he first Saturday in November arrived with temperatures in the low sixties, unseasonably cool for the Coast and its near-tropical climate. A gentle breeze from the north rattled trees and scattered leaves on the streets and sidewalks. Fall usually arrived late and lasted until the first of the year, when it yielded to spring. The Coast did not experience winter.

A few joggers were on the street just after dawn. No one noticed the plain black Chrysler as it pulled into the driveway of a modest brick split-level. It was too early for the neighbors to see the two young men in matching dark suits exit the car, walk to the front door, ring the buzzer, and wait patiently. It was too early, but in less than an hour the lawns would be busy with leaf rakers and the sidewalks busy with children.

Hoppy had just poured the water into the Mr. Coffee when he heard the buzzer. He tightened the belt of his ragged terry-cloth bathrobe and tried to

straighten his unkempt hair with his fingers. Must be the Boy Scouts selling doughnuts at this ungodly hour. Surely it wasn't the Jehovah's Witnesses again. He'd let them have it this time. Nothing but a cult! He moved quickly because the upstairs was filled with comatose teenagers. Six at last count. Five of his and a guest someone had dragged home from junior college. A typical Friday night at the Dupree home.

He opened the front door and met two serious young men, both of whom instantly reached into their pockets and whipped out gold medallions stuck to black leather. In the quick rush of syllables, Hoppy caught “FBI” at least twice, and nearly fainted.

“Are you Mr. Dupree?” Agent Nitchman asked.

Hoppy gasped. “Yes, but-”

“We'd like to ask you some questions,” said Agent Napier as he somehow managed to take a step even closer.

“About what?” Hoppy asked, his voice dry. He tried to look between them, at the street, across it where Mildred Yancy was no doubt watching all of this.

Nitchman and Napier exchanged a harsh, conspiratorial look. Then Napier said to Hoppy, “We can do it here, or perhaps somewhere else.”

“Questions about Stillwater Bay, Jimmy Hull Moke, things like that,” Nitchman said for clarification, and Hoppy clutched the door frame.

“Oh my god,” he said as the air was sucked from his lungs and most vital organs froze.

“May we come in?” Napier said.

Hoppy lowered his head and rubbed his eyes as if to weep. “No, please, not here.” The children! Nor-

mally they'd sleep till riine or ten, or even noon for that matter if Millie let them, but with voices downstairs they'd be up in a minute. “My office,” he managed to say.

“We'll wait,” Napier said.

“Make it quick,” Nitchman said.

“Thank you,” Hoppy said, then quickly closed the door, and locked it. He fell onto a sofa in the den, and stared at the ceiling, which was spinning clockwise. No sounds from upstairs. The kids were still sleeping. His heart pounded fiercely and for a full minute he thought he might just lie there and die. Death would be welcome now. He could close his eyes and float away, and in a couple of hours the first kid down would see him and call 911. He was fifty-three, and bad hearts ran in his family, on his mother's side. Millie would get a hundred thousand in life insurance.

When he realized his heart was determined to continue, he slowly swung to his feet. Still dizzy, he groped his way to the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee. It was five minutes after seven, according to the digital on the oven. Fourth day of November. Undoubtedly one of the worst days of his life. How could he have been so stupid!

He thought about calling Todd Ringwald, and he thought about calling Millard Putt, his lawyer. He decided to wait. He was suddenly in a hurry. He wanted to leave the house before the kids got up, and he wanted those two agents out of his driveway before the neighbors noticed. Besides, Millard Putt did nothing but real estate law, and was not very good at that. This was a criminal matter.

A criminal matter! He skipped a shower and dressed in seconds. He was halfway through the

brushing of his teeth when he finally looked at himself in the mirror. Betrayal was written all over his face, stamped in his eyes for all to see. He couldn't lie. Deceit was not in him. He was just Hoppy Du-pree, an honest man with a fine family, good reputation, and all. He'd never cheated on his tax returns!

So why, Hoppy, were there two FBI agents waiting outside for a trip downtown, not to jail yet, though that would surely come, but to a private place where they could eat him for breakfast and lay bare his fraud? He decided not to shave. Perhaps he should call his minister. He brushed his swirling hair and thought of Millie, and the public disgrace, and the kids, and what would everybody think.

Before leaving the bathroom, Hoppy vomited.

Outside, Napier insisted that he ride with Hoppy. Nitchman in the black Chrysler followed. Not a word was spoken.

DUPREE REALTY was not the sort of commercial enterprise that attracted early risers. This was true on Saturday, as it was for the rest of the week. Hoppy knew the place would be deserted until at least nine, maybe ten. He unlocked doors, turned on lights, said nothing until it was time to ask if they wanted coffee. Both declined and seemed quite anxious to proceed to the slaughter. Hoppy sat on his side of the desk. They huddled together like twins across from him. He was unable to hold their gaze.

Nitchman got it started by saying, “Are you familiar with Stillwater Bay?”

“Yes.”

“Have you met a man by the name of Todd Ringwald?”

“Yes.”

“Have you signed any type of contract with him?”

"KT *>

No.

Napier and Nitchman looked at each other as if they knew this to be false. Napier said, smugly, “Look, Mr. Dupree, this will go a lot smoother for you if you tell the truth.”

“I swear I'm telling the truth.”

“When did you first meet Todd Ringwald?” Nitchman asked as he pulled a narrow notepad from his pocket and began scribbling.

“Thursday.”

“Do you know Jimmy Hull Moke?”

“Yes.”

“When did you first meet him?”

“Yesterday.”

“Where?”

“Right here.”

“What was the purpose of the meeting?”

“To discuss the development of Stillwater Bay. I'm supposed to represent a company called KLX Properties. KLX wants to develop Stillwater Bay, which is in Mr. Moke's supervisor's district in Hancock County.”

Napier and Nitchman stared at Hoppy and pondered this for what seemed like an hour. Hoppy silently repeated his words to himself. Had he said something? Something that would speed along his journey to prison? Perhaps he should stop this right now and seek legal counsel.

Napier cleared his throat. “We've been investigating Mr. Moke for the past six months, and two weeks ago he agreed to enter into a plea bargain arrangement whereby he will receive a light sentence in exchange for his assistance.”

This legal crap-speak meant little to Hoppy. He

heard it, but things weren't registering clearly right now.

“Did you offer money to Mr. Moke?” Napier asked.

“No,” Hoppy said because there was no way he could say yes. He said it quickly, without force or conviction, it just came out. “No,” he said again. He hadn't actually offered money. He had cleared the way for his client to offer money. At least, that was his interpretation of what he'd done.

Nitchman slowly reached into his coat pocket, slowly felt around until his fingers were just right, slowly removed a slender pocket something or other which he slowly placed in the center of the desk. “Are you sure?” he asked, almost taunting.

“Sure I'm sure,” Hoppy said, staring slack-jawed at the sleek hideous device.

Nitchman gently pressed a button. Hoppy held his breath and clenched his fists. Then, there was his voice, chirping along nervously about local politics and casinos and fishing with an occasional entry by Moke. “He was wired!” Hoppy exclaimed, breathless and totally defeated.

“Yes,” one of them said gravely.

Hoppy could only stare at the recorder. “Oh no,” he mumbled.

The words had been uttered and recorded less than twenty-four hours earlier, right there at that very desk over chicken clubs and iced tea. Jimmy Hull had sat where Nitchman was and arranged a bribe for a hundred grand, and he did so with an FBI wire stuck somewhere to his body.

The tape dragged painfully on until the damage was done and Hoppy and Jimmy Hull were offering

their hurried good-byes. “Shall we listen to it again?” Nitchman asked as he touched a button.

“No, please,” Hoppy said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Should I talk to a lawyer?” he asked without looking up.

“Not a bad idea,” Napier said sympathetically.

When he finally looked at them his eyes were red and wet. His lip quivered but he thrust his chin outward and tried to be bold. “So what am I looking at?” he asked.

Napier and Nitchman relaxed in unison. Napier stood and walked to a bookcase. “It's hard to say,” Nitchman said, as if the issue would be determined by someone else. “We've busted a dozen supervisors in the past year. The judges are sick of it. The sentences are getting longer.”

“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 im-

mediately 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 po-boy deli on Canal.

By ten they were locked in their rooms in Pass Christian, tired and ready for sleep. Busy jurors are happy jurors.