The Runaway Jury (Page 54)

"So we didn’t target you," Napier said, wrapping things up.

"And, frankly, we’d never heard of KLX Properties," added Nitchman. "We sort of just stumbled into this."

"Can’t you just stumble out?" Hoppy asked, and actually managed a soft, helpless smile.

"Maybe," Napier said deliberately, then glanced at Nitchman as if they had something even more dramatic to lay on Hoppy.

"Maybe what?" he asked.

They withdrew from the edge of the desk in unison, their timing perfect as if they’d either rehearsed for hours or done this a hundred times. They both stared hard at Hoppy, who wilted and looked at the desktop.

"We know you’re not a crook, Mr. Dupree," Nitchman said softly.

"You just made a mistake," added Napier.

"You got that right," Hoppy mumbled.

"You’re being used by some awfully sophisticated crooks. They roll in here with big plans and big bucks, and well, we see it all the time in drug cases."

Drugs! Hoppy was shocked but said nothing. Another pause as the stares continued.

"Can we offer you a twenty-four-hour deal?" Napier asked.

"How can I say no?"

"Let’s keep this quiet for twenty-four hours. You don’t tell a soul, we don’t tell a soul. You keep it from your lawyer, we don’t pursue you. Not for twenty-four hours."

"I don’t understand."

"We can’t explain everything right now. We need some time to evaluate your situation."

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 assistant clerks from Gloria Lane’s office. Twenty-eight in all, plus the driver. All approved by Judge Harkin. Two hours later they rolled along Canal 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 Canal.

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

Chapter Twenty-One

With the Hoppy show proceeding flawlessly, Fitch made the decision late Saturday to launch the next assault 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 assorted 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 damned 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 passwords, secret codes, anti-tampering and antiviral barriers that Fitch’s computer experts were stumped. He’d flown them in Saturday 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 passwords on an older disc Easter had neglected to adequately secure. The files list showed sixteen entries with document names which revealed nothing. Fitch was notified as the first document 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, and Forbes were mentioned. The second document was a rambling two-page narrative describing a documentary 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.