n response to frantic calls from Biloxi, the price of Pynex shares dipped as low as seventy-five and a half by closing Thursday, down almost four'points in heavy trading attributed to the dramatic events in the courtroom.

In other tobacco trials, former employees had testified about pesticides and insecticides sprayed on the crops, and experts had linked the chemicals to cancer. The juries had not been impressed. In one trial, a former employee had spilled the news that his former employer had targeted young teenagers with ads showing thin and glamorous idiots with perfect chins and perfect teeth having all manner of fun with tobacco. The same employer had targeted older teenaged males with ads depicting cowboys and stock car drivers seriously pursuing life with cigarettes stuck between their lips.

But the juries in those trials did not award the plaintiffs.

No former employee, though, did as much dam-

age as Lawrence Krigler. The infamous memo from the 1930s had been seen by a handful of people, but never produced in litigation. Krigler's version of it for the jury was as close as any plaintiff's lawyer had come to the real thing. The fact that he'd been allowed by Judge Harkin to describe it to the jury would be hotly contested on appeal, regardless of who won at trial.

Krigler was quickly escorted out of town by Rohr's security people, and an hour after finishing his testimony he was on a private plane back to Florida. Several times since leaving Pynex he had been tempted to contact a plaintiff's lawyer in a tobacco trial, but had never mustered the courage.

Pynex had paid him three hundred thousand dollars out of court, just to get rid of him. The company had insisted he agree never to testify in trials similar to Wood, but he refused. And when he refused, he became a marked man.

They, whoever they had been, said they'd kill him. The threats had been few and scattered over the years, always from unknown voices and always dropping in when least expected. Krigler was not one to hide. He'd written a book, an expose he said would be published in the event of his untimely death. A lawyer had it in Melbourne Beach. The lawyer was a friend who'd arranged the initial meeting with Rohr. The lawyer had also opened a dialogue with the FBI, just in case something happened to Mr. Krigler.

MILLIE DUPREE'S HUSBAND, Hoppy, owned a struggling realty agency in Biloxi. Certainly not the aggressive sort, he had few listings and few leads, but he worked diligently with what little business

came his way. One wall in the front room had pictures of available OPPORTUNITIES thumbtacked to a corkboard-mainly little brick houses with neat lawns and a few run-down duplexes.

Casino fever had brought to the Coast a new herd of real estate swingers unafraid to borrow heavily and develop accordingly. Once again, Hoppy and the little guys had played it safe and got themselves squeezed even further into markets they knew all too well-darling little STARTERS for the newlyweds and hopeless FDCUPS for the desperate and MOTIVATED SELLERS for those who couldn't qualiry for a bank loan.

But he paid his bills and somehow provided for his family-his wife Millie and their five kids, three at the junior college and two in high school. At any given time he had attached to his office the licenses of a half a dozen part-time sales associates, for the most part a downhearted bunch of losers who shared his aversion to debt and forcefulness. Hoppy loved pinochle, and many hours were passed at his desk in the back over cards as subdivisions sprang up all around him. Realtors, regardless of their talent, love to dream of the big score. Hoppy and his motley gang were not above taking a late-afternoon nip and talking big business over cards.

Just before six on Thursday, as the pinochle was winding down and preparations were being made to end another nonproductive day, a well-dressed young businessman with a shiny black attache entered the office and asked for Mr. Dupree. Hoppy was in the back, rinsing his mouth with Scope and hurrying to get home since Millie was locked away. Introductions were made. The young man presented a business card which declared him to be Todd

Ringwald of KLX Property Group out of Las Vegas, Nevada. The card impressed Hoppy enough to shoo off the last of the lingering sales associates, and lock his office door. The mere presence of one dressed so well and having traveled such a great distance could only mean serious matters were possible.

Hoppy offered a drink, then coffee, which could be brewed in an instant. Mr. Ringwald declined, and asked if he'd come at a bad time.

“No, not at all. We work crazy hours, you know. It's a crazy business.”

Mr. Ringwald smiled and agreed because he too was once in business for himself, not too many years ago. First a bit about his company. KLX was a private outfit with holdings in a dozen states. While it did not own casinos, and had no plans to do so, it had developed a related specialty, a lucrative one. KLX tracked casino development. Hoppy nodded furiously as if this type of enterprise was altogether familiar to him.

Typically, when casinos move in, the local real estate market changes dramatically. Ringwald was certain Hoppy knew all about this, and Hoppy agreed wholeheartedly as if he'd made a fortune recently. KLX moved in quietly, and Ringwald emphasized just how utterly secretive the company was, a step behind the casinos, and developed shopping areas and expensive condos and apartment complexes and upper-end subdivisions. Casinos pay well, employ many, things change in the local economy, and, well, there's just a helluva lot more money floating around and KLX wanted its share. “Our company is a vulture,” Ringwald explained with a devious smile. “We sit back and watch the casinos. When they move, we go in for the kill.”

“Brilliant,” Hoppy offered, unable to control himself.

However, KLX had been slow to move on the Coast, and, confidentially, this had cost a few jobs back in Vegas. There were still incredible opportunities, though, to which Hoppy said, “There certainly are.”

Ringwald opened his briefcase and removed a folded property map, which he held on his knees. He, as Vice President of Development, preferred to deal with smaller realty agents. The big firms had too many people hanging around, too many overweight housewives reading classifieds and waiting for the slightest morsel of gossip. “You got that right!” Hoppy said, staring at the property map. “Plus you get better service from a small agency, like mine.”

“You have been highly recommended,” Ringwald said, and Hoppy couldn't suppress a smile. The phone rang. It was the senior in high school wanting to know what was for supper and when might Mother be coming home. Hoppy was pleasant but short. He was very busy, he explained, and there might be some old lasagna in the freezer.

The property map was unfolded on Hoppy's desk. Ringwald pointed to a large red-colored plot in Hancock County, next door to Harrison and the westernmost of the three coastal counties. Both men hovered over the desk from different sides.

“MGM Grand is coming here,” Ringwald said, pointing to a large bay. “But no one knows it yet. You certainly can't tell anyone.”

Hoppy's head was shaking Hell No! before Ringwald finished.

"They're gonna build the biggest casino on the

Coast, probably middle of next year. They'll announce in three months. They'll buy a hundred acres or so of this land here."

“That's beautiful land. Virtually untouched.” Hoppy had never been near the property with a real estate sign, but he had lived on the Coast for forty years.

“We want this,” Ringwald said, pointing again to the land marked in red. It was adjacent to the north and west of the MGM land. “Five hundred acres, so we can do this.” He pulled the top sheet back to reveal an artist's rendering of a rather splendid Planned Unit Development. It was labeled Stillwater Bay with bold blue letters across the top. Condos, office buildings, big homes, smaller homes, playgrounds, churches, a central square, a shopping mall, a pedestrian mall, a dock, a marina, a business block, parks, jogging paths, bike trails, even a proposed high school. It was Utopia, all planned for Hancock County by some wonderfully farsighted people in Las Vegas.

“Wow,” Hoppy said. There was a bloody fortune on his desk.

“Four different phases over five years. The whole thing will cost thirty million. It's by far the biggest development ever seen in these parts.”

“Nothing can touch it.”

Ringwald flipped another page and revealed another drawing of the dock area, then another for a close-up of the residential section. “These are just the preliminary drawings. I'll show you more if you can come to the home office.”

“Vegas.”

"Yes. If we can reach an agreement on your representation, then we'd like to fly you out for a few

days, you know, meet our people, see the whole project from the design end."

Hoppy's knees wobbled and he took a breath. Slow down, he told himself. “Yes, and what type of representation did you have in mind?”

“Initially, we need a broker to handle the purchase of the land. Once we buy it, we have to convince the local authorities to approve the development. This, as you know, can take time and become controversial. We spend a lot of time before planning commissions and zoning boards. We even go to court when necessary. But it's just part of our business. You'll be involved to some extent at this point. Once it's approved, we'll need a real estate firm to handle the marketing of Stillwater Bay.”

Hoppy backed into his chair and pondered figures for a moment. “How much will the land cost?” he asked.

“It's expensive, much too expensive for this area. Ten thousand an acre, for land worth about half that much.”

Ten thousand an acre for five hundred acres added up to five million bucks, six percent of which was three hundred thousand dollars for Hoppy's commission, assuming of course no other realtors were to be involved. Ringwald watched poker-faced as Hoppy did the mental math.

“Ten thousand's too much,” Hoppy said with authority.

"Yes, but the land is not on the market. The sellers don't really want to sell, so we have to sneak in quickly, before the MGM story leaks, and snatch it. That's why we need a local agent. If word hits the street that a big company from Vegas is looking at

the land, it'll go to twenty thousand an acre. Happens all the time."

The fact that the land was not on the market caused Hoppy's heart to stutter. No other realtors were involved! Just him. Just little Hoppy and his full six percent commission. His ship had finally come in. He, Hoppy Dupree, after decades of selling duplexes to pensioners, was about to make a killing.

Not to mention the “marketing of Stillwater Bay.” All those houses and condos and commercial properties, hell thirty million dollars' worth of red-hot property with Dupree Realty signs hanging all over it. Hoppy could be a millionaire in five years, he decided on the spot.

Ringwald moved in. “I'm assuming your commission is eight percent. That's what we normally pay.”

“Of course,” Hoppy said, the words rushing forward over a very dry tongue. From three hundred thousand to four hundred thousand, just like that. “Who are the sellers?” he asked, quickly changing the subject now that they'd agreed on eight percent.

Ringwald allowed a noticeable sigh and his shoulders sagged, but only for an instant. “This is where it gets complicated.” Hoppy's heart sank.

“The property is in the sixth district of Hancock County,” Ringwald said slowly. “And the sixth district is the domain of a county supervisor by the name of-”

“Jimmy Hull Moke,” Hoppy interrupted, with no small measure of sadness.

“You know him?”

“Everybody knows Jimmy Hull. He's been in office for thirty years. Slickest crook on the Coast.”

“Do you know him personally?”

“No. Only by reputation.”

“Which we've heard is rather shady.”

“Shady is a compliment to Jimmy Hull. On a local level, the man controls everything in his end of the county.”

Ringwald offered a puzzled look as if he and his company had no clue about how to proceed. Hoppy rubbed his sad eyes and plotted to keep his fortune. They made no eye contact for a full minute, then Ringwald said, “It's not wise to buy the land unless we can get some assurances from Mr. Moke and the local people. As you know, there will be a maze of regulatory approvals for the project.”

“Planning, zoning, architectural review, soil erosion, you name it,” Hoppy said, as if he fought these wars every day.

“We've been told that Mr. Moke controls all of this.”

“With an iron fist.”

Another pause.

“Perhaps we should arrange a meeting with Mr. Moke,” Ringwald said.

“I don't think so.”

“Why not?”

“Meetings don't work.”

“I'm not following you.”

“Cash. Pure and simple. Jimmy Hull likes it under the table, large sacks of it in unmarked bills.”

Ringwald nodded with a solemn grin as if this was unfortunate but not unexpected. “So we've heard,” he said, almost to himself. “Actually, this is not unusual, especially in areas where casinos have appeared. There's lots of fresh foreign money and people get greedy.”

“Jimmy Hull was born greedy. He was stealing thirty years before casinos appeared here.”

“He doesn't get caught?”

“No. For a local supervisor, he's pretty bright. Everything's in cash, no trail, he covers himself carefully. Then again, it doesn't take a rocket scientist.” Hoppy tapped his forehead lightly with a handkerchief. He bent forward and removed two tumblers from a lower drawer, then a bottle of vodka. He poured two stiff drinks and placed one across the desk in front of Ringwald. “Cheers,” he said before Ringwald touched his glass.

“So what do we do?” Ringwald asked.

“What do you normally do in situations like this?”

“We normally find a way to work with the local authorities. There's too much money involved to pack up and go home.”

“How do you work with local authorities?”

“We have ways. We have contributed money to reelection campaigns. We have honored our friends with expensive vacations. We've paid consulting fees to spouses and children.”

“You ever paid bribes in hard cash?”

“Well, I'd rather not say.”

“That's what it'll take. Jimmy Hull is a simple man. Just cash.” Hoppy took a long sip and smacked his lips.

“How much?”

“Who knows. But it'd better be enough. You low-ball him up front, he'll kill your project later. And he'll keep the cash. Jimmy Hull doesn't do refunds.”

“You sound like you know him rather well.”

“Those of us who wheel and deal along the Coast know how he plays the game. He's sort of a local legend.”

Ringwald shook his head in disbelief. "Welcome

to Mississippi," Hoppy said, then took another sip. Ringwald had not touched his drink.

For twenty-five years Hoppy had played it straight, and he had no plans to compromise himself now. The money wasn't worth the risk. He had kids, a family, a reputation, standing in the community. Church occasionally. The Rotary Club. And just exactly who was this stranger sitting across his desk in the fancy suit and designer loafers, offering the world if only one minor agreement could be reached? He, Hoppy, would certainly get on the phone and check out KLX Property Group and Mr. Todd Ringwald as soon as he left the office.

“This is not unusual,” Ringwald said. “We see it all the time.”

“Then what do you do?”

“Well, I think our first step is to approach Mr. Moke and determine the likelihood of a deal.”

“Hell be ready to deal.”

“Then we determine the terms of the deal. As you put it, we'll decide how much cash.” Ringwald paused and took a tiny sip of his drink. “Are you willing to be involved?”

“I don't know. In what way?”

“We don't know anyone in Hancock County. We try to keep a low profile. We're from Vegas. If we start asking questions, then the entire project gets blown.”

“You want me to talk to Jimmy Hull?”

“Only if you want to be involved. If not, then we'll be forced to find someone else.”

“I have a clean reputation,” Hoppy said, with astounding firmness, then swallowed hard at the thought of a competitor raking in his four hundred thousand.

“We don't expect you to get dirty.” Ringwald paused and groped for the right words. Hoppy was pulling for him. “Let's just say that we have ways of delivering what Mr. Moke wants. You won't have to touch it. In fact, you won't know when it happens.”

Hoppy sat straighter as a burden lifted itself from his shoulders. Perhaps there was some middle ground here. Ringwald and his company did this all the time. They'd probably dealt with crooks much more sophisticated than Jimmy Hull Moke. “I'm listening,” he said.

“Your fingers are on the pulse here. We're obviously outsiders, so we'll rely on you. Let me give you a scenario. You tell me if it'll work. What if you meet with Mr. Moke, just the two of you, and you tell him in broad strokes about the development? Our names are not mentioned, you simply have this client who wants to work with him. He'll name his price. If it's within our range, then you tell him it's a deal. We'll take care of the delivery, and you never know for certain if the cash actually changes hands. You've done nothing wrong. He's happy. We're happy because we're about to make a pot full of money, along with you, I might add.”

Hoppy liked it! None of the mud could stick to his hands. Let his client and Jimmy Hull do their dirty work. He'd stay out of the gutter and simply turn his head. Still, he was overcome by caution. He said he'd like to think about it.

They chatted some more, looked at the plans once again, and said good-bye at eight. Ringwald was to call early Friday morning.

Before heading home, Hoppy dialed the number on Ringwald's business card. An efficient receptionist in Las Vegas said, "Good afternoon, KLX Prop-

erty Group." Hoppy smiled, then asked to speak to Todd Ringwald. The call was routed, with soft rock in the background, to Mr. Ringwald's office where Hoppy spoke to Madeline, an assistant of some variety who explained that Mr. Ringwald was out of town and not expected back until Monday. She asked who was calling, and Hoppy quickly hung up. There now. KLX was indeed legitimate.

INCOMING PHONE CALLS were stopped at the front desk where they were recorded on yellow message slips and forwarded to Lou Dell, who then distributed them like the Easter Bunny passing out chocolate eggs. The one from George Teaker arrived at seven-forty Thursday night, and was delivered to Lonnie Shaver, who was skipping the movie and working with his computer. He called Teaker at once, and for the first ten minutes answered nothing but questions about the trial. Lonnie confessed that it had been a bad day for the defense. Lawrence Krigler had made a noticeable impact on the jurors, all except for Lonnie, of course. Lonnie had not been impressed, he assured Teaker. The folks in New York were certainly worried, Teaker said more than once. They're awfully relieved that Lonnie was on the jury and could be counted on no matter what, but things looked dim. Or did they?

Lonnie said it was too early to tell.

Teaker said they needed to tie up the loose ends of the employment contract. Lonnie could think of only one loose end, and that was how much his new salary would be. He currently made forty thousand dollars. Teaker said SuperHouse would raise him to fifty thousand with some stock options, and a per-

258 JOHNGRISHAM

formance-based bonus that might hit twenty thousand.

They wanted him to start a management training course in Charlotte as soon as the trial was over. Mention of the trial brought on another round of questions about the mood of the jury.

An hour later, Lonnie stood at his window, watched the parking lot, and tried to convince himself he was about to earn seventy thousand dollars a year. Three years ago, he made twenty-five thousand.

Not bad for a kid whose father drove a milk truck for three bucks an hour.