The Runaway Jury (29 page)

Her mouth fell open and her cheeks flushed. She couldn’t speak.

“Come on, Gladys. We didn’t get any.”

She grabbed her Coke and jumped to her feet. “Maybe there’s a good reason you didn’t,” she snapped angrily, then marched from the room. Jerry managed a laugh. The other men were too tired and despondent to care.

MARLEE’S CAR was a Lexus leased from a dealer in Biloxi, a three-year lease at six hundred a month with the lessee being Rochelle Group, a brand-spanking-new corporation Fitch had been able to learn nothing about. A transmitter weighing almost a pound had been attached by a magnet under the rear left tire well, so Marlee could now be tracked by Konrad sitting at his desk. Joe Boy had stuck it under there a few hours after they’d followed her from Mobile and seen her license plates.

Her large new condo was leased by the same corporation. Almost two thousand dollars a month.
Marlee had some serious overhead, but Fitch and company couldn’t find a trace of a job.

She called late Friday night, just minutes after Fitch had stripped to his XX-Large boxers and black socks and sprawled on his bed like a beached whale. For now he owned the Presidential Suite on the top floor of the Colonial Hotel in Biloxi, on Highway 90, the Gulf a hundred yards away. When he bothered to look, he had a nice view of the beach. No one outside his little circle knew where he was.

The call went to the front desk, an urgent message for Mr. Fitch, and it posed a dilemma for the night clerk. The hotel was being paid large sums of money to protect the privacy and identity of Mr. Fitch. The clerk could not admit he was a guest. The young lady had it all figured out.

When Marlee called back ten minutes later, she was put straight through, pursuant to Mr. Fitch’s orders. Fitch was now standing with his boxers pulled almost to his chest but still sagging down past his fleshy thighs, scratching his forehead and wondering how she’d found him. “Good evening,” he said.

“Hi, Fitch. Sorry to call so late.” She wasn’t sorry about a damned thing. The “i” in “Hi” was deliberately flat, something that happened occasionally with Marlee. It was an effort to sound a little Southern. The recordings of all eight phone conversations, however brief, along with the recording of their chat in New Orleans, had been scrutinized by voice and dialect experts in New York. Marlee was a Midwesterner, from eastern Kansas or western Missouri, probably from somewhere within a hundred miles of Kansas City.

“No problem,” he said, checking the recorder on a
narrow folding table near his bed. “How’s your friend?”

“Lonely. Tonight was conjugal night, you know?”

“So I heard. Did everybody get conjugated?”

“Not exactly. It’s pretty sad, really. The men watched John Wayne movies while the women knitted.”

“Nobody got laid?”

“Very few. Angel Weese, but she’s in the middle of a hot romance. Rikki Coleman. Millie Dupree’s husband showed up but didn’t stay long. The Cards were together. Can’t tell about Herman. And Savelle had a guest.”

“What manner of humanity did Savelle attract?”

“Don’t know. It was never seen.”

Fitch lowered his wide rear to the edge of the bed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why didn’t you visit your friend?” he asked.

“Who said we’re lovers?”

“What are you?”

“Friends. Guess which two jurors are sleeping together?”

“Now how would I know that?”

“Guess.”

Fitch smiled at himself in the mirror and marveled at his wonderful luck. “Jerry Fernandez and somebody.”

“Good guess. Jerry’s about to get a divorce, and Sylvia is lonely too. Their rooms are just across the hall, and, well, there’s little else to do at the Siesta Inn.”

“Ain’t love grand?”

“I gotta tell you, Fitch, Krigler worked for the plaintiff.”

“They listened to him, huh?”

“Every word. They listened and they believed. He turned them around, Fitch.”

“Tell me some good news.”

“Rohr’s worried.”

His spine stiffened noticeably. “What’s bugging Rohr?” he asked, studying his puzzled face in the mirror. He shouldn’t be surprised that she was talking to Rohr, so why the hell was he shocked to hear it? He felt betrayed.

“You. He knows you’re loose on the streets scheming up all sorts of ways to get to the jury. Wouldn’t you be worried, Fitch, if some guy like you was hard at work for the plaintiff?”

“I’d be terrified.”

“Rohr isn’t terrified. He’s just worried.”

“How often do you talk to him?”

“A lot. He’s sweeter than you, Fitch. He’s a very pleasant man to talk to, plus he doesn’t record my calls, doesn’t send in goons to follow my car. None of that sort of stuff.”

“Really knows how to charm a girl, huh?”

“Yeah. But he’s weak where it counts.”

“Where’s that?”

“In the wallet. He can’t match your resources.”

“How much of my resources do you want?”

“Later, Fitch. Gotta run. There’s a suspicious-looking car sitting across the street. Must be some of your clowns.” She hung up.

Fitch showered and tried to sleep. At 2 A.M., he drove himself to the Lucy Luck, where he played blackjack at five hundred dollars a hand, sipped Sprite until dawn, when he left with close to twenty thousand dollars in fresh winnings.

Twenty

T
he first Saturday in November arrived with temperatures in the low sixties, unseasonably cool for the Coast and its near-tropical climate. A gentle breeze from the north rattled trees and scattered leaves on the streets and sidewalks. Fall usually arrived late and lasted until the first of the year, when it yielded to spring. The Coast did not experience winter.

A few joggers were on the street just after dawn. No one noticed the plain black Chrysler as it pulled into the driveway of a modest brick split-level. It was too early for the neighbors to see the two young men in matching dark suits exit the car, walk to the front door, ring the buzzer, and wait patiently. It was too early, but in less than an hour the lawns would be busy with leaf rakers and the sidewalks busy with children.

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 nine 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 Dupree, 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?”

“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.