The Runaway Jury (48 page)

“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.

“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. Cristano 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

I
t 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 company, 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 we 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.”

“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. José 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.