The Runaway Jury (Page 48)

"So what do we do?" Ringwald asked.

"What do you normally do in situations like this?"

"We normally find a way to work with the local authorities. There’s too much money involved to pack up and go home."

"How do you work with local authorities?"

"We have ways. We have contributed money to reelection campaigns. We have honored our friends with expensive vacations. We’ve paid consulting fees to spouses and children."

"You ever paid bribes in hard cash?"

"Well, I’d rather not say."

"That’s what it’ll take. Jimmy Hull is a simple man. Just cash." Hoppy took a long sip and smacked his lips.

"How much?"

"Who knows. But it’d better be enough. You low-ball him up front, he’ll kill your project later. And he’ll keep the cash. Jimmy Hull doesn’t do refunds."

"You sound like you know him rather well."

"Those of us who wheel and deal along the Coast know how he plays the game. He’s sort of a local legend."

Ringwald shook his head in disbelief. "Welcome to Mississippi," Hoppy said, then took another sip. Ringwald had not touched his drink.

For twenty-five years Hoppy had played it straight, and he had no plans to compromise himself now. The money wasn’t worth the risk. He had kids, a family, a reputation, standing in the community. Church occasionally. The Rotary Club. And just exactly who was this stranger sitting across his desk in the fancy suit and designer loafers, offering the world if only one minor agreement could be reached? He, Hoppy, would certainly get on the phone and check out KLX Property Group and Mr. Todd Ringwald as soon as he left the office.

"This is not unusual," Ringwald said. "We see it all the time."

"Then what do you do?"

"Well, I think our first step is to approach Mr. Moke and determine the likelihood of a deal."

"He’ll be ready to deal."

"Then we determine the terms of the deal. As you put it, we’ll decide how much cash." Ringwald paused and took a tiny sip of his drink. "Are you willing to be involved?"

"I don’t know. In what way?"

"We don’t know anyone in Hancock County. We try to keep a low profile. We’re from Vegas. If we start asking questions, then the entire project gets blown."

"You want me to talk to Jimmy Hull?"

"Only if you want to be involved. If not, then we’ll be forced to find someone else."

"I have a clean reputation," Hoppy said, with astounding firmness, then swallowed hard at the thought of a competitor raking in his four hundred thousand.

"We don’t expect you to get dirty." Ringwald paused and groped for the right words. Hoppy was pulling for him. "Let’s just say that we have ways of delivering what Mr. Moke wants. You won’t have to touch it. In fact, you won’t know when it happens."

Hoppy sat straighter as a burden lifted itself from his shoulders. Perhaps there was some middle ground here. Ringwald and his company did this all the time. They’d probably dealt with crooks much more sophisticated than Jimmy Hull Moke. "I’m listening," he said.

"Your fingers are on the pulse here. We’re obviously outsiders, so we’ll rely on you. Let me give you a scenario. You tell me if it’ll work. What if you meet with Mr. Moke, just the two of you, and you tell him in broad strokes about the development? Our names are not mentioned, you simply have this client who wants to work with him. He’ll name his price. If it’s within our range, then you tell him it’s a deal. We’ll take care of the delivery, and you never know for certain if the cash actually changes hands. You’ve done nothing wrong. He’s happy. We’re happy because we’re about to make a pot full of money, along with you, I might add."

Hoppy liked it! None of the mud could stick to his hands. Let his client and Jimmy Hull do their dirty work. He’d stay out of the gutter and simply turn his head. Still, he was overcome by caution. He said he’d like to think about it.

They chatted some more, looked at the plans once again, and said good-bye at eight. Ringwald was to call early Friday morning.

Before heading home, Hoppy dialed the number on Ringwald’s business card. An efficient receptionist in Las Vegas said, "Good afternoon, KLX Property Group." Hoppy smiled, then asked to speak to Todd Ringwald. The call was routed, with soft rock in the background, to Mr. Ringwald’s office where Hoppy spoke to Madeline, an assistant of some variety who explained that Mr. Ringwald was out of town and not expected back until Monday. She asked who was calling, and Hoppy quickly hung up.

There now. KLX was indeed legitimate.

INCOMING PHONE CALLS were stopped at the front desk where they were recorded on yellow message slips and forwarded to Lou Dell, who then distributed them like the Easter Bunny passing out chocolate eggs. The one from George Teaker arrived at seven-forty Thursday night, and was delivered to Lonnie Shaver, who was skipping the movie and working with his computer. He called Teaker at once, and for the first ten minutes answered nothing but questions about the trial. Lonnie confessed that it had been a bad day for the defense. Lawrence Krigler had made a noticeable impact on the jurors, all except for Lonnie, of course. Lonnie had not been impressed, he assured Teaker. The folks in New York were certainly worried, Teaker said more than once. They’re awfully relieved that Lonnie was on the jury and could be counted on no matter what, but things looked dim. Or did they?

Lonnie said it was too early to tell.

Teaker said they needed to tie up the loose ends of the employment contract. Lonnie could think of only one loose end, and that was how much his new salary would be. He currently made forty thousand dollars. Teaker said SuperHouse would raise him to fifty thousand with some stock options, and a performance-based bonus that might hit twenty thousand.

They wanted him to start a management training course in Charlotte as soon as the trial was over. Mention of the trial brought on another round of questions about the mood of the jury.

An hour later, Lonnie stood at his window, watched the parking lot, and tried to convince himself he was about to earn seventy thousand dollars a year. Three years ago, he made twenty-five thousand.

Not bad for a kid whose father drove a milk truck for three bucks an hour.

Chapter Eighteen

On Friday morning, The Wall Street Journal ran a front-page story about Lawrence Krigler and his testimony of the day before. Written by Agner Layson, who’d so far not missed a word of the trial, the story did a fair job of describing what the jury heard. Then Layson speculated about Krigler’s impact on the jury. The remaining half of the article tried to peel skin off Krigler with quotes from the good old boys at ConPack, formerly Allegheny Growers. Not surprisingly, there were vehement denials of almost everything Krigler said. The company had not conducted a study of nicotine in the 1930s, or at least no one around now knew about any such study. It was a long time ago. No one at ConPack had ever seen the infamous memo. Probably just a figment of Krigler’s imagination. It was not common knowledge in the tobacco industry that nicotine was addictive. Levels of the poison were not kept artificially high by ConPack, or any other manufacturer for that matter. The company would not admit, in fact denied again in print, that nicotine was addictive in the first place.

Pynex also delivered a few potshots, all from unnamed sources. Krigler was a corporate misfit. He fancied himself a serious scientific researcher when in fact he was just an engineer. His work with Raleigh 4 was seriously flawed. Production of that leaf was totally impractical. The death of his sister seriously affected his work and conduct. He was quick to threaten litigation. There was a strong hint that the out-of-court settlement thirteen years earlier had been heavily weighted in Pynex’s favor.