On Friday morning, The Wall Street Journal ran a front-page story about Lawrence Krigler and his testimony of the day before. Written by Agner Layson, who'd so far not missed a word of the trial, the story did a fair job of describing what the jury heard. Then Layson speculated about Krigler's impact on the jury. The remaining half of the article tried to peel skin off Krigler with quotes from the good old boys at ConPack, formerly Allegheny Growers. Not surprisingly, there were vehement denials of almost everything Krigler said. The company had not conducted a study of nicotine in the 1930s, or at least no one around now knew about any such study. It was a long time ago. No one at ConPack had ever seen the infamous memo. Probably just a figment of Krigler's imagination. It was not common knowledge in the tobacco industry that nicotine was addictive. Levels of the poison were not kept artificially high by ConPack, or any other manufacturer for that matter. The company would not admit, in fact denied again in print, that nicotine was addictive in the first place.

Pynex also delivered a few potshots, all from unnamed sources. Krigler was a corporate misfit. He fancied himself a serious scientific researcher when in fact he was just an engineer. His work with Raleigh 4 was seriously flawed. Production of that leaf was totally impractical. The death of his sister seriously affected his work and conduct. He was quick to threaten litigation. There was a strong hint that the out-of-court settlement thirteen years earlier had been heavily weighted in Pynex's favor.

A short, related story tracked the movement of Pynex common, which had closed at seventy-five and a half, down three points in heavy trading after a late rally.

Judge Harkin read the story an hour before the jury arrived. He called Lou Dell at the Siesta Inn to make sure there was no way any of the jurors could see it. She assured him they would get only the local dailies, all censored as per his instructions. She rather enjoyed cutting out the stories about the trial. Occasionally she would scissor out an unrelated story, just for the fun of it, just to make them wonder what they were missing. How could they ever know?

HOPPY DUPREE slept little. After washing the dishes and vacuuming the den, he talked to Millie on the phone for almost an hour. She was in good spirits.

He left his bed at midnight to sit on the porch and ponder KLX and Jimmy Hull Moke and the fortune that was out there, almost within reach. The money would be used for the kids, he had determined before he left the office. No more junior colleges. No more part-time jobs. They'd have the best schools. A larger house would be nice, but only because the kids were cramped. He and Millie could live anywhere; such simple tastes.

No debt whatsoever. After taxes, he'd put the money in two places-mutual funds and real estate. He'd buy small commercial properties with solid leases. He could think of a half-dozen already.

The agreement with Jimmy Hull Moke worried him to no end. He'd simply never been involved with graft, never, to his knowledge, gotten near it. He had a cousin who sold used cars and got himself sent away for three years for double and triple mortgaging his inventory. Wrecked his marriage. Ruined his children.

At some point before dawn, he became oddly comforted by the reputation of Jimmy Hull Moke. The man had fine-tuned the practice of corruption and made it an art form. He had become quite wealthy on a meager public servant's salary. And everybody knew it!

Surely Moke would know precisely how to handle the agreement without getting caught. Hoppy wouldn't get near the cash, wouldn't even know for sure if and when it was delivered.

He ate a Pop-Tart for breakfast and determined the risk to be minimal. He'd have a safe chat with Jimmy Hull, let the conversation run whatever course Jimmy Hull wanted because they'd soon enough get to the issue of cash, and then he'd report to Ringwald. He thawed frozen cinnamon swirls for the kids, left their lunch money on the kitchen counter, and went to the office at eight.

FOR THE DAY after Krigler the defense adopted a gentler style. It was imperative to seem relaxed, unbothered by the severe blow the plaintiff had delivered yesterday. The pack of them wore suits of lighter shades, soft grays and blues and even a khaki. Gone were the harsh blacks and navys. Gone too were the serious frowns of men overburdened with their own importance. The instant the door opened and the first juror appeared, wide toothy smiles appeared from behind the defense table. Even a couple of chuckles. What a laid-back bunch.

Judge Harkin said hello, but there were few smiles inside the jury box. It was Friday, which meant the weekend started soon, a weekend to be spent incarcerated at the Siesta Inn. It had been decided over breakfast that Nicholas would pass a note to the Judge and ask him to explore the possibility of working Saturday. The jurors would rather be in court trying to finish this ordeal than sitting around their rooms doing nothing but thinking about it.

Most of them noticed the stupid grins from Cable and company. They noticed the summer suits, the jovial air, the humorous whispers. "Why are they so damned happy?" Loreen Duke whispered under her breath as Harkin read his list of questions.

"They want us to think everything's under control," Nicholas whispered back. "Just glare at them."

Wendall Rohr stood and called the next witness. "Dr. Roger Bunch," he said with an air of greatness. He watched the jury for reactions to the name.

It was Friday. There would be no reactions from the jury.

Bunch had gained fame a decade earlier when, as Surgeon General of the United States, he had been a relentless critic of the tobacco industry. For the six years he'd served, he had instigated countless studies, directed frontal assaults, given a thousand anti-smoking speeches, written three books on the subject, and pushed agencies for tougher regulatory controls. His victories had been few and far between. Since leaving office, he had continued his crusade with a talent for publicity.

He was a man of many opinions and he was anxious to share them with the jury. The evidence was conclusive-cigarettes caused lung cancer. Every professional medical organization in the world that had addressed the issue had determined that smoking cigarettes caused lung cancer. The only organizations with contrary opinions were the manufacturers themselves and their hired mouthpieces-lobbying groups and the like.

Cigarettes are addictive. Ask any smoker who's tried to quit. The industry claims smoking is a matter of free choice. "Typical hogwash from the tobacco companies," he said with disgust. In fact, during his six years as Surgeon General he released three separate studies, each of which proved conclusively that cigarettes are addictive.

Tobacco companies spend billions misleading the public. They conduct studies which claim to prove smoking is virtually harmless. They spend 2 billion a year on advertising alone, then claim people make informed choices about whether or not to smoke. It's simply not true. People, especially teenagers, receive confusing signals. Smoking appears to be fun, sophisticated, even healthy.

They spend tons of money on all sorts of screwball studies which they claim will prove whatever they're asserting. The industry as a whole is notorious for lying and covering up. The companies refuse to stand behind their products. They advertise and promote like mad, but when one of their customers dies from lung cancer they claim the person should have known better.

Bunch did a study proving cigarettes contain insecticide and pesticide residue, asbestos fibers, unidentified junk and trash swept from floors. While sparing no expense on advertising, the companies do not go to the trouble and expense of properly cleaning poisonous residues from their tobacco.

He directed a project which showed how tobacco companies elusively target the young; how they target the poor; how they develop and advertise certain brands for the different sexes and classes.

Because he was once the Surgeon General, Dr. Bunch was permitted to share his opinions on a wide range of subjects. At times throughout the morning he was unable to conceal his loathing for the tobacco industry, and when the bitterness leaked through his credibility suffered. But he connected with the jury. There were no yawns or blank stares.

TODD RINGWALD was of the firm opinion that the meeting should take place in Hoppy's office, on his turf where Jimmy Hull Moke would be caught off guard. Hoppy presumed this made sense. He was really at a loss for the proper customs in these matters. He got lucky and found Moke at home, puttering with his bush-hog and heading on over to Biloxi later in the day anyway. Moke claimed he knew of Hoppy, had heard of him at some point. Hoppy said it was a very important matter involving a potentially big development in Hancock County. They agreed on lunch, a quick sandwich in Hoppy's office. Moke said he knew exactly where Hoppy was located.

For some reason, three part-time sales associates loitered in the front of the office as noon approached. One chatted with a boyfriend on the phone. One scanned the classifieds. One was apparently waiting for the pinochle. With great difficulty, Hoppy dispatched them to the streets where the real estate was to be found. He didn't want anyone around when Moke appeared.

The offices were deserted when Jimmy Hull walked through the door in jeans and cowboy boots. Hoppy greeted him with a nervous handshake and a jittery voice and showed him to his office in the back where his desk was set with two deli sandwiches and iced teas. They talked about local politics, casinos, and fishing as they ate, though Hoppy's appetite was nil. His stomach flipped with fear and his hands wouldn't stop shaking. He then cleared the desk and produced the artist's rendering of Stillwater Bay. Ringwald had delivered it earlier, and it contained no clue as to who was behind the project. Hoppy gave a quick ten-minute summary of the proposed development, and found himself getting stronger. He made a very nice presentation, if he said so himself.

Jimmy Hull stared at the drawing, rubbed his chin, and said, "Thirty million dollars huh?"

"At least," Hoppy answered. His bowels were suddenly loose.

"And who's doing it?"

Hoppy had practiced his answer, and he delivered it with convincing authority. He simply couldn't divulge the name, not at this point. Jimmy Hull liked the secrecy. He asked questions, all of which had to do with money and financing. Hoppy answered most of them.

"Zoning could be a real problem," Jimmy Hull said with a frown.

"Certainly."

"And the planning commission will put up a nasty fight."

"We expect this."

"Of course, the supervisors make the final decision. As you know, the recommendations from zoning and planning are merely advisory. Bottom line is the six of us do whatever we want." He snickered and Hoppy laughed along. In Mississippi, the six county supervisors ruled supreme.

"My client understands how things work. And my client is anxious to work with you."

Jimmy Hull removed his elbows from the desk and sat back in his chair. His eyelids narrowed. His forehead wrinkled. He stroked his chin and his beady black eyes shot lasers across the desk and hit poor Hoppy like hot bullets deep in the chest. Hoppy pressed all ten fingers onto the desk so his hands wouldn't tremble.

How many times had Jimmy Hull been at this particular moment, sizing up the prey before going in for the kill?

"You know I control everything in my district," he said, his lips barely moving.

"I know exactly how things work," Hoppy replied as coolly as possible.

"If I want this to be approved, it'll slide right through. If I don't like it, it's dead right now."

Hoppy only nodded.

Jimmy Hull was curious about what other locals were involved at this point, who knew what, just how secret was the project right then. "No one but me," Hoppy assured him.

"Is your client in gambling?"

"No. But they're from Vegas. They know how to get things done at the local level. And they're anxious to move fast."

Vegas was the operative word here, and Jimmy Hull savored it. He looked around the shabby little office. It was spare and spartan and conveyed a certain innocence, as if not much happened here and not much was expected. He had called two friends in Biloxi, both of whom reported that Mr. Dupree was a harmless sort who sold fruitcakes at Christmas for the Rotary Club. He had a large family and managed to avoid controversy, and commerce generally, for that matter. The obvious question was, why would the boys behind Stillwater Bay associate themselves with a mom-and-pop outfit like Dupree Realty?

He decided not to ask the question. He said, "You know, my son is a very fine consultant for projects like this?"

"Didn't know that. My client would love to work with your son."

"He's over in Bay St. Louis."

"Shall I give him a call?"

"No. I'll handle it."

Randy Moke owned two gravel trucks and spent most of his time tinkering with a fishing boat he advertised for saltwater charters. He had dropped out of high school two months before his first drug conviction.

Hoppy pressed on. Ringwald had insisted he try and pin down Moke as soon as possible. If a deal wasn't reached initially, then Moke might race back to Hancock County and start talking about the development. "My client is anxious to determine the preliminary fees before purchasing the land. How much might your son charge for his services?"

"A hundred thousand."

Hoppy didn't flinch a muscle and was quite proud of his coolness. Ringwald had predicted a shakedown in the neighborhood of one to two hundred thousand. KLX would gladly pay it. Frankly, it was cheap compared to New Jersey. "I see. Payable-"

"In cash."

"My client is willing to discuss this."

"No discussion. Cash up front, or no deal."

"And the deal being?"

"A hundred thousand cash now, and the project sails through. My guarantee. A penny less, and I'll kill it with one phone call."

Remarkably, there was not the slightest trace of menace in his voice or face. Hoppy told Ringwald later that Jimmy Hull simply laid out the terms of the deal as if he were selling used tires at a flea market.

"I need to make a phone call," Hoppy said. "Just sit tight." He walked to the front room, which was thankfully still deserted, and called Ringwald, who was sitting by the phone in his hotel. The terms were relayed, discussed only for a few seconds, and Hoppy returned to his office. "It's a deal. My client will pay it." He said this slowly, and frankly it felt good to finally broker a deal that would lead to millions. KLX on one end, Moke on the other, and Hoppy in the middle of it all, in the fire and totally immune from the dirty work.

Jimmy Hull's face relaxed and he managed a smile. "When?"

"I'll call you Monday."