"I'm serious. I've thought about it many times in the past week. I'd rather pull the trigger than humiliate my family."
"Don't be silly," she said, and started to weep again.
FITCH AT FIRST had considered faking the wire, but after two phone calls and two faxes with his forgers in Washington, he was not convinced it would be safe. She seemed to know everything about wire transfers, and he had no idea how much she knew about the bank in the Netherlands Antilles. With her precision, she probably had someone down there waiting for the wire. Why run the risk?
In a flurry of phone calls, he located in D.C. an ex-Treasury official who now ran his own consulting firm, a man who allegedly knew everything about the rapid movements of money. Fitch gave him the bare essentials, hired him by fax, then sent him a copy of Marlee's instructions. She definitely knew what she was doing, the man said, and assured Fitch his money would be safe, at least during its first leg. The new account would belong to Fitch; she would have no access to it. Marlee was requiring a copy of the confirmation, and the man warned Fitch not to show her the account number either from the originating bank or from Hanwa in the Caribbean.
The Fund had a balance of six and a half million when Fitch cut his deal with Marlee. Throughout Friday, Fitch had called each of the Big Four CEO's and instructed them to immediately wire another two million dollars each. And he had no time for questions. He would explain later.
At five-fifteen Friday, the money left The Fund's untitled account in a bank in New York and within seconds landed at Hanwa in the Netherlands Antilles, where it was expected. The new account, numbered only, was created upon arrival, and a confirmation was immediately faxed to the originating bank.
Marlee called at six-thirty, and, not surprisingly, knew the wire was complete. She instructed Fitch to erase the account numbers on the confirmation, something he planned to do anyway, and fax it to the front desk of the Siesta Inn at precisely 7:05.
"That's a bit risky, isn't it?" Fitch asked.
"Just do as you're told, Fitch. Nicholas will be standing by the fax machine. The clerk thinks he's cute."
At seven-fifteen, Marlee called back to report that Nicholas had received the confirmation, and that it looked authentic. She instructed Fitch to be at her office at ten in the morning. Fitch quite happily agreed.
Though no money had changed hands, Fitch was elated with his success. He collected Jose and went for a silent stroll, something he rarely did. The air was crisp and invigorating. The sidewalks were deserted.
At this very moment, there was a sequestered juror holding a piece of paper with the amount "$10,000,000" printed twice on it. This juror, and this jury, belonged to Fitch. This trial was over. For certain, he would skip sleep and sweat bullets until he heard the verdict, but for all practical purposes, the trial was over. Fitch had won again. He'd snatched another victory from near defeat. The cost was much greater this time, but so were the stakes. He'd be forced to listen to some pointed bitching from Jankle and the others about the price of this operation, but it would just be a formality. They had to bitch about costs. They were corporate executives.
The real costs were the ones they wouldn't mention: the price of a plaintiff's verdict, certainly with the potential to exceed ten million, and the incalculable cost of a torrent of lawsuits.
He deserved this rare moment of pleasure, but his work was far from finished. He couldn't rest until he knew the real Marlee, where she came from, what motivated her, how and why she hatched this plot. There was something back there that Fitch had to know, and the unknown scared him immensely. If and when he found the real Marlee, then he would have his answers. Until then, his precious verdict was not safe.
Four blocks into his walk, Fitch was once again his angry, pouting, tormented self.
DERRICK MADE IT to the front lobby and was poking his head through an open door when a young woman politely asked him what he wanted. She held a stack of files and looked quite busy. It was almost eight, Friday night, and the law offices were still swarming.
What he wanted was a lawyer, one of those he'd seen in court who represented the tobacco company, one he could sit down with and cut a deal behind closed doors. He'd done his homework and learned the names of Durwood Cable and a few of his partners. He'd found this place, and he'd waited outside in his car for two hours, rehearsing his lines, steadying his nerves, mustering the guts to leave the car and walk through the front door.
There wasn't another black face to be seen.
Weren't all lawyers crooks? He figured that if Rohr would offer cash, then it made sense that all lawyers involved in the trial would offer cash. He had something to sell. There were rich buyers out there. It was a golden opportunity.
But the right words failed him as the secretary lingered and looked, and then began glancing around as if she might need some help with the situation. Cleve had said more than once that this was highly illegal, that he'd get caught if he got too greedy, and the fear suddenly hit like him a brick.
"Uh, is Mr. Gable in?" he asked with great uncertainty.
"Mr. Gable?" she said, eyebrows arched.
"Yeah, that's him."
"There is no Mr. Gable here. Who are you?"
A group of young coatless honkies walked slowly behind her, sizing him up and down, each knowing he didn't belong. Derrick had nothing else to offer. He was sure he had the right firm, but the wrong name, the wrong game, and he wasn't about to go to jail.
"I guess I have the wrong place," he said, and she gave him an efficient little smile. Of course you have the wrong place; now please leave. He stopped at a table in the front lobby and gathered five business cards from a small bronze rack. He'd show these to Cleve as proof of his visit.
He thanked her and left in a hurry. Angel was waiting.
MILLIE WEPT and tossed and flung sheets until midnight, then she changed into her favorite outfit, a well-worn red sweat suit, size XX-Large, a Christmas gift from one of the kids years ago, and quietly opened her door. Chuck, the guard at the far end, called softly to her. She was just going down for a snack, she explained, then eased down the semi-lit hall to the Party Room, where she heard a faint noise. Inside, Nicholas sat alone on a sofa, eating microwave popcorn and sipping carbonated water. He was watching rugby from Australia. Harkin's Party Room curfew had long since been forgotten.
"Why are you up so late?" he asked, muting the wide-screen TV with the remote. Millie sat nearby in a chair, her back to the door. Her eyes were red and puffy. Her short gray hair was tousled. She didn't care. Millie lived in a house which was continually filled with teenagers. They came and went, stayed, slept, ate, watched TV, cleaned out the fridge, saw her all the time in her red sweats, and she wouldn't have it any other way. Millie was everybody's mother.
"Can't sleep. You?" she said.
"It's hard to sleep here. You want some popcorn?"
"No thanks."
"Did Hoppy stop by tonight?"
"Yes." "Seems like a nice man."
She paused, then said, "He is."
There was a longer pause as they sat in silence and thought about what they should say next. "You wanna watch a movie?" he finally asked.
"No. Can I ask you something?" she said, very seriously, and Nicholas punched the remote and the TV was off. The room was now lit only by a shadowy table lamp.
"Sure. You look troubled."
"I am. It's a legal question."
"I'll try to answer."
"Okay." She took a deep breath and squeezed her hands together. "What if a juror becomes convinced she cannot be fair and impartial? What should she do?"