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."