"We're thinking about it."
Fitch shook his head in amazement. "Do you realize how utterly corrupt this is?"
"Yes, I think so."
"I love it."
"Go love it somewhere else, Fitch. That's all for now. I have work to do." "Yes dear," Fitch said, bouncing to his feet and closing his briefcase.
EARLY SATURDAY AFTERNOON, Marlee located ah FBI agent in Jackson, Mississippi, who happened to be at the office catching up with paperwork when the phone rang. She gave an alias, said she was employed by a real estate company in Biloxi, and suspected two men of posing as FBI agents when in fact they were not. The two men had been harassing her boss, making threats, flashing badges, etc. She thought they had something to do with the casinos, and for good measure she threw in the name of Jimmy Hull Moke. He gave her the home number of a young FBI agent in Biloxi named Madden.
Madden was in bed with flu, but willing to talk nonetheless, especially when Marlee informed him she might have confidential information about Jimmy Hull Moke. Madden had never heard of either Napier or Nitchman, and hadn't heard of Cristano either. He was unaware of any special crime-fighting unit from Atlanta now operating on the Coast, and the more she talked, the more excited he became. He wanted to investigate a bit, and she promised to call him back in an hour.
He sounded much stronger when she phoned later. There was no FBI agent named Nitchman. There was a Lance Napier in the San Francisco office, but he would have no business on the Coast. Cristano was likewise a bogus identity. Madden had talked to the agent in charge of the investigation into Jimmy Hull Moke, and confirmed that Nitchman, Napier, and Cristano, whoever they might be, were certainly not FBI agents. He'd love to talk to these boys, and Marlee said she'd try to arrange a meeting.
THE DEFENSE rested at three Saturday afternoon. Judge Harkin announced proudly, "Ladies and gentlemen, you've just heard the last witness." There would be some last-minute motions and arguments for him and the lawyers to tend to, but the jurors were free to go. For their Saturday night entertainment, one bus would travel to a junior college football game, and the other would go to a local movie theater. Afterward, personal visits would be allowed until midnight. For tomorrow, each juror would be allowed to leave the motel from 9 A.M. until 1 for worship services, unsupervised as long as they promised not to say a word to anybody about the trial. For Sunday night, personal visits from seven until ten. First thing Monday they would hear closing arguments, and receive the case before lunch.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Explaining football to Henry Vu was more trouble than it was worth. But then, everyone seemed to be an expert. Nicholas had played high school junior varsity, in Texas, no less, where the sport is something only slightly less than a religion. Jerry followed twenty games a week, followed in fact with his wallet and thus claimed to know the game intimately. Lonnie, sitting behind Henry, had also played in high school and was quick to lean over his shoulder and point. The Poodle, sitting next to Jerry, closely under the quilt, had learned the game thoroughly when her two sons played. Even Shine Royce didn't hesitate to throw in a few pointers. He'd never played the game but watched a lot of television.
They sat in a tiny huddled group on the visitors' side, on cold aluminum bleachers, away from the rest of the crowd, watching a Gulf Coast school play one from Jackson. It was a perfect football setting-cool weather, nice crowd on the home side, a rowdy band in the stands, cute cheerleaders, close score.
Henry asked all the wrong questions: Why are their trousers so tight? What do they say when they group together between plays and why do they hold hands? Why do they pile up like that? He claimed it was his first live football game.
Across an aisle, Chuck and another deputy watched the game in plain clothes, ignoring six of the jurors in the most important civil trial in the country.
IT WAS EXPRESSLY FORBIDDEN for any juror to have contact with another juror's visitors. The prohibition had been in writing since the beginning of sequestration, and Judge Harkin had harped on it repeatedly. But an occasional hello in the hallway was unavoidable, and Nicholas had been especially determined to violate the rule whenever possible.
Millie had no interest in movies and certainly none in football. Hoppy arrived with a sack of burritos, which they ate slowly with few words. After dinner, they tried to watch a TV show but finally gave it up and began to rehash Hoppy's mess. There were more tears, more apologies, even a few of Hoppy's casual references to suicide, which Millie found a bit overly dramatic. She finally confessed she'd spilled her guts to Nicholas Easter, a fine young man who knew the law and could be trusted implicitly. Hoppy at first was shocked and angry, then his curiosity got the better of him and he longed to know what someone else thought of his situation. Especially someone who'd studied the law, as Millie said. More than once she'd mentioned her admiration for the young man.
Nicholas had promised to make a few calls, and this alarmed Hoppy. Oh how Nitchman and Napier and Cristano lectured him on the necessity of silence! Nicholas could be trusted, Millie repeated, and Hoppy eventually warmed to the idea.
The phone rang at ten-thirty; it was Nicholas, back from the game, settled in his room, and anxious to meet with the Duprees. Millie unlocked the door. Willis watched with great surprise from the end of the hall as Easter sneaked into Millie's room. Was her husband still in there? He couldn't remember. Many of the guests had yet to leave, and he'd been napping anyway. Surely Easter and Millie weren't seeing each other! Willis made a mental note of it, then drifted back to sleep.
Hoppy and Millie sat on the edge of the bed facing Nicholas, who leaned on the dresser near the TV. He began by lecturing them kindly on the need for silence, as if Hoppy hadn't heard this in the past week. They were violating a Judge's orders, enough said.
He broke the news gently. Napier, Nitchman, and Cristano were minor players in a large fraud, a conspiracy orchestrated by the tobacco company to pressure Millie. They were not government agents. The names were aliases. Hoppy had been duped.
He took it well. At first he felt even more stupid, if that was possible, then the room began to spin as Hoppy got yanked this way and that. Was it good news or bad? What about the tape? What was his next move? What if Nicholas was wrong? A hundred thoughts raced through his overloaded brain as Millie squeezed his knee and started crying.
"Are you sure?" he was able to ask, his voice on the verge of cracking.
"Positive. They have no connection with either the FBI or the Department of Justice."
"But, but they had badges and-"
Nicholas raised both hands, nodded compassionately, and said, "I know, Hoppy. Believe me, that stuff was easy. The cover was simple to create."
Hoppy rubbed his forehead and tried to arrange things. Nicholas went on to explain that KLX Property Group in Las Vegas was a sham. They had been unable to find a Mr. Todd Ringwald, which was almost certainly an alias too. "How do you know all this?" Hoppy asked.
"Good question. I have a close friend on the outside who's very good at digging for information. He is completely trustworthy. Took about three hours on the phone, which is not bad considering it's Saturday."
Three hours. On a Saturday. Why hadn't Hoppy made a few calls? He'd had a week. He sunk lower until his elbows rested on his knees. Millie wiped her cheeks with a tissue. A quiet minute passed.
"What about the tape?" Hoppy asked.
"Of you and Moke?"
"Yes. That tape."'