John - The Runaway Jury

So Hoppy told her how it happened, how he deftly maneuvered Agents Napier and Nitchman away from the house and down to his office, where they presented him with-the tape!

It was awful. He forged ahead.

Millie began crying too, and Hoppy was relieved. Maybe she wouldn't scold him so bad. But there was more.

He got to the part where Mr. Cristano came to town and they met on the boat. Lots of folks, good folks really, in Washington were concerned about the trial. The Republicans and all that. The crime stuff. And, well, they cut a deal.

Millie wiped her cheeks with the back of a hand, and abruptly stopped the crying. “But I'm not sure I want to vote for the tobacco company,” she said, dazed.

Hoppy dried it up quickly too. “Oh that's just great, Millie. Send me away for five years just so you can vote your conscience. Wake up.”

“This is not fair,” she said, looking at herself in the mirror on the wall behind the dresser. She was stunned.

“Of course it's not fair. Won't be fair either when the bank forecloses on the house because I'm locked away. What about the kids, Millie? Think of the kids. We got three in junior college and two in high school. The humiliation will be bad enough, but who'll educate the kids?”

Hoppy, of course, had the benefit of many hours of rehearsal for this. Poor Millie felt as though she'd been hit by a bus. She couldn't think quickly enough to ask the right questions. Under different circumstances, Hoppy might have felt sorry for her.

“I just can't believe it,” she said.

“I'm sorry, Millie. I'm so sorry. I've done a terrible thing, and it's not fair to you.” He was leaning forward, elbows on knees, head drooping low in utter defeat.

“It's not fair to the people in this trial.”

Hoppy couldn't have cared less about the other people involved in the trial, but he bit his tongue. “I know, honey. I know. I'm a total failure.”

She found his hand and squeezed it. Hoppy decided to go for the kill. “I shouldn't tell you this, Millie, but when the FBI came to the house, I thought about getting the gun and ending it all right there.”

“Shooting them?”

“No, myself. Blowing my brains out.”

“Oh, Hoppy.”

“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.