The Runaway Jury (30 page)

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

“I’m not a supervisor,” Hoppy said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chicken feed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe what?” he asked.

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

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

“You just made a mistake,” added Napier.

“You got that right,” Hoppy mumbled.

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

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

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

“How can I say no?”

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

“I don’t understand.”

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

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

Hoppy was rallying, however faintly. “I’m listening.

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

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

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

“It’s a deal.”

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

“You have my word.”

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

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

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

Twenty-one

W
ith 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, antitampering 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!