The Runaway Jury

A criminal matter! He skipped a shower and dressed in seconds. He was halfway through the brushing of his teeth when he finally looked at himself in the mirror. Betrayal was written all over his face, stamped in his eyes for all to see. He couldn’t lie. Deceit was not in him. He was just Hoppy Dupree, an honest man with a fine family, good reputation, and all. He’d never cheated on his tax returns!

So why, Hoppy, were there two FBI agents waiting outside for a trip downtown, not to jail yet, though that would surely come, but to a private place where they could eat him for breakfast and lay bare his fraud? He decided not to shave. Perhaps he should call his minister. He brushed his swirling hair and thought of Millie, and the public disgrace, and the kids, and what would everybody think.

Before leaving the bathroom, Hoppy vomited.

Outside, Napier insisted that he ride with Hoppy. Nitchman in the black Chrysler followed. Not a word was spoken.

DUPREE REALTY was not the sort of commercial enterprise that attracted early risers. This was true on Saturday, as it was for the rest of the week. Hoppy knew the place would be deserted until at least nine, maybe ten. He unlocked doors, turned on lights, said nothing until it was time to ask if they wanted coffee. Both declined and seemed quite anxious to proceed to the slaughter. Hoppy sat on his side of the desk. They huddled together like twins across from him. He was unable to hold their gaze.

Nitchman got it started by saying, "Are you familiar with Stillwater Bay?"

"Yes."

"Have you met a man by the name of Todd Ringwald?"

"Yes."

"Have you signed any type of contract with him?"

"No."

Napier and Nitchman looked at each other as if they knew this to be false. Napier said, smugly, "Look, Mr. Dupree, this will go a lot smoother for you if you tell the truth."

"I swear I’m telling the truth."

"When did you first meet Todd Ringwald?" Nitchman asked as he pulled a narrow notepad from his pocket and began scribbling.

"Thursday."

"Do you know Jimmy Hull Moke?"

"Yes."

"When did you first meet him?"

"Yesterday."

"Where?"

"Right here."

"What was the purpose of the meeting?"

"To discuss the development of Stillwater Bay. I’m supposed to represent a company called KLX Properties. KLX wants to develop Stillwater Bay, which is in Mr. Moke’s supervisor’s district in Hancock County."

Napier and Nitchman stared at Hoppy and pondered this for what seemed like an hour. Hoppy silently repeated his words to himself. Had he said something? Something that would speed along his journey to prison? Perhaps he should stop this right now and seek legal counsel.

Napier cleared his throat. "We’ve been investigating Mr. Moke for the past six months, and two weeks ago he agreed to enter into a plea bargain arrangement whereby he will receive a light sentence in exchange for his assistance."

This legal crap-speak meant little to Hoppy. He heard it, but things weren’t registering clearly right now. "Did you offer money to Mr. Moke?" Napier asked.

"No," Hoppy said because there was no way he could say yes. He said it quickly, without force or conviction, it just came out. "No," he said again. He hadn’t actually offered money. He had cleared the way for his client to offer money. At least, that was his interpretation of what he’d done.

Nitchman slowly reached into his coat pocket, slowly felt around until his fingers were just right, slowly removed a slender pocket something or other which he slowly placed in the center of the desk. "Are you sure?" he asked, almost taunting.

"Sure I’m sure," Hoppy said, staring slack-jawed at the sleek hideous device.

Nitchman gently pressed a button. Hoppy held his breath and clenched his fists. Then, there was his voice, chirping along nervously about local politics and casinos and fishing with an occasional entry by Moke. "He was wired!" Hoppy exclaimed, breathless and totally defeated.

"Yes," one of them said gravely.

Hoppy could only stare at the recorder. "Oh no," he mumbled.

The words had been uttered and recorded less than twenty-four hours earlier, right there at that very desk over chicken clubs and iced tea. Jimmy Hull had sat where Nitchman was and arranged a bribe for a hundred grand, and he did so with an FBI wire stuck somewhere to his body.

The tape dragged painfully on until the damage was done and Hoppy and Jimmy Hull were offering their hurried good-byes. "Shall we listen to it again?" Nitchman asked as he touched a button.

"No, please," Hoppy said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Should I talk to a lawyer?" he asked without looking up.

"Not a bad idea," Napier said sympathetically.

When he finally looked at them his eyes were red and wet. His lip quivered but he thrust his chin outward and tried to be bold. "So what am I looking at?" he asked.

Napier and Nitchman relaxed in unison. Napier stood and walked to a bookcase. "It’s hard to say," Nitchman said, as if the issue would be determined by someone else. "We’ve busted a dozen supervisors in the past year. The judges are sick of it. The sentences are getting longer."

"I’m not a supervisor," Hoppy said.

"Good point. I’d say three to five years, federal, not state."

"Conspiracy to bribe a government official," Napier added helpfully. Napier then returned to his seat next to Nitchman. Both men sat on the edges of their chairs as if ready to leap across the desk and flog Hoppy for his sins.

The mike was the cap of a blue Bic disposable ballpoint sitting harmlessly with a dozen other pencils and cheap pens in a dusty fruit jar on Hoppy’s desk. Ringwald had left it there Friday morning when Hoppy had gone to the rest room. The pens and pencils gave the appearance of never being used, the type of collection which would sit untouched for months before being rearranged. In the event Hoppy or someone else decided to use the blue Bic, it was out of ink and would find itself immediately in the wastebasket. Only a technician could disassemble it and discover the bug.

From the desk, the words were relayed to a small, powerful transmitter hidden behind the Lysol and air freshener under a rest room vanity, next to Hoppy’s office. From the transmitter, the words were sent to an unmarked van across the street in a shopping center. In the van, the words were recorded on tape and delivered to Fitch’s office.

Jimmy Hull had not been wired, was not working with the feds, had in fact been doing what he did best-hustling bribes.

Ringwald, Napier, and Nitchman were all ex-cops who were now private agents employed by an international security firm in Bethesda. It was a firm Fitch used often. The Hoppy sting would cost The Fund eighty thousand dollars.

Chicken feed.

HOPPY MENTIONED the possibility of legal counsel again. Napier stonewalled it with a lengthy recitation of the FBI’s efforts to stop rampant corruption on the Coast. He blamed all ills on the gambling industry.

It was imperative to keep Hoppy away from a lawyer. A lawyer would want names and phone numbers, records and paperwork. Napier and Nitchman had enough fake credentials and quick lies to bluff poor Hoppy, but a good lawyer would force them to disappear.

What had begun as a routine probe of Jimmy Hull and graft of the local garden variety had turned into a much broader investigation into gaming and, the magic words, "organized crime," according to Napier’s lengthy narrative. Hoppy listened when he could. It was difficult though. His mind raced away with concerns for Millie and the kids and how they would survive for the three to five years he was gone.