ou Dell took the note as she had taken his previous ones and gave it to Willis, who walked down the hall, around the corner, and out of sight. He personally delivered it to His Honor, who at that moment was chatting on the phone, and anxious to hear the verdict. He heard verdicts all the time, but he had a hunch this one might have some pop to it. He felt sure he would one day preside over a grander civil trial, but one was hard to contemplate at the moment.

The note said: “Judge Harkin, Could you arrange for a deputy to escort me from the courthouse as soon as we're dismissed? I'm scared. I'll explain later. Nicholas Easter.”

His Honor gave instructions to a deputy waiting outside his chambers, then strode purposefully through the door and into the courtroom, where the air seemed thick with trepidation. Lawyers, most of whom had been lounging around their offices not far away waiting for the call, were scurrying down

the aisle, hustling to their seats, nerved up and wild-eyed. Spectators filtered in. It was almost eight o'clock.

“I have been informed that the jury has reached a verdict,” Harkin said loudly into his microphone, and he could see the lawyers shaking. “Please bring in the jury.”

They filed in with solemn faces, something jurors always do. Regardless of what good news they bear* for one side or the other, and regardless of how united they'might be, their eyes are always downcast, causing both sides to instinctively sink low and begin plans for appeal.

Lou Dell took the form from Nicholas, gave it to His Honor, who somehow managed to examine it while remaining remarkably straight-faced. He gave not the slightest hint of the shattering news he was holding. The verdict shocked him beyond reason, but procedurally there was nothing he could do. It was technically in order. There would be motions to reduce it later, but he was handcuffed now. He refolded it, gave it back to Lou Dell, who walked it over to Nicholas. He was standing and ready for the announcement.

“Mr. Foreman, read the verdict.”

Nicholas unfolded his masterpiece, cleared his throat, glanced around quickly to see if Fitch was in the courtroom, and when he didn't see him, he read: “We, the jury, find for the plaintiff, Celeste Wood, and award compensatory damages in the amount of two million dollars.”

This alone was a precedent. Wendall Rohr and his gang of trial lawyers breathed an enormous sigh of relief. They had just made history.

But the jury wasn't finished.

“And we, the jury, find for the plaintiff, Celeste Wood, and award punitive damages in the amount of four hundred million dollars.”

From a lawyer's point of view, the receiving of a verdict approaches an art form. One cannot flinch or twitch. One cannot look around for either solace or jubilation. One cannot grab one's client to celebrate or to comfort. One must sit perfectly still, frown hard at a legal pad upon which one is writing, and act as though one knew precisely what the verdict would be.

The art form was desecrated. Cable slumped as if shot in the stomach. His comrades stared at the jury box with mouths gaping, air rushing out, eyes squinted in utter disbelief. An “Oh my god!” was heard from somewhere among the second-tier defense lawyers behind Cable.

Rohr was all teeth as he quickly put his arm around Celeste Wood, who had started crying. The other trial lawyers clutched each other with quiet congratulations. Oh, the thrill of victory, the prospect of splitting forty percent of this verdict.

Nicholas sat down and patted Loreen Duke on the leg. It was over, finally over.

Judge Harkin was suddenly all business, as if it were just another verdict. “Now, ladies and gentlemen. I'm going to poll the jury. This means I will ask each of you individually if this is your verdict. I'll start with Ms. Loreen Duke. Please state clearly for the record whether or not you voted for this verdict.”

“I did,” she said proudly.

Some of the lawyers took notes. Some simply stared blankly into space.

“Mr. Easter? Did you vote in favor of this verdict?”

“I did.”

“Mrs. Dupree?”

“Yes sir. I did.”

“Mr. Savelle?”

“I did not.”

“Mr. Royce? Did you vote for this?”

“I did.”

“Ms. Weese?” '“I did.”

“Mr. Vu?”

“I did.”

“Mr. Lonnie Shaver?”

Lonnie half-stood, said loudly “for the world to hear, ”No sir, Your Honor, I did not vote for this verdict, and I disagree with it entirely."

“Thank you. Mrs. Rikki Coleman? Is this your verdict?”

“Yes sir.”

“Mrs. Gladys Card?”

“No sir.”

There suddenly arose a flicker of hope for Cable and Pynex and Fitch and the entire tobacco industry. Three jurors had now disclaimed the verdict. Only one more, and the jury would be sent back for more deliberations. Every trial judge could tell stories of juries whose verdicts disintegrated after they were delivered and while the polling took place. A verdict sounded much different in open court, with lawyers and clients watching, than it did only minutes earlier in the safety of the jury room.

But the slim prospect of a miracle was stamped out by the Poodle and Jerry. Both affirmed the verdict.

“Looks like the vote is nine to three,” His Honor

said. “Everything else appears to be in order. Anything, Mr. Rohr?”

Rohr simply shook his head. He could not thank the jury now, though he would've loved to jump over the railing and kiss their feet. He sat smugly in his seat, one heavy arm around Celeste Wood.

“Mr. Cable?”

“No sir,” Cable managed to say. Oh, the things he'd love to tell the jurors, the idiots.

The fact that Fitch was not in the courtroom worried Nicholas immensely. His absence meant he was outside, somewhere in the dark, lurking and waiting. How much did Fitch know now? Probably too much. Nicholas was anxious to leave the courtroom, and get the hell out of town.

Harkin then began a windy thank-you, interspersed it with a rowsing dose of patriotism and civic duty, threw in every cliche he'd heard from the bench, warned them against talking to anybody about their deliberations and their verdict, said he could hold them in contempt of court if they breathed a word of what had happened in the jury room, and sent them away on their final journey to the motel to gather their things.

Fitch watched and listened from the viewing room next to his office. And he watched alone, the jury consultants having been fired hours earlier and sent back to Chicago.

He could snatch Easter, and this had been discussed at length with Swanson, who'd been told everything as soon as he arrived. But what good would it do? Easter wouldn't talk and they'd run the risk of a kidnapping charge. They had enough troubles without spending time in jail in Biloxi.

They decided to follow him, hoping he would lead

them to the girl. Which, of course, posed another dilemma: What would they do with the girl if they found her? They couldn't report Marlee to the police. She'd made the magnificent decision to steal dirty money. What would Fitch tell the FBI in his sworn affidavit: that he gave her ten million dollars to deliver a verdict in a tobacco trial, and she had the nerve to double-cross him? Now would somebody please prosecute her?

Fitch was screwed at every turn.

He watched the video through the lens of Oliver McAdoo's hidden camera. The jurors stood, shuffled out, and the jury box was empty.

They gathered in the jury room to pick up books and magazines and knitting bags. Nicholas was in no mood for small talk. He slipped through the door, where Chuck, an old friend now, stopped him and told him the Sheriff was waiting outside.

Without a word to Lou Dell or Willis, or to any of the people he'd spent the last four weeks with, Nicholas hurriedly disappeared behind Chuck. They ducked out the back entrance, where the Sheriff himself was waiting behind the wheel of his big brown Ford.

“Judge said you needed some help,” the Sheriff said from behind the wheel.

“Yeah. Get on Forty-nine north. I'll show you where to go. And make sure we're not followed.”

“Okay. Who might be following you?”

“Bad guys.”

Chuck slammed the passenger door in the front, and they sped away. Nicholas took one last look at the jury room on the second floor. He saw Millie from the waist up, hugging Rikki Coleman.

“Don't you have things at the motel?” the Sheriff asked.

“Forget it. I'll get them later.”

The Sheriff radioed instructions for two cars to follow and make sure they were not being tailed. Twenty minutes later, as they raced through Gulf-port, Nicholas began pointing this way and that, and the Sheriff stopped by the tennis court of a large apartment complex north of town. Nicholas said this was fine, and got out.

“You sure you're okay?” the Sheriff asked.

“I'm sure. I'll stay here with some friends. Thanks.”

“Call me if you need help.”

“Sure.”

Nicholas disappeared into the night, and watched from a corner as the patrol car left. He waited by the pool house, a vantage point that enabled him to see all traffic to and from the apartment complex. He saw nothing suspicious.

His getaway car was brand-new, a rental Marlee had left there two days ago, one of three now abandoned in various parking lots on the outskirts of Biloxi. He safely made the ninety-minute drive to Hattiesburg while watching his rear the entire way.

The Lear was waiting at the Hattiesburg airport. Nicholas locked the keys in the car, and walked nonchalantly into the small terminal.

SOMETIME AFTER MIDNIGHT, he breezed through customs in George Town with fresh Canadian papers. There were no other passengers; the airport was practically deserted. Marlee met him by the baggage claim, and they embraced fiercely.

“Have you heard?” he asked. They stepped outside, where the humid air hit hard.

“Yeah, it's all over CNN,” she said. “Was that the best you could do?” she asked with a laugh, and they kissed again.

, She drove toward George Town, through the empty winding streets, around the modern bank buildings clustered near the pier. “That's ours,” she said, pointing to the Royal Swiss Trust building.

“Nice.”

Later, they sat in the sand, at the edge of the water, splashing in the foam as the gentle waves broke across their feet. A few boats with dim lights inched along the horizon. The hotels and condos stood quiet behind them. They owned the beach for the moment.

And what a moment it was. Their four-year quest was now over. Their plans had finally worked, and to perfection. They'd dreamed of this night for so long, had been convinced countless times that it could never happen.

The hours drifted by.

THEY THOUGHT IT BEST if Marcus the broker never laid eyes on Nicholas. There was an excellent chance authorities might ask questions later, and the less Marcus knew, the better. Marlee presented herself to the Royal Swiss Trust receptionist promptly at nine, and was escorted upstairs where Marcus was waiting with many questions he couldn't ask. He offered coffee, then closed his door.

“The shorting of Pynex seems to have been an excellent trade,” he said with a grin at his own talent for understatement.

“Seems so,” she said. “Where will it open?”

“Good question. I've been on the phone to New York, and things are quite chaotic. The verdict has stunned everyone. Except you, I guess.” He wanted so badly to probe, but he knew there would be no answers. “There's a chance it might not open. They could suspend trading for a day or two.”

She seemed to understand this perfectly. The coffee arrived. They sipped it as they reviewed yesterday's closings. At nine-thirty, Marcus slipped on his headset and focused on the two monitors on his side desk. “The market is open,” he said, waiting.

Marlee listened intently while trying to appear calm. She and Nicholas wanted to make a quick killing, in and out, then be gone with the money to some faraway place they'd never seen before. She had to cover 160,000 shares of Pynex, stock she was anxious to unload.

“It's suspended,” Marcus said to his computer, and she flinched slightly. He punched digits and began a conversation with someone in New York. He mumbled numbers and points, then said to her, “They're offering it at fifty, and there are no buyers. Yes or no?”

“No.”

Two minutes passed. His eyes never left the screen. “It's on the board at forty-five. Yes or no?”

“No. What about the others?”

His fingers danced across the keyboard. “Wow. Trellco is down thirteen to forty-three. Smith Greer down eleven to fifty-three and a quarter. ConPack down eight to twenty-five. It's a bloodbath. The entire industry is getting shelled.”

“Check Pynex.”

“Still falling. Forty-two, with a few small buyers.”

“Buy twenty thousand shares at forty-two,” she said, looking at her notes.

A few seconds passed before he said, “Confirmed. Up to forty-three. They're paying attention up there. I'd keep it under twenty thousand shares next time.”

Less commissions, the Marlee/Nicholas partnership had just made $740,000.

“Back down to forty-two,” he said.

“Buy twenty thousand shares at forty-one,” she said.

A minute later he said, “Confirmed.”

Another $760,000 in profits.

“Steady at forty-one, now a half up,” he said like a robot. “They saw your buy.”

“Is anybody else buying?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

“When will they start?”

“Who knows? But soon, I think. This company has too much cash to go under. Book value per share is around seventy. It's a steal at fifty. I'd tell all my clients to jump in now.”

She bought another twenty thousand shares at forty-one, then waited half an hour to buy twenty thousand at forty. When Trellco fell to forty, down sixteen, she bought twenty thousand shares, for a profit of $320,000.

The quick kill was happening. She borrowed a phone at ten-thirty and called Nicholas, who was glued to the TV, watching it all unfold on CNN. They had a crew in Biloxi trying to get interviews from Rohr and Cable and Harkin, from Gloria Lane or anybody who might know something. No one wanted to talk to them. Nicholas was also watching stock quotes on a financial news channel.

Pynex found its bottom an hour after it opened.

Takers were found at thirty-eight, at which point Marlee dumped the remaining eighty thousand shares.

When Trellco found resistance at forty-one, she bought forty thousand shares. She was out of the Trellco business. With the bulk of her trades covered, and covered quite brilliantly, Marlee was less inclined to hang around and be greedy with the other stocks. She worked hard at being patient. She had rehearsed this plan many times, and the opportunity would never again be hers.

A few minutes before noon, with the market still in disarray, she covered the remaining shares of Smith Greer. Marcus removed his headset and wiped his forehead.

“Not a bad morning, Ms. MacRoland. You've netted over eight million, less commissions.” A printer hummed quietly on the desk, spewing out confirmations.

“I want the money wired to a bank in Zurich.”

“Our bank?”

“No.” She handed him a sheet of paper with wiring instructions.

“How much?” he asked.

“All of it, minus, of course, your commissions.”

“Certainly. I assume this is a priority.”

“Immediately, please.”

SHE PACKED QUICKLY. He watched because he had nothing to pack, nothing but two golf shirts and a pair of jeans he'd purchased at a dive shop in the hotel. They promised each other new wardrobes at their next destination. Money would not be a factor. They flew, first class, to Miami, where they waited two hours before boarding a flight to Amsterdam.

The in-flight news service in first class featured none other than CNN and Financial News. They watched with great amusement as the verdict got covered in Biloxi while Wall Street ran in circles. Experts popped up everywhere. Law professors made fearless predictions about the future of tobacco liability. Stock analysts offered myriad opinions, each in sharp contrast to the preceding one. Judge Harkin had no comment. Cable could not be found. Rohr finally emerged from his office and took full credit for the victory. No one knew of Rankin Fitch, which was a shame because Marlee wanted so badly to see his suffering face.

In hindsight, her timing was perfect. The market bottomed soon after it crashed, and by the end of the day Pynex was holding steady at forty-five.

From Amsterdam, they flew to Geneva, where they leased a hotel suite for a month.