The Runaway Jury Part 36

Three hours. On a Sat.u.r.day. Why hadn't Hoppy made a few calls? He'd had a week. He sunk lower until his elbows rested on his knees. Millie wiped her cheeks with a tissue. A quiet minute pa.s.sed.

"What about the tape?" Hoppy asked.

"Of you and Moke?"

"Yes. That tape."

"I'm not worried about it," Nicholas said confidently, as if he was now Hoppy's lawyer. "Legally, there are lots of problems with the tape."

Tell me about it, Hoppy thought but said nothing. Nicholas continued, "It was obtained by false pretenses. It's a clear case of entrapment. It's in the possession of men who themselves are violating the law. It was not obtained by law enforcement officials. There was no search warrant for it, no court order allowing your words to be recorded. Forget it."

What sweet words! Hoppy's shoulders jerked upward and he exhaled mightily. "You're serious?"

"Yes, Hoppy. The tape will never be played again."

Millie leaned over and clutched Hoppy, and they hugged without shame or embarra.s.sment. Her tears were now of unbridled joy. Hoppy jumped to his feet and bounced around the room. "So what's the game plan?" he asked, cracking his knuckles, ready for battle.

"We have to be careful."

"Just point me in the right direction. The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

"Hoppy!"

"Sorry, dear. I'm just ready to kick some a.s.s."

"Your language!"

SUNDAY BEGAN with a birthday cake. Loreen Duke had mentioned to Mrs. Gladys Card that her thirty-sixth birthday was approaching. Mrs. Card called her sister out in the free world, and early Sunday her sister delivered a thick chocolate caramel cake. Three layers with thirty-six candles. The jurors met in the dining room at nine and ate the cake for breakfast. Most then left in a hurry for four hours of much-awaited wors.h.i.+p. Some had not been to church in years, but felt drawn by the Spirit.

One of Poodle's boys picked her up, and Jerry tagged along. They headed in the general direction of some unnamed church, but as soon as they realized no one was watching they went to a casino instead. Nicholas left with Marlee, and they attended Ma.s.s. Mrs. Gladys Card made a grand entrance at the Calvary Baptist Church. Millie went home with good intentions of dressing for church, but she was overcome with emotion at the sight of her kids. No one was watching, so she spent her time in the kitchen, cooking and cleaning and doting on her brood. Phillip Savelle remained behind.

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 there fighting like h.e.l.l 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 dutifully 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 HOPPY DUPREE painted on it. He listened for a moment, then knocked loudly. 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 sonofab.i.t.c.h! 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 D.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.

"Sonofab.i.t.c.hes," 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. Cristano was present.

"Start at the beginning," Fitch said. "I want to hear every word." He punched a b.u.t.ton 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 Was.h.i.+ngton.

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 Was.h.i.+ngton 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 h.e.l.l 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 b.u.mp 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 h.e.l.luva scam, Fitch."

"Yeah, it was beautiful until we got caught."

"Is this something you do in every tobacco trial?"

"We certainly try."