The Runaway Jury
Chapter 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. 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 Sammie 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 document - the 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 Democrat 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 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 Washington, 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 FDA 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."
"It is political," Hoppy said, staring at the Gulf in disbelief.
"Nothing but politics. If Big Tobacco loses this trial, then there will be an avalanche of litigation the likes of which this country has never seen. The companies will lose billions, and we'll lose millions in Washington. Can you help us, Hoppy?"
Jolted back to reality, Hoppy could only manage, "Say what?"
"Can you help us?"
"Sure, I guess, but how?"
"Millie. You talk to your wife, make sure she understands how senseless and how dangerous this case is. She needs to take charge in that jury room, Hoppy. She needs to stand her ground against those liberals on the jury who might want to bring back a big verdict. Can you do it?"
"Of course I can."
"But will you, Hoppy? We don't want to use the tape, okay. You help us, and the tape goes down the toilet."
Hoppy suddenly remembered the tape. "Yeah, you gotta deal. I'll see her tonight, as a matter of fact."
"Go to work on her. It's terribly important-important for us at Justice, for the good of the country, and, of course, it'll keep you outta prison for five years." Cristano delivered the last line with a horselaugh and a slap on the knee. Hoppy laughed too.
They talked about strategy for half an hour. The longer they sat on the boat, the more questions Hoppy had. What if Millie voted with the tobacco company but the rest of the jury disagreed and delivered a big verdict? What would happen to Hoppy then?
Cristano promised to hold his end of the deal regardless of the verdict, as long as Millie voted right.
Hoppy virtually skipped along the pier as they returned to the car. He was a new man when he saw Napier and Nitchman.
AFTER DELIBERATING on his decision for three days, Judge Harkin reversed himself late Saturday and decided the jurors would not be permitted to attend their churches Sunday. He was convinced all fourteen would suddenly possess an amazing desire to commune with the Holy Spirit, and the idea of them fanning out to all parts of the county was simply unworkable. He called his minister, who in turn made more calls, and a young divinity student was located. A chapel service was planned for eleven o'clock Sunday morning, in the Party Room at the Siesta Inn.
Judge Harkin sent a personal note to each juror. The notes were slid under their doors before they returned from New Orleans Saturday night.
Six people attended the service, a rather dull affair. Mrs. Gladys Card was there, in a surprisingly nasty mood for the Sabbath. She hadn't missed Sunday School at the Calvary Baptist Church in sixteen years, the last absence caused by the death of her sister in Baton Rouge. Sixteen straight years without a miss. She had the Perfect Attendance Pins lined up on her dresser. Esther Knoblach in the Women's Mission Union had twenty-two years, the current record at Calvary, but she was seventy-nine and was afflicted with high blood pressure. Gladys was sixty-three, in fine health, and thus considered Esther catchable. She couldn't admit this to anyone, but everyone at Calvary suspected it.
But now she'd blown it, thanks to Judge Harkin, a man she didn't like from the start and now despised. And she didn't like the divinity student either.
Rikki Coleman came in a jogging suit. Millie Dupree brought her Bible. Loreen Duke was a devout churchgoer, but was appalled at the brevity of the service. On at eleven and over by eleven-thirty, typical hurried style of white folks. She'd heard of such foolishness, but had never worshiped in such a manner. Her pastor never got to the pulpit before one, and often didn't leave it until three, when they broke for lunch, which they ate on the grounds if the weather was nice, then trooped back inside for another dose. She nibbled on a sweet roll and suffered in silence.
Mr. and Mrs. Herman Grimes attended, not through any calling of faith but because the walls in Room 58 were closing in. Herman in particular had not voluntarily gone to church since childhood.
Throughout the course of the morning, it had come to be known that Phillip Savelle was angered at the notion of worship. He told someone he was an atheist, and this news had spread in a flash. To protest, he positioned himself on his bed, apparently nude or certainly close to it, folded and tucked his wiry legs and arms into some type of yoga drill, and hollered chants at full volume. He did this with the door open.
He could be heard faintly in the Party Room, during the service, and this no doubt was a factor in the young divinity student's rather hastened wrap-up and benediction.
Lou Dell marched down the first time to tell Savelle to shut up, but backed away quickly when she noticed Savelle's nakedness. Willis tried next, but Savelle kept his eyes closed and his mouth open and simply ignored the deputy. Willis kept his distance.
The nonworshiping jurors hunkered down behind locked doors and watched loud televisions.
At two, the first relatives began to arrive with fresh clothing and supplies for the week. Nicholas Easter was the only juror with no close contact on the outside. It was determined by Judge Harkin that Willis would drive Easter in a squad car to his apartment.
The fire had been out for several hours. The trucks and firemen were long gone. The narrow front lawn and sidewalk in front of the building were strewn with charred debris and piles of soggy clothing. Neighbors milled about, stunned, but busily going about the cleanup.
"Which one's yours?" Willis asked as he stopped the car and gaped at the burnt crater in the center of the building.
"Up there," Nicholas said, trying to point and nod at the same time. His knees were weak as he left the car and walked to the first cluster of people, a family of Vietnamese who were mutely studying a melted plastic table lamp.
"When did this happen?" he asked. The air was thick with the acrid smell of freshly burnt wood and paint and carpet.
They said nothing.
"This morning, about eight," answered a woman as she walked by with a heavy cardboard box. Nicholas looked at the people and realized he didn't know a single name. In the small foyer, a busy lady with a clipboard was scribbling notes while talking on a cellphone. The main staircase to the second level was guarded by a private security guard who at the moment was helping an elderly woman drag a wet throw rug down the steps.
"Do you live here?" the woman asked when she finished her conversation.
"Yes. Easter, in 312."
"Wow. Totally destroyed. That's probably where it started."
"I'd like to see it."
The security guard led Nicholas and the woman up the steps to the second floor, where the damage was quite apparent. They stopped at a yellow caution tape at the edge of the crater. The fire had gone upward, through the plaster ceilings and cheap rafters, and had managed to burn two large holes in the roof, directly over the spot where his bedroom used to be, as far as he could tell. And it had burned downward, severely damaging the apartment directly under him. Nothing was left of number 312, except for the kitchen wall, where the sink hung by one end and seemed ready to fall. Nothing. No sign of the cheap furniture in the den, no sign of the den itself. Nothing from the bedroom except blackened walls.
And, to his horror, no computer.
Virtually all the floors, ceilings, and walls of the apartment had vanished, leaving nothing but a gaping hole.
"Anybody hurt?" Nicholas asked softly.
"No. Were you home?" she asked.
"No. Who are you?"
"I'm with the management company. I have some forms for you to fill out."
They returned to the foyer where Nicholas hurriedly did the paperwork and left with Willis.
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. 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 Sammie 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 document - the 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 Democrat 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 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 Washington, 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 FDA 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."
"It is political," Hoppy said, staring at the Gulf in disbelief.
"Nothing but politics. If Big Tobacco loses this trial, then there will be an avalanche of litigation the likes of which this country has never seen. The companies will lose billions, and we'll lose millions in Washington. Can you help us, Hoppy?"
Jolted back to reality, Hoppy could only manage, "Say what?"
"Can you help us?"
"Sure, I guess, but how?"
"Millie. You talk to your wife, make sure she understands how senseless and how dangerous this case is. She needs to take charge in that jury room, Hoppy. She needs to stand her ground against those liberals on the jury who might want to bring back a big verdict. Can you do it?"
"Of course I can."
"But will you, Hoppy? We don't want to use the tape, okay. You help us, and the tape goes down the toilet."
Hoppy suddenly remembered the tape. "Yeah, you gotta deal. I'll see her tonight, as a matter of fact."
"Go to work on her. It's terribly important-important for us at Justice, for the good of the country, and, of course, it'll keep you outta prison for five years." Cristano delivered the last line with a horselaugh and a slap on the knee. Hoppy laughed too.
They talked about strategy for half an hour. The longer they sat on the boat, the more questions Hoppy had. What if Millie voted with the tobacco company but the rest of the jury disagreed and delivered a big verdict? What would happen to Hoppy then?
Cristano promised to hold his end of the deal regardless of the verdict, as long as Millie voted right.
Hoppy virtually skipped along the pier as they returned to the car. He was a new man when he saw Napier and Nitchman.
AFTER DELIBERATING on his decision for three days, Judge Harkin reversed himself late Saturday and decided the jurors would not be permitted to attend their churches Sunday. He was convinced all fourteen would suddenly possess an amazing desire to commune with the Holy Spirit, and the idea of them fanning out to all parts of the county was simply unworkable. He called his minister, who in turn made more calls, and a young divinity student was located. A chapel service was planned for eleven o'clock Sunday morning, in the Party Room at the Siesta Inn.
Judge Harkin sent a personal note to each juror. The notes were slid under their doors before they returned from New Orleans Saturday night.
Six people attended the service, a rather dull affair. Mrs. Gladys Card was there, in a surprisingly nasty mood for the Sabbath. She hadn't missed Sunday School at the Calvary Baptist Church in sixteen years, the last absence caused by the death of her sister in Baton Rouge. Sixteen straight years without a miss. She had the Perfect Attendance Pins lined up on her dresser. Esther Knoblach in the Women's Mission Union had twenty-two years, the current record at Calvary, but she was seventy-nine and was afflicted with high blood pressure. Gladys was sixty-three, in fine health, and thus considered Esther catchable. She couldn't admit this to anyone, but everyone at Calvary suspected it.
But now she'd blown it, thanks to Judge Harkin, a man she didn't like from the start and now despised. And she didn't like the divinity student either.
Rikki Coleman came in a jogging suit. Millie Dupree brought her Bible. Loreen Duke was a devout churchgoer, but was appalled at the brevity of the service. On at eleven and over by eleven-thirty, typical hurried style of white folks. She'd heard of such foolishness, but had never worshiped in such a manner. Her pastor never got to the pulpit before one, and often didn't leave it until three, when they broke for lunch, which they ate on the grounds if the weather was nice, then trooped back inside for another dose. She nibbled on a sweet roll and suffered in silence.
Mr. and Mrs. Herman Grimes attended, not through any calling of faith but because the walls in Room 58 were closing in. Herman in particular had not voluntarily gone to church since childhood.
Throughout the course of the morning, it had come to be known that Phillip Savelle was angered at the notion of worship. He told someone he was an atheist, and this news had spread in a flash. To protest, he positioned himself on his bed, apparently nude or certainly close to it, folded and tucked his wiry legs and arms into some type of yoga drill, and hollered chants at full volume. He did this with the door open.
He could be heard faintly in the Party Room, during the service, and this no doubt was a factor in the young divinity student's rather hastened wrap-up and benediction.
Lou Dell marched down the first time to tell Savelle to shut up, but backed away quickly when she noticed Savelle's nakedness. Willis tried next, but Savelle kept his eyes closed and his mouth open and simply ignored the deputy. Willis kept his distance.
The nonworshiping jurors hunkered down behind locked doors and watched loud televisions.
At two, the first relatives began to arrive with fresh clothing and supplies for the week. Nicholas Easter was the only juror with no close contact on the outside. It was determined by Judge Harkin that Willis would drive Easter in a squad car to his apartment.
The fire had been out for several hours. The trucks and firemen were long gone. The narrow front lawn and sidewalk in front of the building were strewn with charred debris and piles of soggy clothing. Neighbors milled about, stunned, but busily going about the cleanup.
"Which one's yours?" Willis asked as he stopped the car and gaped at the burnt crater in the center of the building.
"Up there," Nicholas said, trying to point and nod at the same time. His knees were weak as he left the car and walked to the first cluster of people, a family of Vietnamese who were mutely studying a melted plastic table lamp.
"When did this happen?" he asked. The air was thick with the acrid smell of freshly burnt wood and paint and carpet.
They said nothing.
"This morning, about eight," answered a woman as she walked by with a heavy cardboard box. Nicholas looked at the people and realized he didn't know a single name. In the small foyer, a busy lady with a clipboard was scribbling notes while talking on a cellphone. The main staircase to the second level was guarded by a private security guard who at the moment was helping an elderly woman drag a wet throw rug down the steps.
"Do you live here?" the woman asked when she finished her conversation.
"Yes. Easter, in 312."
"Wow. Totally destroyed. That's probably where it started."
"I'd like to see it."
The security guard led Nicholas and the woman up the steps to the second floor, where the damage was quite apparent. They stopped at a yellow caution tape at the edge of the crater. The fire had gone upward, through the plaster ceilings and cheap rafters, and had managed to burn two large holes in the roof, directly over the spot where his bedroom used to be, as far as he could tell. And it had burned downward, severely damaging the apartment directly under him. Nothing was left of number 312, except for the kitchen wall, where the sink hung by one end and seemed ready to fall. Nothing. No sign of the cheap furniture in the den, no sign of the den itself. Nothing from the bedroom except blackened walls.
And, to his horror, no computer.
Virtually all the floors, ceilings, and walls of the apartment had vanished, leaving nothing but a gaping hole.
"Anybody hurt?" Nicholas asked softly.
"No. Were you home?" she asked.
"No. Who are you?"
"I'm with the management company. I have some forms for you to fill out."
They returned to the foyer where Nicholas hurriedly did the paperwork and left with Willis.
