John - The Runaway Jury

“Is that true?” Madden demanded.

“Not, not really,” Nitchman said.

“What!” Hoppy screamed again.

“Cool it!” Madden snapped at him.

“Now continue,” he said to Nitchman.

Nitchman didn't want to continue. He wanted to bolt through the door, kiss Biloxi good-bye, and never be seen again. “We're private investigators, and, well-“

“We work for a firm in B.C.,” Napier chimed in helpfully. He was about to add something else when Hoppy lunged for a desk drawer, yanked it open, and removed two business cards-one for Ralph Napier, one for Dean Nitchman, both labeled as FBI agents, both from the Southeast Regional Unit in Atlanta. Madden studied both cards, saw the local numbers scrawled on the back.

“What's going on here?” Hoppy demanded.

“Who's Nitchman?” Madden asked. There was no answer.

“He's Nitchman,” Hoppy yelled, pointing at Nitchman.

“Not me,” Nitchman said.

“What!” Hoppy screamed.

Madden took two steps toward Hoppy and pointed at his chair. “I want you to sit down and shut up, okay? Not another word until I ask for it.” Hoppy fell into his seat, his eyes glaring fiercely at Nitchman.

“Are you Ralph Napier?” Madden asked.

“Nope,” Napier said, looking down, away from Hoppy.

“Sonofabitches,” Hoppy mumbled. “Then who are you?” Madden asked. He waited, but there was no response.

“They gave me those cards, okay?” Hoppy said, not about to keep quiet. “I'll go to the grand jury and swear on a stack of Bibles that they gave me those cards. They've held themselves out as FBI agents, and I want them prosecuted.”

“Who are you?” Madden asked the one previously known as Nitchman. No response. Madden then removed a service revolver, an action that greatly impressed Hoppy, and made the two stand and spread their legs and lean forward on the desk. A quick frisk of each revealed nothing but pocket change, some keys, and a few dollars. No wallets. No fake FBI badges. No identification whatsoever. They were too well trained to make that mistake.

He handcuffed them and led them from the office to the front of the building, where another FBI agent was sipping coffee from a paper cup and waiting. Together, they loaded Napier and Nitchman into the back of a real FBI car. Madden said goodbye to Hoppy, promised to call him later, and drove away with the two stooges in the backseat, sitting on their hands. The other FBI agent followed in the fake FBI car Napier always drove.

Hoppy waved farewell.

Madden drove along Highway 90, in the direction of Mobile. Napier, the quicker wit of the two, concocted a fairly reasonable story, which Nitchman added to slightly. They explained to Madden that their firm had been hired by some vague and unnamed casino interests to investigate various parcels of real estate along the Coast. This is where they'd run into Hoppy, who was quite corrupt and had tried to shake 'em down for cash. One thing led to another, and their boss made them pose as FBI agents. No harm had been done, really.

Madden listened with hardly a word. They would later tell Fitch that he seemed not to have a clue about Hoppy's wife Millie and her current civic responsibilities. He was a young agent, obviously amused with his catch and not certain what to do with them.

For his part, Madden deemed it a minor offense, unworthy of prosecution, certainly not worth any more effort on his part. His caseload was staggering anyway. The last thing he needed was to waste time pursuing convictions for two small-time liars. When they crossed into Alabama, he delivered a stern lecture on the penalties for impersonating a federal officer. They were truly sorry. It would never happen again.

He stopped at a rest station, uncuffed them, gave them their car, and told them to stay out of Mississippi. They thanked him profusely, promised never to return, and sped away.

FITCH BROKE A LAMP with his fist when he got the call from Napier. Blood dripped from a knuckle as he seethed and cursed and listened to the story, as told from a noisy truck stop somewhere in Alabama. He sent Pang to collect the two.

Three hours after they were first handcuffed, Napier and Nitchman were seated in a room next to Fitch's office in the rear of the old dime store. Cristano was present.

“Start at the beginning,” Fitch said. “I want to hear every word.” He punched a button and a recorder started. They painstakingly collaborated on the narrative until they'd recollected virtually all of it.

Fitch dismissed them and sent them back to Washington.

Alone, he dimmed the lights in his office and sulked in the darkness. Hoppy would tell Millie tonight. Millie would be lost as a defense juror; in fact, she'd probably swing so far to the other side she'd want billions in damages for the poor widow Wood.

Marlee could salvage this disaster. Only Marlee.

It was the strangest thing, Phoebe said not long into the surprise call from Beverly, because the day before yesterday some guy had called her too, claimed he was Jeff Kerr looking for Claire. She knew immediately the guy was faking, but she strung him along anyway to see what he wanted. She hadn't talked to Claire in four years.

Beverly and Phoebe compared notes about their calls, though Beverly didn't mention the meeting with Swanson or the jury trial he was investigating. They reminisced about the college days in Lawrence, which seemed so long ago. They lied about their acting careers and the speed with which each was progressing. They promised to get together at the first opportunity. Then they said good-bye.

Beverly called back an hour later, as if she'd forgotten something. She'd been thinking about Claire. They'd parted on less than good terms, and this bothered her. It was a trivial matter they'd never resolved. She wanted to see Claire, to patch things up, if for no other reason than to relieve the guilt. But she didn't have a clue where to find her. Claire had disappeared so fast and so thoroughly.

At this point, Beverly decided to take a chance. Since Swanson had mentioned the possibility of a prior name, and since she remembered the mystery surrounding Claire's past, she decided to cast the bait and see if Phoebe would take it. “Claire, was not her real name, you know?” she said, acting quite effectively.

“Yeah, I know,” Phoebe said.

“She told me once, but I can't remember now.”

Phoebe hesitated. “She had the prettiest name, not that Claire was bad.”

“What was it?”

“Gabrielle.”

“Oh yes, Gabrielle. And what was her last name?”

“Brant. Gabrielle Brant. She was from Columbia, Missouri, that's where she went to school, at the university there. Did she tell you the story?”

“Maybe, but I don't remember.”

“She had a boyfriend who was abusive and crazy. She tried to ditch him, and he began stalking her. That's why she left town and changed her name.”

“Never heard that. What's her parents' name?”

“Brant. I think her father's dead. Her mother was a professor of medieval studies at the university.”

“Is she still there?”

“I have no idea.”

“I'll try to find her through her mom. Thanks, Phoebe.”

It took an hour to get Swanson on the phone. Beverly asked him how much the information was worth. Swanson called Fitch, who needed some good news. He authorized a ceiling of five thousand dollars, and Swanson called her back with an offer of half that. She wanted more. They negotiated for ten minutes and settled on four thousand, which she wanted in cash and in hand before she'd say a word.

All four of the CEO's were in town for the closing arguments and the verdict, so Fitch had a small fleet of finely appointed corporate jets at his disposal. He sent Swanson to New York on the Pynex plane.