It was awful. He forged ahead.

Millie began crying too, and Hoppy was relieved. Maybe she wouldn't scold him so bad. But there was more.

He got to the part where Mr. Cristano came to town and they met on the boat. Lots of folks, good folks really, in Washington were concerned about the trial. The Republicans and all that. The crime stuff. And, well, they cut a deal.

Millie wiped her cheeks with the back of a hand, and abruptly stopped the crying. “But I'm not sure I want to vote for the tobacco company,” she said, dazed.

Hoppy dried it up quickly too. “Oh that's just great, Millie. Send me away for five years just so you can vote your conscience. Wake up.”

“This is not fair,” she said, looking at herself in the mirror on the wall behind the dresser. She was stunned.

“Of course it's not fair. Won't be fair either when the bank forecloses on the house because I'm locked away. What about the kids, Millie? Think of the kids. We got three in junior college and two in high school. The humiliation will be bad enough, but who'll educate the kids?”

Hoppy, of course, had the benefit of many hours of rehearsal for this. Poor Millie felt as though she'd been hit by a bus. She couldn't think quickly enough to ask the right questions. Under different circumstances, Hoppy might have felt sorry for her.

“I just can't believe it,” she said.

“I'm sorry, Millie. I'm so sorry. I've done a terrible thing, and it's not fair to you.” He was leaning forward, elbows on knees, head drooping low in utter defeat.

“It's not fair to the people in this trial.”

Hoppy couldn't have cared less about the other people involved in the trial, but he bit his tongue. “I know, honey. I know. I'm a total failure.”

She found his hand and squeezed it. Hoppy decided to go for the kill. “I shouldn't tell you this, Millie, but when the FBI came to the house, I thought about getting the gun and ending it all right there.”

“Shooting them?”

“No, myself. Blowing my brains out.”

“Oh, Hoppy.”

“I'm serious. I've thought about it many times in the past week. I'd rather pull the trigger than humiliate my family.”

“Don't be silly,” she said, and started to weep again.

FITCH AT FIRST had considered faking the wire, but after two phone calls and two faxes with his forgers in Washington, he was not convinced it would be safe. She seemed to know everything about wire transfers, and he had no idea how much she knew about the bank in the Netherlands Antilles. With her precision, she probably had someone down there waiting for the wire. Why run the risk?

In a flurry of phone calls, he located in D. C. an ex-Treasury official who now ran his own consulting firm, a man who allegedly knew everything about the rapid movements of money. Fitch gave him the bare essentials, hired him by fax, then sent him a copy of Marlee's instructions. She definitely knew what she was doing, the man said, and assured Fitch his money would be safe, at least during its first leg. The new account would belong to Fitch; she would have no access to it. Marlee was requiring a copy of the confirmation, and the man warned Fitch not to show her the account number either from the originating bank or from Hanwa in the Caribbean.

The Fund had a balance of six and a half million when Fitch cut his deal with Marlee. Throughout Friday, Fitch had called each of the Big Four CEO's and instructed them to immediately wire another two million dollars each. And he had no time for questions. He would explain later.

At five-fifteen Friday, the money left The Fund's untitled account in a bank in New York and within seconds landed at Hanwa in the Netherlands Antilles, where it was expected. The new account, numbered only, was created upon arrival, and a confirmation was immediately faxed to the originating bank.

Marlee called at six-thirty, and, not surprisingly, knew the wire was complete. She instructed Fitch to erase the account numbers on the confirmation, something he planned to do anyway, and fax it to the front desk of the Siesta Inn at precisely 7:05.

“That's a bit risky, isn't it?” Fitch asked.

“Just do as you're told, Fitch. Nicholas will be standing by the fax machine. The clerk thinks he's cute.”

At seven-fifteen, Marlee called back to report that Nicholas had received the confirmation, and that it looked authentic. She instructed Fitch to be ai her office at ten in the morning. Fitch quite happily agreed.

Though no money had changed hands, Fitch was elated with his success. He collected Jose and went for a silent stroll, something he rarely did. The air was crisp and invigorating. The sidewalks were deserted.

At this very moment, there was a sequestered juror holding a piece of paper with the amount “$10,000,000” printed twice on it. This juror, and this jury, belonged to Fitch. This trial was over. For certain, he would skip sleep and sweat bullets until he heard the verdict, but for all practical purposes, the trial was over. Fitch had won again. He'd snatched another victory from near defeat. The cost was much greater this time, but so were the stakes. He'd be forced to listen to some pointed bitching from Jankle and the others about the price of this operation, but it would just be a formality. They had to bitch about costs. They were corporate executives.

The real costs were the ones they wouldn't mention: the price of a plaintiff's verdict, certainly with the potential to exceed ten million, and the incalculable cost of a torrent of lawsuits.

He deserved this rare moment of pleasure, but his work was far from finished. He couldn't rest until he knew the real Marlee, where she came from, what motivated her, how and why she hatched this plot. There was something back there that Fitch had to know, and the unknown scared him immensely. If and when he found the real Marlee, then he would have his answers. Until then, his precious verdict was not safe.

Four blocks into his walk, Fitch was once again his angry, pouting, tormented self.

DERRICK MADE IT to the front lobby and was poking his head through an open door when a young woman politely asked him what he wanted. She held a stack of files and looked quite busy. It was almost eight, Friday night, and the law offices were still swarming.

What he wanted was a lawyer, one of those he'd seen in court who represented the tobacco company, one he could sit down with and cut a deal behind closed doors. He'd done his homework and learned the names of Durwood Cable and a few of his partners. He'd found this place, and he'd waited outside in his car for two hours, rehearsing his lines, steadying his nerves, mustering the guts to leave the car and walk through the front door.

There wasn't another black face to be seen.

Weren't all lawyers crooks? He figured that if Rohr would offer cash, then it made sense that all lawyers involved in the trial would offer cash. He had something to sell. There were rich buyers out there. It was a golden opportunity.

But the right words failed him as the secretary lingered and looked, and then began glancing around as if she might need some help with the situation. Cleve had said more than once that this was highly illegal, that he'd get caught if he got too greedy, and the fear suddenly hit like him a brick.

“Uh, is Mr. Gable in?” he asked with great uncertainty.

“Mr. Gable?” she said, eyebrows arched.

“Yeah, that's him.”

“There is no Mr. Gable here. Who are you?”

A group of young coatless honkies walked slowly behind her, sizing him up and down, each knowing he didn't belong. Derrick had nothing else to offer. He was sure he had the right firm, but the wrong name, the wrong game, and he wasn't about to go to jail.

“I guess I have the wrong place,” he said, and she gave him an efficient little smile. Of course you have the wrong place; now please leave. He stopped at a table in the front lobby and gathered five business cards from a small bronze rack. He'd show these to Cleve as proof of his visit.

He thanked her and left in a hurry. Angel was waiting.

MILLIE WEPT and tossed and flung sheets until midnight, then she changed into her favorite outfit, a well-worn red sweat suit, size XX-Large, a Christmas gift from one of the kids years ago, and quietly opened her door. Chuck, the guard at the far end, called softly to her. She was just going down for a snack, she explained, then eased down the semi-lit hall to the Party Room, where she heard a faint noise. Inside, Nicholas sat alone on a sofa, eating microwave popcorn and sipping carbonated water. He was watching rugby from Australia. Harkin's Party Room curfew had long since been forgotten.

“Why are you up so late?” he asked, muting the wide-screen TV with the remote. Millie sat nearby in a chair, her back to the door. Her eyes were red and puffy. Her short gray hair was tousled. She didn't care. Millie lived in a house which was continually filled with teenagers. They came and went, stayed, slept, ate, watched TV, cleaned out the fridge, saw her all the time in her red sweats, and she wouldn't have it any other way. Millie was everybody's mother.

“Can't sleep. You?” she said.

“It's hard to sleep here. You want some popcorn?”

“No thanks.”

“Did Hoppy stop by tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Seems like a nice man.”

She paused, then said, “He is.”

There was a longer pause as they sat in silence and thought about what they should say next. “You wanna watch a movie?” he finally asked.

“No. Can I ask you something?” she said, very seriously, and Nicholas punched the remote and the TV was off. The room was now lit only by a shadowy table lamp.

“Sure. You look troubled.”

“I am. It's a legal question.”

“I'll try to answer.”

“Okay.” She took a deep breath and squeezed her hands together. “What if a juror becomes convinced she cannot be fair and impartial? What should she do?”

He looked at the wall, the ceiling, then took a sip of water. Slowly, he said, “I think it would depend on the reasons behind her decision.”

“I don't follow you, Nicholas.” He was such a sweet boy, and so sharp. Her youngest son wanted to be a lawyer, and she'd caught herself hoping he'd turn out as smart as Nicholas.

“For the sake of simplicity, let's skip the hypothet-icals,” he said. “Let's say this juror is actually you, okay?”

“Okay.”

“So something has happened since the trial started to affect your ability to be fair and impartial?”

Slowly, she said, “Yes.”

He pondered this for a moment, then said, “I think it would depend on whether it was something you heard in court, or something that has happened out of court. As jurors, we're expected to become biased and partial as the trial progresses. That's how we reach our verdict. There's nothingwrong with that. It's part of the decision-making process.”

She rubbed her left eye, and slowly asked, “What if it's not that? What if it's something out of court?”

He seemed shocked by this. “Wow. That's a lot more serious.”

“How serious?”

For dramatic effect, Nicholas stood and walked a few steps to a chair, which he pulled close to Millie, their feet almost touching.

“What's the matter, Millie?” he asked softly.

“I need help, and there's no one to turn to. I'm locked up here in this awful place, away from my family and friends, and there's just nowhere to turn. Can you help me, Nicholas?”

“I'll try.”

Her eyes watered for the umpteenth time that night. “You're such a nice young man. You know the law and this is a legal matter, and there's just no one else I can talk to.” She was crying now, and he handed her a cocktail napkin from the table.

She told him everything.

LOU DELL AWOKE for no reason at 2 A. M., and took a quick patrol of the hallway in her cotton nightgown. In the Party Room, she found Nicholas and Millie with the TV off, deep in conversation, with a large bowl of popcorn between them. Nicholas was actually polite to her as he explained they couldn't sleep, were just talking about families, everything was fine. She left, shaking her head.

Nicholas suspected a scam, but he did not indicate that to Millie. Once her tears stopped, he grilled her on the details and took a few notes. She promised to do nothing until they could talk again. They said good night.

He went to his room, dialed Marlee's number, and hung up when she answered the phone with a rather sleepy hello. He waited two minutes, then dialed the same number. It rang six times, unanswered, then he hung up. After another two minutes, he dialed the number of her hidden cellphone. She answered it in the closet.

He gave her the full Hoppy story. Her night's rest was over. There was much work to be done, and quickly.

They agreed to start with the names of Napier, Nitchman, and Cristano.

Thirty-four

The courtroom didn't change on Saturday. The same clerks wore the same clothes and busied themselves with the same paperwork. Judge Har-kin's robe was just as black. The lawyers' faces all blurred, same as Monday through Friday. The deputies were just as bored, maybe more so. Minutes after the jury was seated and Harkin finished his questions, the monotony settled in, same as Monday through Friday.

After Gunther's tedious performance on Friday, Cable and crew thought it best to start the day with a bit of action. Cable called forward and got qualified as an expert a Dr. Olney, a researcher no less, who'd done some amazing things with laboratory mice. He had a video of his cute little subjects, all of them alive and seemingly filled with energy, certainly not diseased and dying. They were in several groups”, boxed in glass cages, and it was Olney's task to apply various quantities of cigarette smoke each day to each cage. This he did over a period of years.

Massive doses of cigarette smoke. The prolonged exposure failed to produce a single case of lung cancer. He'd tried everything short of suffocation to force death upon his little creatures, but it just wouldn't work. He had the stats and details. And he had lots of opinions about how cigarettes do not cause lung cancer, either in mice or in humans.

Hoppy was listening, from what was now his usual seat in the courtroom. He had promised to stop by, to wink at her, to give moral support, to once again let her know how awfully sorry he was. It was the least he could do. And after all it was Saturday, a busy day for realtors, but Dupree Realty seldom got cranked up until late in the morning. Since the disaster of Stillwater Bay, Hoppy had lost his drive. The thought of several years in prison sapped his will to hustle.

Taunton was back, on the front row now behind Cable, still wearing an immaculate dark suit, taking important notes and glancing at Lonnie, who did not need the reminder.

Derrick sat near the rear, watching it all and scheming. Rikki's husband Rhea sat on the rear seat with both kids. They tried to wave at their mother when the jury was seated. Mr. Nelson Card sat next to Mrs. Herman Grimes. Loreen's two teenaged daughters were present.

The families were there to be supportive, and to satisfy their curiosities. They'd heard enough to form their own opinions about the issues, the lawyers, the parties, the experts, and the Judge. They wanted to listen, so that perhaps they could later share an insight into what ought to be done.

BEVERLY MONK slipped out of her coma mid-morning, the remnants of gin and crack and what else she couldn't remember still lingering hard and blinding her as she covered her face and realized she was lying on a wooden floor. She wrapped herself in a dirty blanket, stepped over a snoring male she didn't recognize, and found her sunglasses on a wooden crate she used as a dresser. With the glasses on, she could see. The open loft was a mess-bodies sprawled on beds and floors, empty liquor bottles perched on every stick of cheap furniture. Who were these people? She shuffled toward a small loft window, stepping over a roommate here and a stranger there. What had she done last night?

The window was frosted; an early light snow was falling on the streets, where the flakes melted as they landed. She pulled the blanket around her emaciated body and sat on a beanbag near the window, watching the snow and wondering how much of the thousand bucks was left.

She inhaled the chilly air close to a windowpane, and her eyes began to clear. The throbbing in her temples ached but the dizziness was fading. Before she'd met Claire years ago, she'd chummed with a KU student named Phoebe, a flaky girl with a substance problem who'd spent time in recovery but was always on the brink of succumbing. Phoebe had worked briefly at Mulligan's with Claire and Bev-erly, then left the place under a cloud. Phoebe was from Wichita. She had once told Beverly that she knew something about Claire's past, something she'd learned from a boy who'd dated Claire. It wasn't Jeff Kerr, but some other guy, and if her head wasn't pounding she maybe could remember more of the details.

fOHN GRISHAM It was a long time ago.

Someone grunted under a mattress. Then there was silence again. Beverly had spent a weekend with Phoebe and her large, Catholic family in Wichita. Her father was a physician there. Should be easy to find. If that nice thug Mr. Swanson wouid fork over a thousand bucks for a few harmless answers, how much would he pay for some real background on Claire Clement?

She'd find Phoebe. Last she heard, she was in L. A. playing the same game Beverly was playing in New York. She'd shake down Swanson for all she could, then maybe find another place to live, a larger flat with nicer friends who'd keep the riffraff out.

Where was Swanson's card?

FITCH SKIPPED the morning's testimony to engage in a rare briefing, an event he despised. His guest was important, though. The man's name was James Local, head of the private investigation company to which Fitch was paying a fortune. Hidden in Bethesda, Local's firm hired lots of former government intelligence agents, and in the normal course of things an excursion into the heartland to locate a lone American female with no criminal record would be a nuisance. Their specialty was monitoring illegal arms shipments, tracking terrorists, and the like.

But Fitch had plenty of money, and the work involved only the slightest risk of flying bullets. The work had also been quite fruitless, and this was the reason Local was in Biloxi.

Swanson and Fitch listened as Local, without the slightest trace of apology, detailed their efforts of the past four days. Claire Clement had not existed before she appeared in Lawrence in the summer of 1988. Her first apartment was a two-bedroom condo she rented by the month and paid for with cash. The utilities were in her name-water, electric, gas. If she'd used the courts of Kansas for a legal name change, there was no record of it. Such files are kept locked, but they had managed to access them nonetheless. She didn't register to vote, didn't purchase car tags, didn't purchase real estate, but she did possess a Social Security number, which she'd used for employment purposes at two places-Mulligan's and a clothing boutique just off campus. A Social Security card is relatively easy to get, and it makes life much easier for a person on the run. They had managed to obtain a copy of her application for it, which revealed nothing useful. She had not applied for a passport.