They drove past a convenience store, and in the front window a neon beer sign caught Fitch's attention. The smell and taste of a cold beer filled his senses, and Fitch ached for a drink. Just one. Just a sweet, frosty beer in a tall mug. How long had it been?
The urge to stop hit hard. Fitch closed his eyes and tried to think of something else. He could send Jose in to buy just one, one cold bottle and that would be it. Wouldn't it? Surely, after nine years of sobriety he could handle a single drink. Why couldn't he have just one?
Because he'd had a million. And if Jose stopped here then he'd stop again two blocks away. And by the time they eventually reached the office the Suburban would be filled with empty bottles and Fitch would be throwing them at passing cars. He was not a pretty drunk.
But just one to settle his nerves, to help forget this miserable day.
"You okay, boss?" Jose asked.
Fitch grunted something, and stopped thinking about beer. Where was Marlee, and why hadn't she called today? The trial was winding down. A deal would take time to negotiate and execute.
He thought of the column in Mogul, and he longed for Marlee. He heard Jankle's idiotic voice expounding a brand-new defense theory, and he longed for Marlee. He closed his eyes and saw the faces of the jurors, and he longed for Marlee.
SINCE DERRICK now considered himself to be a major player, he chose a new meeting place for Wednesday night. It was a rough bar in the black section of Biloxi, a place Cleve had actually been before. Derrick figured he'd have the upper hand if the rendezvous occurred on his turf. Cleve insisted they meet in the parking lot first.
The lot was almost filled. Cleve was late. Derrick spotted him when he parked, and walked to the driver's side.
"I don't think this is a good idea," Cleve said, peeking through the crack in his window and looking at the dark, cinder-block building with steel rods across the windows.
"It's okay," said Derrick, himself a bit worried but unwilling to show it. "It's safe."
"Safe? They've had three stabbings here in the last month. I've got the only white face here, and you expect me to walk in there with five thousand bucks in cash and hand it over to you. Reckon who'd get cut first? Me or you?"
Derrick saw his point, but was unwilling to concede so quickly. He leaned closer to the window, glanced around the parking lot, suddenly more fearful.
"I say we go in," he said, in his best tough-guy routine.
"Forget it," Cleve said. "If you want the money, meet me at the Waffle House on 90." Cleve started his engine and raised the window. Derrick watched him drive away, with the five thousand dollars in cash somewhere within his reach, then ran to his car.
THEY ATE PANCAKES and drank coffee at the counter. Conversation was low because the cook was flipping eggs and sausage on a grill less than ten feet away and seemed to be straining to hear every word.
Derrick was nervous and his hands were jittery. Runners handled cash payoffs daily. The affair was of little significance to Cleve.
"So I'm thinking that maybe ten grand ain't enough, know what I mean?" Derrick said finally, repeating a line he'd rehearsed most of the afternoon.
"Thought we had a deal," Cleve said, unmoved, chomping on pancakes.
"I think you're trying to screw me, though."
"Is this your way of negotiating?"
"You ain't offering enough, man. I've been thinking about it. I even went by the courtroom this morning and watched some of the trial. I know what's going on now. I got it figured out."
"You do?"
"Yeah. And you guys ain't playing fair."
"There were no complaints last night when we agreed on ten."
"Things are different now. You caught me off guard last night."
Cleve wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and waited for the cook to serve someone at the far end of the counter. "Then what do you want?" he asked.
"A lot more."
"We don't have time to play games. Tell me what you want."
Derrick swallowed hard and glanced over his shoulder. Under his breath he said, "Fifty thousand, plus a percentage of the verdict."
"What percentage?"
"I figure ten percent would be fair."
"Oh you do." Cleve tossed his napkin onto his plate. "You're outta your mind," he said, then put a five-dollar bill beside his plate. He stood and said, "We cut a deal for ten. That's it. Anything larger and we'll get caught."
Cleve left in a hurry. Derrick searched both pockets and found nothing but coins. The cook was suddenly hovering nearby watching the desperate search for money. "I thought he was gonna pay," Derrick said, checking his shirt pocket.
"How much you got?" the cook asked, picking the five-dollar bill from beside Cleve's plate.
"Eighty cents."
"That's enough."
Derrick raced into the parking lot where he caught Cleve waiting with his engine running and his window down. "I'll bet the other side'll pay more," he said, leaning over.
"Then go try. Walk up to them tomorrow and tell them you want fifty thousand bucks for one vote."
"And ten percent."
"You're clueless, son." Cleve slowly switched off the ignition and got out of the car. He lit a cigarette. "You don't understand. A defense verdict means no money changes hands. Zero for the plaintiff means zero for the defense. It means no percentages for anybody. The plaintiff's lawyers get forty percent of zero. Does that make sense?"
"Yeah," Derrick said slowly, though obviously still confused.
"Look, what I'm offering you is something that's illegal as hell. Don't get greedy. If you do, then you'll get caught."
"Ten thousand seems cheap for something this big."
"No, don't look at it that way. Think of it like this. She's entitled to nothing, okay. Zero. She's doing her civic duty, getting fifteen bucks a day from the county for being a good citizen. The ten thousand is a bribe, a dirty little gift that has to be forgotten as soon as it's received."
"But if you offer a percentage, then she'll be motivated to work harder in the jury room."
Cleve drew a long puff and exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "You just don't understand. If there's a plaintiff's verdict, it will be years before the money changes hands. Look, Derrick, you're making this too complicated. Take the money. Talk to Angel. Help us out."
"Twenty-five thousand."
Another long puff, then the cigarette fell to the asphalt, where Cleve ground it with his boot. "I'll have to talk to my boss."
"Twenty-five thousand, per vote."
"Per vote?"
"Yeah. Angel can deliver more than one."
"Who?"
"I ain't saying."
"Lemme talk to my boss."
IN ROOM 54, Henry Vu read letters from his daughter at Harvard while his wife Qui studied new insurance policies for their fleet of fishing boats. Because Nicholas was watching movies down the hall, 48 was empty. In 44, Lonnie and his wife cuddled under the covers for the first time in almost a month, but they had to hurry since her sister had the kids. In 58, Mrs. Grimes watched sitcoms while Herman loaded trial narratives into his computer. Room 50 was empty because the Colonel was in the Party Room, alone again because Mrs. Herrera was off in Texas visiting a cousin. And 52 was also empty because Jerry was drinking beer with the Colonel and Nicholas and waiting until later to sneak across the hall to Poodle's room. In 56, Shine Royce, alternate number two, worked on a large bag of rolls and butter he'd taken from the dining room, watched TV, and once again thanked God for his good fortune. Royce was fifty-two, unemployed, lived in a rented trailer with a younger woman and her six kids, and hadn't earned fifteen dollars a day doing anything in years. Now, he simply had to sit and listen to a trial and the county would not only pay him but feed him too. In 46, Phillip Savelle and his Pakistani mate drank herbal tea and smoked pot with the windows open.