Across the hall in Room 49, Sylvia Taylor-Tatum talked on the phone with her son. In 45, Mrs. Gladys Card played gin rummy with Mr. Nelson Card, he of the prostate history. In 51, Rikki Coleman waited for Rhea, who was running late and might not make it because the baby-sitter hadn't called. In 53, Loreen Duke sat on her bed, eating a brownie and listening with wretched envy as Angel Weese and her boyfriend rattled the walls next door in 55.
And in 47, Hoppy and Millie Dupree made love like never before. Hoppy had arrived early with a large sack of Chinese food and a bottle of cheap champagne, something he hadn't tried in years. Under normal circumstances, Millie would've fussed about the alcohol, but these days were far from normal. She sipped a little of the beverage from a plastic motel cup, and ate a generous portion of sweet and sour pork. Then Hoppy attacked her.
When they finished, they lay in the darkness and talked softly about the kids and school and the home in general. She was quite weary of this ordeal, and anxious to get back to her family. Hoppy spoke forlornly of her absence. The kids were testy. The house was a wreck. Everybody missed Millie.
He dressed and turned on the television. Millie found her bathrobe and poured another tiny bit of champagne.
"You're not gonna believe this," Hoppy said, fishing through a coat pocket and retrieving a folded piece of paper.
"What is it?" she asked, taking the paper and unfolding it. It was a copy of Fitch's bogus memo listing the many sins of Leon Robilio. She read it slowly, then looked suspiciously at her husband. "Where did you get this?" she demanded.
"It came across the fax yesterday," Hoppy said sincerely. He'd practiced his answer because he couldn't stand the thought of lying to Millie. He felt like a wretch, but then Napier and Nitchman were out there somewhere, just waiting.
"Who sent it?" she asked.
"Don't know. It looks like it came from Washington."
"Why didn't you throw it away?"
"I don't know. I-"
"You know it's wrong to show me stuff like this, Hoppy." Millie flung the paper on the bed and walked closer to her husband, hands on hips. "What are you trying to do?"
"Nothing. It just got faxed to my office, that's all."
"What a coincidence! Somebody in Washington just happened to know your fax number, just happened to know your wife was on the jury, just happened to know Leon Robilio testified, and just happened to suspect that if they sent you this you'd be stupid enough to bring it over here and try to influence me. I want to know what's going on!"
"Nothing. I swear," Hoppy said, on his heels.
"Why have you taken such a sudden interest in this trial?"
"It's fascinating."
"It was fascinating for three weeks and you hardly mentioned it. What's going on, Hoppy?"
"Nothing. Relax."
"I can tell when something's bothering you."
"Get a grip, Millie. Look, you're edgy. I'm edgy. This thing has all of us somewhat out of whack. I'm sorry for bringing it."
Millie finished off her champagne and sat on the edge of the bed. Hoppy sat next to her. Mr. Cristano at Justice had suggested in rather strong terms that Hoppy get Millie to show the memo to all of her friends on the jury. He dreaded telling Mr. Cristano that this probably wouldn't happen. But then, how would Mr. Cristano know for sure what happened to the damned thing?
As Hoppy pondered this Millie started crying. "I just want to go home," she said, eyes red, lip quivering. Hoppy put his arm around her and squeezed tightly.
"I'm sorry," he said. She cried even harder.
Hoppy felt like crying too. This meeting had proved worthless, the sex notwithstanding. According to Mr. Cristano, the trial would end in a few short days. It was imperative that Millie soon be convinced that the only verdict was one for the defense. Since their time together was scarce, Hoppy would be forced to tell her the awful truth. Not now, not tonight, but surely during the next personal visit.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Colonel's routine never varied. Like a good soldier, he rose at precisely five-thirty every morning for fifty pushups and situps before a quick, cold shower. At six, he went to the dining room, where there'd damned well better be some fresh coffee and plenty of newspapers. He ate toast with jam and no butter, and greeted each of his colleagues with a hale and hearty good morning as they drifted in and out. They were sleepy-eyed and anxious to return to their rooms where they could sip coffee and watch the news in private. It was a helluva way to start the day, being forced to greet the Colonel and return his verbal barrage. The longer they were sequestered, the more hyper he became before sunrise. Several of the jurors waited until eight, when he was known to promptly leave and return to his room.
At six-fifteen Thursday morning, Nicholas said hello to the Colonel as he poured a cup of coffee, then endured a brief discussion about the weather. He left the makeshift dining room and eased quietly down the empty, darkened hall. Several TV's could already be heard. Someone was talking on the phone. He unlocked his door and quickly set the coffee on the dresser, removed a stack of newspapers from a drawer, then left the room.
Using a key he'd stolen from the rack under the front desk, Nicholas entered Room 50, the Colonel's. The smell of cheap aftershave lingered heavily. Shoes were assembled in a perfect row against one wall. The clothes in the closet were neatly hung and precisely starched. Nicholas fell to his knees, lifted the edge of the bedspread, and deposited the newspapers and magazines under the bed. One was a copy of yesterday's Mogul.
He silently left the room and returned to his. An hour later he called Marlee. Assuming Fitch was listening to all of her calls, he simply said, "Darlene, please." To which she said, "Wrong number." Both hung up. He waited five minutes and dialed the number to a cellphone Marlee kept hidden in a closet. They expected Fitch to tap her phones and wire her apartment.
"Delivery's complete," he said.
Thirty minutes later Marlee left her apartment and found a pay phone at a biscuit drive-through. She called Fitch, and waited for her call to be routed.
"Good morning, Marlee," he said.
"Hey, Fitch. Look, I'd love to talk on the phone, but I know all this is getting recorded."
"No it's not. I swear."
"Right. There's a Kroger at the corner of Fourteenth and Beach Boulevard, five minutes from your office. There are three pay phones near the front entrance, right side. Go to the one in the middle. I'll call in seven minutes. Hurry, Fitch." She hung up.
"Sonofabitch!" Fitch screamed as he threw down the receiver and bolted for the door. He yelled at Jose and together they raced out the back door and jumped into the Suburban.
As expected, the pay phone was ringing when Fitch got there.
"Hey, Fitch. Look, Herrera, number seven, is really getting on Nick's nerves. I think we'll lose him today."
"What!"
"You heard me."
"Don't do it, Marlee!"
"Guy's a real pain. Everybody's sick of him."
"But he's on our side!"
"Oh, Fitch. They'll all be on our side when it's over. Anyway, be there at nine for the suspense."
"No, listen, Herrera is vital to-" Fitch got himself cut off in mid-sentence when he heard the click on her end. Then the line was dead. He gripped the receiver and began pulling on it, as if he'd slowly rip it from the phone and hurl it across the parking lot. Then he released it, and without cursing or yelling he calmly walked back to the Suburban and told Jose to go to the office.