Fitch left Biloxi three days after the verdict. He returned to his home in Arlington and to his routine in Washington. Though his future as director of The Fund was in doubt, his anonymous little firm had plenty of nontobacco work to keep it busy. Nothing, though, that paid like The Fund.

A week after the verdict, he met with Luther Vandemeer and D. Martin Jankle in New York, and confessed every detail of the deal with Marlee. It was not a pretty meeting.

He also conferred with a collection of ruthless New York lawyers on how best to attack the verdict. The fact that Easter had vanished immediately was grounds for suspicion. Herman Grimes had already agreed to release his medical records. There was no evidence of an imminent heart attack. He'd been fit and healthy until that morning. He remembered an odd taste to his coffee, then he was on the floor. Retired Colonel Frank Herrera had already given an affidavit in which he swore the unauthorized materials found under his bed were not placed there by him. He'd had no visitors. Mogul was not sold anywhere near the motel. The mystery surrounding the verdict swirled more each day. The New York lawyers did not know about the Marlee deal, nor would they ever.

Cable had prepared and was almost ready to file a motion requesting permission to interview the jurors, an idea Judge Harkin seemed to like. How else could they find out what had gone on in there? Lonnie Shaver was particularly anxious to tell all. He'd received his promotion and was ready to defend corporate America.

There was hope for the post-trial efforts. The appellate process would be long and arduous.

As for Rohr and the group of trial lawyers who'd funded the case, the future was filled with unbounded opportunity. A staff was organized just to handle the flood of calls from other lawyers and potential victims. An 800 number was implemented. Class actions were being considered.

Wall Street seemed more sympathetic to Rohr than to the tobacco industry. In the weeks following the verdict, Pynex couldn't top fifty, and the other three were down at least twenty percent. Antismoking groups openly predicted the bankruptcy and eventual demise of the tobacco companies.

SIX WEEKS after he left Biloxi, Fitch was eating lunch alone in a tiny Indian diner near Dupont Circle in D.C. He huddled over a bowl of spicy soup, still wearing his overcoat because it was snowing outside and chilly inside.

She dropped in from nowhere, just appeared like an angel, the same way she'd emerged on the rooftop terrace of the St. Regis in New Orleans, over two months earlier.

"Hi, Fitch," she said, and he dropped his spoon.

He glanced around the dark restaurant, saw nothing but small groups of Indians huddled over steaming bowls, not another spoken word of English within forty feet.

"What are you doing here?" he said without moving his lips. Her face was lined with the fur from her coat. He remembered how pretty she was. The hair seemed even shorter.

"Just dropped in to say hello."

"You've said it."

"And the money is being returned to you, even as we speak. I'm wiring it back to your account at Hanwa, in the Netherlands Antilles. All ten million, Fitch."

He could think of no quick response to this. He was looking at the lovely face of the only person who'd ever beaten him. And she still had him guessing.

"How kind of you," he said.

"I started to give it away, you know, like to some of those antismoking groups. But we decided against it."

"We? How's Nicholas?"

"I'm sure you miss him."

"Deeply."

"He's fine."

"So you're together?"

"Of course."

"Thought you probably just took the money and ran from everybody, including him."

"Come on, Fitch."

"I don't want the money."

"Great. Give it to the American Lung Association."

"That's not my kinda charity. Why are you returning the money?"

"It's not mine."

"So you've found ethics and morals, maybe even God."

"Skip the lecture, Fitch. It sounds rather hollow coming from you. I never planned to keep the money. I just wanted to borrow it."

"If you're gonna lie and cheat, why not go ahead and steal?"

"I'm not a thief. I lied and I cheated because that's what your client understands. Tell me, Fitch, did you find Gabrielle?"

"Yes, we did."

"And did you find her parents?"

"We know where they are."

"Do you understand now, Fitch?"

"It makes more sense, yes."

"They were both wonderful people. They were intelligent and vigorous and they loved life. They both got hooked on cigarettes when they were in college, and I watched them fight the habit until they died. They hated themselves for smoking, but could never give it up. They died horrible deaths, Fitch. I watched them suffer and shrivel and gasp for breath until they couldn't breathe anymore. I was their only child, Fitch. Did your goons learn this?"

"Yes."

"My mother died at home, on the sofa in the den because she couldn't walk to her bedroom. Just Mother and I." She paused and glanced around. Fitch noticed her eyes were remarkably clear. Sad as it must have been, he could muster no sympathy.

"When did you set this plan in motion?" he asked, finally taking a spoonful of soup.

"Grad school I studied finance, thought about law, then I dated a lawyer for a while and heard stories of tobacco litigation. The idea evolved."

"A helluva plot."

"Thanks, Fitch. Coming from you, that's a compliment."

She pulled her gloves tighter as if she was ready to go.

"Just wanted to say hello, Fitch. And to make sure you know why it happened."

"Are you finished with us?"

"No. We'll watch the appeal closely, and if your lawyers get too carried away attacking the verdict, then I've got copies of the wire transfers. Be careful, Fitch. We're kind of proud of that verdict, and we're always watching."

She stood at the edge of the table. "And remember, Fitch, next time you boys go to trial, we'll be there."

The End