But Nicholas wasn't the least bit concerned about his colleagues. He wanted them fatigued and on the verge of revolt. A mob needs a leader.
During a late afternoon recess, he had prepared a letter to Judge Harkin in which he requested the trial be continued on Saturday. The issue had been debated during lunch, a debate which lasted only a few minutes because he had planned it and had all the answers. Why sit around the motel room when they could be sitting in the jury box trying to finish this marathon?
The other twelve readily added their signatures, under his, and Harkin had no choice. Saturday court was rare but not unheard of, especially in sequestration trials.
His Honor quizzed Cable as to what they might expect tomorrow, and Cable confidently predicted the defense would finish its case. Rohr said the plaintiff would have no rebuttal. Sunday court was out of the question.
“This trial should be over Monday afternoon,” Harkin said to the jury. “The defense will finish tomorrow, then we'll have closing arguments Monday morning. I anticipate you'll receive the case before noon Monday. That's the best I can do, folks.”
There were suddenly smiles throughout the jury box. With the end in sight, they could endure one last weekend together.
Dinner would be at a notorious rib place in Gulf-port, followed by four hours of personal visits both tonight, tomorrow night, and Sunday. He sent them away with apologies.
After the jury left, Judge Harkin reconvened the lawyers for two hours of arguments on a dozen motions.
Thirty-three
He arrived late with no flowers or chocolates, no champagne or kisses, nothing but his tortured soul, which he wore on his sleeve. He took her by the hand at the door, led her to the bed, where he sat on the edge and tried to utter something before choking up. He buried his face in his hands.
“What's the matter, Hoppy?” she asked, fully alarmed and certain she was about to hear some dreadful confession. He had not been himself lately. She sat beside him, patted his knee, and listened. He began by blurting out just how stupid he'd been. He said repeatedly she wouldn't believe what he'd done, and he rambled on about how stupid it was until she finally said, firmly, “What have you done?”
He was suddenly angry-angry at himself for such a ridiculous stunt. He clenched his teeth, curled his upper lip, scowled, and launched into Mr. Todd Ringwald and KLX Property Group and Stillwater Bay and Jimmy Hull Moke. It was a setup! He'd been minding his own business, not out looking for trouble, just hustling with his sad little properties, just trying to help newlyweds into their first charming little starters. Then this guy walked in, from Vegas, nice suit, thick wad of architect's plans which, when unraveled on Hoppy's desk, looked like a gold mine.
Oh how could he have been so stupid! He lost his edge and began sobbing.
When he got to the part about the FBI coming to the house, Millie couldn't contain herself. “To our house?!”
“Yes, yes.”
“Oh my god! Where were the kids?”
So Hoppy told her how it happened, how he deftly maneuvered Agents Napier and Nitchman away from the house and down to his office, where they presented him with-the tape!
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 at 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.