Go see your girlfriend. Explain things carefully. ”

“I can handle her. ”

Cleve took his longneck with him, and disappeared.

Derrick drained his beer and rushed to the men's room, where he locked himself in a stall and counted the money, a hundred and fifty fresh, new, neatly packed hundred-dollar bills. He pressed the stack together and was amazed at its size-less than an inch thick. He divided it in quarters, and placed a folded wad in each pocket of his jeans.

The casino was bustling. He'd learned to shoot craps from an older brother who'd served in the JOHN CRTS HAM Army, and for some reason, as if drawn by a magnet, fie wandered near the crap tables. He watched for a minute, then decided to resist the temptation and go see Angel. He stopped for a quick beer at a small bar overlooking the roulette pit. Everywhere below him fortunes were being won and lost. It takes money to make money. It was his lucky night.

He bought a thousand dollars' worth of chips at a crap table, and enjoyed the attention that all big spenders command. The pit boss examined the unused bills, then smiled at Derrick. A blond waitress appeared from nowhere and he ordered another beer.

Derrick bet heavily, heavier than any white person at the table. The first batch of chips disappeared in fifteen minutes, and he never hesitated before cashing in for a thousand more.

Another thousand soon followed, then the dice got hot and Derrick won eighteen hundred dollars in five minutes. He bought more chips. The beers kept coming. The blond started flirting. The pit boss asked if he wanted to become a gold member of the Nugget.

He lost track of the money. He pulled it from all four pockets, then he replaced some of it. He bought more chips. After an hour, he was down six thousand dollars and wanted desperately to quit. But his luck had to change. The dice had been hot earlier; they'd get hot again. He decided to keep betting heavily, and when his luck turned he'd get it all back. Another beer, and he switched to scotch.

After a bad run, he pulled himself away from the table and returned to the men's room, same stall. He locked it and pulled loose bills from all four pockets. Down to seven thousand dollars, and he felt like crying. But he had to get it back. He decided to go out there and reclaim his money. He'd try a different table. He'd alter his betting. And, regardless of what happened, he would throw up his hands and bolt from the floor if, God help him, his pot dwindled down to five thousand. There was no way he'd lose the last five thousand.

He walked past a roulette table with no players, and on a whim placed five hundred-dollar chips on red. The dealer spun, red played, Derrick made five hundred dollars. He left the chips on red, and won again. With no hesitation, he left the twenty hundred-dollar chips on red, and won for the third straight time. Four thousand dollars in less than five minutes. He got a beer in the sports bar and watched a boxing match. Wild shouting from the crap pit told him to stay away. He felt fortunate to have almost eleven thousand dollars in his pocket.

It was past time for visiting Angel, but he had to see her. He purposely walked through the rows of slot machines, as far away from the crap tables as he could get. He walked fast, hoping to reach the front door before changing his mind and racing toward the dice. He made it.

He'd driven for only a minute, it seemed, when he saw blue lights behind him. It was a City of Biloxi police car, fast on his bumper, headlights flickering. Derrick had no mints or gum. He stopped, got out of the car, and waited for orders from the cop, who got up close and immediately smelled alcohol.

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