“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.
“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.
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.