Our cabin is large by boat standards, which isn’t very big at all. With four pieces of luggage and two scuba duffels we have trouble moving about. The bed, though, works fine. Vanessa and I have a quickie, then sleep for two hours.

Three days later we ease into Jolly Harbour, on the west end of Antigua. Sailing is serious business on the island and the bay is crowded with moored boats of all sizes. We ease past them, barely inching along, leaving almost no wake as we take in the views of the mountains on all sides. The big yachts are docked together at one of the piers, and our captain slowly maneuvers the Rumrunner into a slip between two other fine ships, one about our size and the other much larger. In this fleeting moment of living like the rich, we find it impossible not to compare the lengths of the yachts. We stare at the larger one and think, Who owns it? What does he do? Where is he from? And so on. Our crew scurries around to secure the boat, and after the engines die the captain collects passports again and steps onto the pier. He walks about a hundred feet to a small Customs building, goes inside, and does the paperwork.

A week earlier, when I was killing time and waiting on Vanessa to arrive on Antigua, I sniffed around the dock at Jolly Harbour until a yacht arrived. I watched the captain go to the Customs building, just as ours is doing now. And, more important, I noted that no one from Customs inspected the boat.

The captain returns; everything is in order. We have arrived on Antigua with the gold and with no suspicions. I explain to the steward that we want to move the scuba gear to my villa because it will be easier to use from there. And while we’re at it, we’ll take the luggage as well. We’ll probably use the yacht to dive around the islands, and for a long dinner or two, but for the first day or so we’ll stay at my place. The steward is fine with this, whatever we wish, and calls for taxis. While they are en route, we help the deckhands unload our bags and duffels onto the dock. It’s quite a pile, and no one would suspect we’re hiding $8 million in gold in luggage and scuba gear.

It takes three taxis to haul everything, and as we load up we wave good-bye to the steward and the captain. Twenty minutes later we arrive at the villa in Sugar Cove. When everything is inside, we exchange high fives and jump in the ocean.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This is indeed a work of fiction, and more so than usual. Almost nothing in the previous 340-odd pages is based on reality. Research, hardly a priority, was rarely called upon. Accuracy was not deemed crucial. Long paragraphs of fiction were used to avoid looking up facts. There is no federal camp at Frostburg, no uranium lawsuit (yet), no dead judge to inspire me, and no acquaintance in prison scheming to get out, at least not to my knowledge.

Inevitably, though, even the laziest of writers need some foundation for their creations, and I was occasionally at a loss. As always, I relied on others. Thanks to Rick Middleton and Cal Jaffe of the Southern Environmental Law Center. In Montego Bay, I was assisted by the Honorable George C. Thomas and his staff of fine young lawyers.

Thanks also to David Zanca, John Zunka, Ben Aiken, Hayward Evans, Gaines Talbott, Gail Robinson, Ty Grisham, and Jack Gernert.

ALSO BY JOHN GRISHAM

A Time to Kill

The Firm

The Pelican Brief

The Client

The Chamber

The Rainmaker

The Runaway Jury

The Partner

The Street Lawyer

The Testament

The Brethren

A Painted House

Skipping Christmas

The Summons

The King of Torts

Bleachers

The Last Juror

The Broker

The Innocent Man

Playing for Pizza

The Appeal

The Associate

Ford County

The Confession

The Litigators

Calico Joe

The Theodore Boone Books

Theodore Boone: Kid Lawyer

Theodore Boone: The Abduction

Theodore Boone: The Accused