Nitchman leaned forward again, elbows on desk. "There might be a way out for you, Mr. Dupree."

Hoppy was rallying, however faintly. "I'm listening.

"You're a small, insignificant fish caught in a large net," Napier explained. "You might be expendable."

Sounded good to Hoppy. "What happens in twenty-four hours?"

"We meet again right here. Nine o'clock in the morning."

"It's a deal."

"One word to Ringwald, one word to anyone, even your wife, and your future is in serious jeopardy."

"You have my word."

THE CHARTERED BUS left the Siesta Inn at ten with all fourteen jurors, Mrs. Grimes, Lou Dell and her husband Benton, Willis and his wife Ruby, five part-time deputies in plain clothes, Earl Hutto, the Sheriff of Harrison County, and his wife Claudelle, and two a.s.sistant clerks from Gloria Lane's office. Twenty-eight in all, plus the driver. All approved by Judge Harkin. Two hours later they rolled along Ca.n.a.l Street in New Orleans, then exited the bus at the corner of Magazine. Lunch was in a reserved room in the back of an old oyster bar on Decatur in the French Quarter, and paid for by the taxpayers of Harrison County.

They were allowed to scatter throughout the Quarter. They shopped at outdoor markets; strolled with the tourists through Jackson Square; gawked at naked bodies in cheap dives on Bourbon; bought T-shirts and other souvenirs. Some rested on benches along the Riverwalk. Some ducked into bars and watched football. At four, they gathered at the river and boarded a paddle wheeler for a sightseeing trip. At six they ate dinner at a pizza and poboy deli on Ca.n.a.l.

By ten they were locked in their rooms in Pa.s.s Christian, tired and ready for sleep. Busy jurors are happy jurors.

Twenty-one.

With the Hoppy show proceeding flawlessly, Fitch made the decision late Sat.u.r.day to launch the next a.s.sault against the jury. It was a strike made without the advantage of meticulous planning, and it would be as severe as the Hoppy sting was slick.

Early Sunday morning, Pang and Dubaz, both dressed in tan shirts with a plumber's logo above the pockets, picked the lock on the door of Easter's apartment. No alarm sounded. Dubaz went straight to the vent above the refrigerator, removed the screen, and yanked out the hidden camera that had caught Doyle earlier. He placed it in a large toolbox he'd brought to remove the goods.

Pang went to the computer. He had studied the hurried photos taken by Doyle during the first visit, and he had practiced on an identical unit which had been installed in an office next to Fitch's. He twisted screws and removed the back cover panel of the computer. The hard drive was precisely where he'd been told. In less than a minute it was out. Pang found two stacks of 3.5-inch discs, sixteen in all, in a rack by the monitor.

While Pang performed the delicate removal of the hard drive, Dubaz opened drawers and quietly turned over the cheap furniture in the search for more discs. The apartment was so small and had so few places to hide anything, his task was easy. He searched the kitchen drawers and cabinets, the closets, the cardboard boxes Easter used to store his socks and underwear. He found nothing. All computer-related paraphernalia were apparently stored near the computer.

"Let's go," Pang said, ripping cords from the computer, monitor, and printer.

They practically threw the system on the ragged sofa, where Dubaz piled on cushions and clothing, then poured charcoal lighter fluid from a plastic jug. When the sofa, chair, computer, cheap rugs, and a.s.sorted clothing were sufficiently doused, the two men walked to the door and Dubaz threw a match. The ignition was rapid and virtually silent, at least to anyone who might have been listening outside. They waited until the flames were lapping the ceiling and black smoke was boiling throughout the apartment, then made a hasty departure, locking the door behind them. Down the stairs, on the first level, they pulled a fire alarm. Dubaz ran back upstairs where the smoke was seeping from the apartment, and began yelling and beating on doors. Pang did the same on the first level. Screams followed quickly as the hallways filled with panicked people in bathrobes and sweatsuits. The shrill clanging of ancient firebells added to the hysteria.

"Make d.a.m.ned sure you don't kill anyone," Fitch had warned them. Dubaz pounded on doors as the smoke thickened. He made certain every apartment near Easter's was empty. He pulled people by the arms; asked if everyone was out; pointed to the exits.

As the crowd spilled into the parking lot, Pang and Dubaz separated and slowly retreated. Sirens could be heard. Smoke appeared in the windows of two upstairs apartments-Easter's and one next door. More people scrambled out, some wrapped in blankets and clutching babies and toddlers. They joined the crowd and waited impatiently for the fire trucks.

When the firemen arrived, Pang and Dubaz dropped farther back, then vanished.

NO ONE DIED. No one was injured. Four apartments were completely destroyed, eleven severely damaged, nearly thirty families homeless until cleanup and restoration.

Easter's hard drive proved impenetrable. He had added so many pa.s.swords, secret codes, ant.i.tampering and antiviral barriers that Fitch's computer experts were stumped. He'd flown them in Sat.u.r.day from Washington. They were honest people with no idea where the hard drive and the discs came from. He simply locked them in a room with a system identical to Easter's and told them what he wanted. Most of the discs had similar protections. About halfway through the stack, though, the tension was broken when they were able to evade pa.s.swords on an older disc Easter had neglected to adequately secure. The files list showed sixteen entries with doc.u.ment names which revealed nothing. Fitch was notified as the first doc.u.ment was being printed. It was a six-page summary of current news items about the tobacco industry, dated October 11, 1994. Stories from Time, The Wall Street Journal Time, The Wall Street Journal, and Forbes Forbes were mentioned. The second doc.u.ment was a rambling two-page narrative describing a doc.u.mentary Easter had just seen about breast implant litigation. The third was a gawky poem he'd written about rivers. The fourth was another compilation of recent news articles about lung cancer trials. were mentioned. The second doc.u.ment was a rambling two-page narrative describing a doc.u.mentary Easter had just seen about breast implant litigation. The third was a gawky poem he'd written about rivers. The fourth was another compilation of recent news articles about lung cancer trials.

Fitch and Konrad read each page carefully. The writing was clear and straightforward, obviously hurriedly done because the typos were almost c.u.mbersome. He wrote like an unbiased reporter. It was impossible to determine whether Easter was sympathetic to smokers or just keenly interested in ma.s.s tort litigation.

There were more dreadful poems. An aborted short story. And finally, pay dirt. Doc.u.ment number fifteen was a two-page letter to his mother, a Mrs. Pamela Blanchard in Gardner, Texas. Dated April 20, 1995, it began: "Dear Mom: I'm now living in Biloxi, Mississippi, on the Gulf Coast," and proceeded to explain how much he loved salt water and beaches and could never again live in farm country. He apologized at length for not writing sooner, apologized for two long paragraphs about his tendency to drift, and promised to do better with his letter writing. He asked about Alex, said he hadn't talked to him in three months and couldn't believe he'd finally made it to Alaska and found a job as a fishing guide. Alex appeared to be a brother. There was no mention of a father. No mention of a girl, certainly not anyone named Marlee.

He said he'd found a job working in a casino, and it was fun for the moment but not much of a future. He still thought about being a lawyer, and was sorry about law school, but he doubted he'd ever go back. He confessed to being happy, living simply with little money and even fewer responsibilities. Oh well, gotta run now. Lots of love. Say h.e.l.lo to Aunt Sammie and he'd call soon.

He signed off simply as "Jeff." "Love Jeff." No last name appeared anywhere in the letter.

Dante and Joe Boy left on a private jet an hour after the letter was first read. Fitch instructed them to go to Gardner and hire every private snoop in town.

The computer people cracked one more disc, the next to the last of the bunch. Again, they were able to sidestep the ant.i.tampering barriers with a complicated series of pa.s.sword clues. They were very impressed by Easter's hacking ability.

The disc was filled with part of one doc.u.ment-the voter registration rolls of Harrison County. Starting with A and running through K, they printed over sixteen thousand names with addresses. Fitch checked on them periodically throughout the printing. He too had a complete printout of all registered voters in the county. It was not a secret list, in fact it could be purchased from Gloria Lane for thirty-five dollars. Most political candidates made the purchase during election years.

But two things were odd about Easter's list. First, it was on a computer disc, which meant he had somehow managed to enter Gloria Lane's computer and steal the information. Second, what did a part-time computer hack/part-time student need with such a list?

If Easter accessed the clerk's computer, then he certainly could tamper with it enough to have his own name entered as a prospective juror in the Wood Wood case. case.

The more Fitch thought about it, the more it made perfect sense.

HOPPY'S EYES were red and puffy as he drank thick coffee at his desk early Sunday and waited for 9 A.M A.M. He hadn't eaten a bite since a banana Sat.u.r.day morning while the Folgers brewed in his kitchen just minutes before the doorbell rang and Napier and Nitchman entered his life. His gastrointestinal system was shot. His nerves were ragged. He'd sneaked too much vodka Sat.u.r.day night, and he'd done it at the house, something Millie prohibited.

The kids had slept through it all Sat.u.r.day. He hadn't told a soul, hadn't been tempted to, really. The humiliation helped keep the loathsome secret safe.

At precisely nine, Napier and Nitchman entered with a third man, an older man who also wore a severe dark suit and severe facial expressions as if he'd come to personally whip and flay poor Hoppy. Nitchman introduced him as George Cristano. From Washington! Department of Justice!

Cristano's handshake was cold. He didn't make small talk.

"Say, Hoppy, would you mind if we had this little chat somewhere else?" Napier asked as he looked scornfully around the office.

"It's just safer," Nitchman added for clarification.

"You never know where bugs might show up," Cristano said.

"Tell me about it," Hoppy said, but no one caught the humor. Was he in a position to say no to anything? "Sure," he said.

They left in a spotless black Lincoln Town Car, Nitchman and Napier in the front, Hoppy in the back with Cristano, who matter-of-factly began to explain that he was some type of high-ranking a.s.sistant Attorney General from deep inside Justice. The closer they got to the Gulf the more odious his position became. Then he was silent.

"Are you a Democrat or a Republican, Hoppy?" Cristano asked softly during one particularly long lull in the conversation. Napier turned at the sh.o.r.e and headed west along the Coast.

Hoppy surely didn't want to offend anyone. "Oh, I don't know. Always vote for the man, you know. I don't get hung up on parties, know what I mean?"

Cristano looked away, out the window, as if this wasn't what he wanted. "I was hoping you were a good Republican," he said, still looking through the window at the sea.

Hoppy could be any d.a.m.ned thing these boys wanted. Absolutely anything. A card-carrying, wild-eyed, fanatical Communist, if it would please Mr. Cristano.

"Voted for Reagan and Bush," he said proudly. "And Nixon. Even Goldwater."

Cristano nodded ever so slightly, and Hoppy managed to exhale.

The car became silent again. Napier parked it at a dock near Bay St. Louis, forty minutes from Biloxi. Hoppy followed Cristano down a pier and onto a deserted sixty-foot charter boat named Afternoon Delight Afternoon Delight. Nitchman and Napier waited by the car, out of sight.

"Sit down, Hoppy," Cristano said, pointing to a foam-padded bench on the deck. Hoppy sat. The boat rocked ever so slightly. The water was still. Cristano sat across from him and leaned forward so that their heads were three feet apart.

"Nice boat," Hoppy said, rubbing the imitation leather seat.

"It's not ours. Listen, Hoppy, you're not wired, are you?"

Instinctively, he bolted upright, shocked by the suggestion. "Of course not!"

"Sorry, but these things do happen. I guess I should frisk you." Cristano looked him up and down quickly. Hoppy was horrified at the thought of being fondled by this stranger, alone on a boat.

"I swear I am not wired, okay," Hoppy said, so firmly that he was proud of himself. Cristano's face relaxed. "You wanna frisk me?" he asked. Hoppy glanced around to see if anyone was within view. Look sorta odd, wouldn't it? Two grown men rubbing each other in broad daylight on an anch.o.r.ed boat?

"Are you wired?" Hoppy asked.

"No."

"Swear?"

"I swear."

"Good." Hoppy was relieved and quite anxious to believe the man. The alternative was simply unthinkable.

Cristano smiled then abruptly frowned. He leaned in. The small talk was over. "I'll be brief, Hoppy. We have a deal for you, a deal which will enable you to walk away from this without a scratch. Nothing. No arrest, no indictment, no trial, no prison. No face in the newspaper. In fact, Hoppy, no one will ever know."

He paused to catch his breath, and Hoppy charged in. "So far so good. I'm listening."

"It's a bizarre deal, one we've never attempted. Has nothing to do with law and justice and punishment, nothing like that. It's a political deal, Hoppy. Purely political. There'll be no record of it in Washington. No one will ever know, except for me, you, those two guys waiting by the car, and less than ten people deep inside Justice. We cut the deal, you do your part, and everything is forgotten."

"You got it. Just point me in the right direction."

"Are you concerned about crime, drugs, law and order, Hoppy?"

"Of course."

"Are you sick of graft and corruption?"

Odd question. At this very moment, Hoppy felt like the poster child for the campaign against corruption. "Yes!"

"There are good guys and bad guys in Washington, Hoppy. There are those of us at Justice who've devoted our lives to fighting crime. I mean serious crime, Hoppy. I mean drug payoffs to judges and congressmen who take money from foreign enemies, criminal activity that could threaten our democracy. Know what I mean?"

If Hoppy didn't know for sure, then he certainly was sympathetic to Cristano and his fine friends in Washington. "Yes, yes," he said, hanging on every word.

"But everything's political these days, Hoppy. We're constantly fighting with Congress and we're fighting with the President. Do you know what we need in Washington, Hoppy?"

Whatever it was, Hoppy wanted them to have it.

Cristano didn't give him the chance to answer. "We need more Republicans, more good, conservative Republicans who'll give us money and get out of our way. The Democrats are always meddling, always threatening budget cuts, restructuring, always concerned about the rights of these poor criminals we're picking on. There's a war raging up there, Hoppy. We fight it every day."

He looked at Hoppy as if he should say something, but Hoppy was momentarily trying to adjust to the war. He nodded gravely, then looked at his feet.

"We have to protect our friends, Hoppy, and this is where you come in."

"Okay."

"Again, this is a strange deal. Take it, and our tape of you bribing Mr. Moke will be destroyed."

"I'll take the deal. Just tell me what it is."

Cristano paused and looked up and down the pier. Some fishermen were making noises far away. He leaned closer and actually touched Hoppy on the knee. "It's about your wife," he said, almost under his breath, then reared back to let it sink in.

"My wife?"

"Yes. Your wife."

"Millie?"

"That's her."

"What the h.e.l.l-"

"I'll explain."

"Millie?" Hoppy was flabbergasted. What could sweet Millie have to do with a mess like this?

"It's the trial, Hoppy," Cristano said, and the first piece of the puzzle plunged roughly into place.

"Guess who contributes the most money to Republican congressional candidates?"

Hoppy was too stunned and confused to offer an intelligent guess.

"That's right. The tobacco companies. They pour millions into races because they're afraid of the FDA and they're fed up with government regulations. They're free-enterprise people, Hoppy, same as you. They believe people smoke because they choose to smoke, and they're sick of the government and the trial lawyers trying to run them out of business."

"It is political," Hoppy said, staring at the Gulf in disbelief.

"Nothing but politics. If Big Tobacco loses this trial, then there will be an avalanche of litigation the likes of which this country has never seen. The companies will lose billions, and we'll lose millions in Washington. Can you help us, Hoppy?"

Jolted back to reality, Hoppy could only manage, "Say what?"

"Can you help us?"

"Sure, I guess, but how?"

"Millie. You talk to your wife, make sure she understands how senseless and how dangerous this case is. She needs to take charge in that jury room, Hoppy. She needs to stand her ground against those liberals on the jury who might want to bring back a big verdict. Can you do it?"

"Of course I can."