John - The Runaway Jury

“I don't think I can do that.”

“You can do anything you want, Fitch. Stop playing games. Let's cut the deal now and get on with our business.”

“What if we wire five now and five after the verdict?”

“Forget it, Fitch. It's ten million now. I don't like the idea of tracking you down and trying to collect the last installment after the trial. For some reason, I think I'd waste a lot of time.”

“When do we wire it?”

“I don't care. Just make sure it's received before the jury gets the case. Otherwise the deal is off.”

“What happens if the deal is off?”

“One of two things. Either Nicholas will hang the jury, or hell send it nine to three for the plaintiff.”

The veneer cracked above the eyebrows, two long wrinkles pinched together as he absorbed these predictions, delivered so matter-of-factly. Fitch had no doubts about what Nicholas could do because Marlee had no doubts. He slowly rubbed his eyes. The game was over. No more exaggerated reactions to anything she said. No more feigned disbelief at her demands. She was in control.

“It's a deal,” he said. “We'll wire the money, pursuant to your instructions. I must warn you, though, that wires can take time.”

“I know more about wiring money than you do, Fitch. I'll explain precisely how I want it done. Later.”

“Yes ma'am.”

“So we have a deal?”

“Yes,” he said, extending his hand across the table. She shook it limply. Both smiled at the absurdity. Two crooks shaking hands over an agreement no court of law could enforce because no court of law would ever know about it.

BEVERLY MONK'S APARTMENT was a fifth-floor loft in a dingy Village warehouse. She shared it with four other starving actresses. Swanson followed her to a corner coffee shop and waited until she had settled at a window table with an espresso, a bagel, and a newspaper with want ads. With his back to the other tables, he approached her and asked, “Excuse me. Are you Beverly Monk?”

She looked up, startled, and said, “Yes. Who are you?”

“A friend of Claire Clement's,” he said as he quickly slid into the chair across from her.

“Have a seat,” she said. “What do you want?” She was nervous but the shop was crowded. She was safe, she thought. He looked nice enough.

“Information.”

“You called me yesterday, didn't you?”

“Yes, I did. I lied, said I was Jeff Kerr. I'm not.”

“Then who are you?”

“Jack Swanson. I work for some lawyers in Washington.”

“Is Claire in trouble?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Then what's all the fuss?”

Swanson gave a quick version of Claire's summons for jury service in a huge trial and his duty to track down the backgrounds of certain prospective jurors. This time it was a contaminated landfill case in Houston where billions were at stake, thus the expense of digging so deeply.

Swanson and Fitch were gambling on two things. The first was Beverly's slow recognition of Jeff Kerr's name on the phone yesterday. The second was her assertion that she hadn't talked to Claire in four years. They were assuming both to be genuine.

“We'll pay for information,” Swanson said.

“How much?”

“A thousand dollars cash to tell me everything you know about Claire Clement.” Swanson quickly removed an envelope from his coat pocket and laid it on the table.

“Are you sure she's in no trouble?” asked Beverly, staring at the gold mine before her.

“I'm sure. Take the money. If you haven't seen her in four or five years, why should you care?”

Good point, thought Beverly. She grabbed the envelope and stuck it in her purse. “There's not much to tell.”

“How long did you work with her?”

“Six months.”

“How long did you know her?”

“Six months. I was working as a waitress at Mulligan's when she started. We got to be friends. Then I left town and drifted east. I called her once or twice when I lived in New Jersey, then we sorta just forgot about each other.”

“Did you know Jeff Kerr?”

“No. She wasn't dating him at the time. She told me about him later, after I'd left town.”

“Did she have other friends, male and female?”

“Yeah, sure. Don't ask me to name them. I left Lawrence five, maybe six years ago. I really don't remember when I left.”

“You can't name any of her friends?”

Beverly drank some espresso and thought for a minute. Then she rattled off the names of three people who'd worked with Claire. One had been checked out with no results. One was being tracked at the moment. One had not been found.

“Where did Claire go to college?”

“Somewhere in the Midwest.”

“You don't know the name of the school?”

“I don't think so. Claire was very quiet about her past. You got the impression something bad happened back there, and she didn't talk about it. I never knew. I thought maybe it was a bad romance, maybe even a marriage, or maybe a bad family, rotten childhood, or something. But I never knew.”

“Did she discuss it with anybody?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Do you know her hometown?”

“She said she moved around a lot. Again, I didn't ask a lot of questions.”

“Was she from the Kansas City area?”

“I don't know.”

“Are you sure her real name was Claire Clement?”

Beverly withdrew and frowned. “You think maybe it wasn't?”

“We have reason to believe she was someone else before she arrived in Lawrence, Kansas. Do you remember anything about another name?”

“Wow. I just assumed she was Claire. Why would she change her name?”

“We'd love to know.” Swanson removed a small notepad from a pocket and studied a checklist. Beverly was another dead end.

“Did you ever go to her apartment?”

“Once or twice. We'd cook and watch movies. She didn't party much, but she invited me over with friends.”

“Anything unusual about her apartment?”

“Yeah. It was very nice, a modern condo, well furnished. It was obvious she had money from sources other than Mulligan's. I mean, we got paid three bucks an hour plus tips.”

“So she had money?”

“Yeah. A lot more than we did. But, again, she was very secretive. Claire was a casual friend and a fun person to be around. You just didn't ask a lot of questions.”

Swanson pressed her on other details and came up dry. He thanked her for her help and she thanked him for the cash, and as he was leaving she offered to make a few calls. It was an obvious solicitation for more money. Swanson said fine, but then cautioned her about revealing what she was doing.

“Look, I'm an actress, okay. This is a piece of cake.”

He left her a business card with his Biloxi hotel number written on the back.

HOPPY THOUGHT Mr. Cristano was a bit too harsh. But then, the situation was deteriorating, according to the mysterious folks in Washington whom Mr. Cristano answered to. There was discussion at Justice about simply aborting the whole scheme and sending Hoppy's case on to the federal grand jury.

If Hoppy couldn't convince his own wife, how the hell was he supposed to influence an entire jury?

They sat in the back of the long black Chrysler and drove along the Gulf toward nowhere in particular but Mobile in general. Nitchman drove and Napier rode shotgun and both managed to act completely oblivious to the mauling of Hoppy in the backseat.

“When do you see her again?” Cristano asked.

“Tonight, I think.”

“The time has come, Hoppy, for you to tell her the truth. Tell her what you've done, tell her everything.”

Hoppy's eyes watered and his lip quivered as he stared at the tinted window and saw his wife's pretty eyes as he laid bare his soul. He cursed himself for his stupidity. If he had a gun he could almost shoot Todd Ringwald and Jimmy Hull Moke, but he could most definitely shoot himself. Maybe he'd take these three clowns out first, but, no doubt about it, Hoppy could blow his own brains out.