She called Rebecca and managed to sound perfectly normal, though her mouth was dry and her heart was pounding. Yes, the man named Small had specifically asked about Claire Clement. And he had mentioned Jeff Kerr. With Marlee's prompting, Rebecca managed to replay the entire conversation.
Rebecca knew not to ask too many questions. "Are you okay?" was about the extent of her inquiry.
"Oh we're fine," Marlee assured her. "Living on the beach for a while."
Which beach would be nice, but Rebecca let it pass. No one dug too deep with Claire. They said their good-byes with the usual promises to keep in touch.
Neither she nor Nicholas had believed they would ever be tracked to Lawrence. Now that they had, the questions fell like hard rain around her. Who had found them? Which side, Fitch or Rohr? Most likely Fitch, simply because he had more money and more cunning. What had been their mistake? How did the trail ever leave Biloxi? How much did they know?
And how far would they go? She needed to speak to Nicholas, but he was, at the moment, on a boat somewhere in the Gulf trolling for mackerel and bonding with his fellow jurors.
FITCH, OF COURSE, was not fishing. In fact he hadn't taken a day of rest or pleasure in three months. He was at his desk, neatly arranging piles of paperwork, when the call came. "Hello, Marlee," he said into the receiver, to the girl of his dreams.
"Hey, Fitch. You've lost another one."
"Another what?" he asked, biting his tongue to keep from calling her Claire.
"Another juror. Loreen Duke was enthralled by Mr. Robilio, and now she's leading the parade to reward the plaintiff."
"But she hasn't heard our case yet."
"True. You have four smokers now-Weese, Fernandez, Taylor-Tatum, and Easter. Guess how many started smoking after the age of eighteen."
"Don't know."
"None. They all started as kids. Herman and Herrera used to smoke. Guess how old they were when they started."
"Don't know."
"Fourteen and seventeen. That's half of your jury, Fitch, and all started smoking as minors."
"What am I supposed to do about it?"
"Keep lying, I guess. Look, Fitch, what are the chances of us getting together for a little chat, private you know, without all your goons ducking behind bushes?"
"The chances are excellent."
"Another lie. Let's do it this way. Let's meet and talk, and if my people see your people anywhere near us, then it will be our last conversation."
"Your people?"
"Anybody can hire goons, Fitch. You should know this."
"It's a deal."
"You know Casella's, the little seafood joint with outdoor tables at the end of the Biloxi pier."
"I can find it."
"That's where I am now. So when you walk down the pier, I'll be watching. And if I see any character who looks the least bit suspicious, deal's off."
"When?"
"Right now. I'm waiting."
JOSE SLOWED for a second in the parking lot near the small-craft harbor, and Fitch practically jumped from the Suburban. It drove away, and Fitch, very much alone and unwired, strolled down the wooden pier with the heavy wooden planks shifting gently in the tide. Marlee sat at a wooden table with an umbrella above it, with her back to the Gulf, her face to the pier. Lunch was an hour away and the place was deserted.
"Hello, Marlee," Fitch said as he approached, stopped, then sat across from her. She wore jeans and a denim shirt, a fishing cap, and sunglasses. "A pleasure, Fitch," she said.
"Are you always so surly?" he asked, settling his squatty frame into a narrow chair, trying his best to smile and be chummy.
"Are you wired, Fitch?"
"No. Of course not."
Slowly, she removed from her bulky purse a thin black device resembling a small Dictaphone. She pushed a button and placed it on the table, aimed at Fitch's ample gut. "Pardon me, Fitch, just checking to see if you had time to stick a bug here or there."
"I said I wasn't wired, okay," Fitch said, very relieved. Konrad had suggested a small body mike with a tech van parked nearby, but Fitch, in a hurry, had said no.
She glanced at the tiny digital monitor on the end of the sensor-scan, then placed it back in her purse. Fitch smiled, but only for a second.
"I got a call from Lawrence this morning," she said, and Fitch swallowed hard. "Evidently you've got some real meatheads up there banging on doors and kicking over trash cans."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Fitch said, somewhat unsteadily and without sufficient conviction.
It was Fitch! His eyes betrayed him; they fluttered and dropped and darted away quickly before returning to see her, then dropped again, all in an instant but with plenty of proof that she'd caught him. His breath was short for a second, and his shoulders jerked ever so slightly. He'd been nailed.
"Right. One more phone call from old friends and you'll never hear my voice again."
He rallied adequately though. "What's in Lawrence?" he demanded as if his integrity had been questioned.
"Give it up, Fitch. And call off the dogs."
He exhaled heavily while shrugging in utter bewilderment. "Fine. Whatever. I just wish I knew what you were talking about."
"You do. One more phone call and it's over, okay?"
"Okay. Whatever you say."
Though Fitch couldn't see her eyes, he could feel them beaming at him from behind the thick glasses. She said nothing for a minute. A waiter busied himself at a nearby table, but made no effort to serve them.
Finally, Fitch leaned forward and said, "When do we stop playing games?"
"Now."
"Wonderful. What do you want?"
"Money."
"I figured. How much?"
"I'll name a price later. I take it you're ready to deal."
"I'm always ready to deal. But I gotta know what I get in return."
"It's very simple, Fitch. It depends on what you want. As far as you're concerned this jury can do one of four things. It can deliver a verdict for the plaintiff. It can split and hang and go home, and you'll be back down here in a year or so doing this again. Rohr isn't going away. It can come back nine to three for you, and you get a huge victory. And it can come back twelve to zero, and your clients can relax for several years."
"I know all this."
"Of course you do. If we rule out a plaintiff's verdict, then we have three choices."
"What can you deliver?"
"Anything I want. Including a plaintiff's verdict."
"So the other side is willing to pay."
"We're talking. Let's just leave it at that."
"Is this an auction? Your verdict to the highest bidder?"
"It's whatever I want it to be."
"I'd feel better if you'd stay away from Rohr."
"I'm not too concerned with your feelings."
Another waiter appeared and noticed them. He reluctantly asked if they'd like something to drink. Fitch wanted iced tea. Marlee asked for a Diet Coke in a can.
"Tell me how the deal works," he said when the waiter left.
"It's very simple. We agree on the verdict you want, just look at the menu and place your order. Then we agree on the price. You get your money ready. We wait until the very end, until the lawyers finish their closing arguments and the jury retires to deliberate. At that point, I furnish you with wiring instructions and the money is immediately sent to a bank in, say, Switzerland. Once I get confirmation the money has been received, then the jury returns with your verdict."