The Runaway Jury Part 23

"We spent millions studying kids. We knew that they could name the three most heavily advertised brands of cigarettes. We knew that almost ninety percent of the kids under eighteen who smoked preferred the top three advertised brands. So what did the companies do? They increased the advertising."

"Did you know how much money the tobacco companies were making off cigarette sales to children?" Rohr asked, certain of the answer.

"About two hundred million a year. And that's in sales to kids eighteen or under. Of course we knew. We studied it annually, kept our computers filled with the data. We knew everything." He paused and waved his right hand at the defense table, sneering as if it were surrounded by lepers. "They still know. They know that three thousand kids start smoking every day, and they can give you an accurate breakdown of the brands they're buying. They know that virtually all adult smokers began as teenagers. Again, they have to hook the next generation. They know that one third of the three thousand kids who start smoking today will eventually die from their addiction."

The jury was captivated with Robilio. Rohr flipped pages for a second so the drama wouldn't be rushed. He took a few steps back and forth behind the lectern as if his legs needed limbering. He scratched his chin, looked at the ceiling, then asked, "When you were with the Tobacco Focus Council, how did you counter the arguments that nicotine is addictive?"

"The tobacco companies have a party line; I helped formulate it. It goes something like this: Smokers choose the habit. So it's a matter of choice. Cigarettes are not addictive, but, hey, even if they are, no one forces anybody to smoke. It's all a matter of choice.

"I could make this sound real good, back in those days. And they make it sound good today. Trouble is, it's not true."

"Why isn't it true?"

"Because the issue is addiction, and the addict cannot make choices. And kids become addicted much quicker than adults."

Rohr for once avoided the natural lawyerly compulsion of overkill. Robilio was efficient with words, and the strain of being clear and being heard tired him after an hour and a half. Rohr tendered him to Cable for cross-examination, and Judge Harkin, who needed coffee, called a recess.

Hoppy Dupree made his first visit to the trial Monday morning, slipping into the courtroom midway through Robilio's testimony. Millie caught his eye during a lull, and was thrilled he would stop by. His sudden interest in the trial was odd, though. He'd talked of nothing else for four hours last night.

After a twenty-minute coffee break, Cable stepped to the lectern and tore into Robilio. His tone was strident, almost mean, as if he viewed the witness as a traitor to the cause, a turncoat. Cable scored immediately with the revelation that Robilio was being paid to testify, and that he had sought out the plaintiff's lawyers. He was also on retainer in two other tobacco cases.

"Yes, I'm being paid to be here, Mr. Cable, same as you," Robilio said, delivering the typical expert's response. But the stain of money slightly tainted his character.

Cable got him to confess that he started smoking when he was almost twenty-five, married, with two children, hardly a teenager who could've been seduced by slick work from Madison Avenue. Robilio had a temper, a fact proven to all the lawyers during a two-day marathon deposition five months earlier, and Cable was determined to exploit it. His questions were sharp, rapid, and designed to provoke.

"How many children do you have?" Cable asked.

"Three."

"Did any of them ever smoke cigarettes regularly?"

"Yes."

"How many?"

"Three."

"How old were they when they started?"

"It varies."

"On the average?"

"Late teens."

"Which ads do you blame for getting them hooked on cigarettes?"

"I don't recall exactly."

"You can't tell the jury which ads were responsible for getting your own kids hooked on cigarettes?"

"There were so many ads. Still are. It would be impossible to pinpoint one or two or five that worked."

"So it was the ads?"

"I'm sure the ads were effective. Still are."

"So it was somebody else's fault?"

"I didn't encourage their smoking."

"Are you sure? You're telling this jury that your own children, the children of a man whose job for twenty years was to encourage the world to smoke, began smoking because of slick advertising?"

"I'm sure the ads helped. They were designed to."

"Did you smoke in the home, in front of your children?"

"Yes."

"Did your wife?"

"Yes."

"Did you ever tell a guest he couldn't smoke in your home?"

"No. Not then."

"Safe to say, then, that the environment of your home was smoker friendly?"

"Yes. Then."

"But your children started smoking because of devious advertising? Is that what you're telling this jury?"

Robilio took a deep breath, counted slowly to five, then said, "I wish I'd done a lot of things differently, Mr. Cable. I wish I'd never picked up the first cigarette."

"Did your children stop smoking?"

"Two of them did. With great difficulty. The third has been trying to quit for ten years now."

Cable had asked the last question on an impulse, and wished for a second he hadn't. Time to move on. He shifted gears. "Mr. Robilio, are you aware of efforts by the tobacco industry to curb teenage smoking?"

Robilio chuckled, which sounded like a gargle when amplified through his little mike. "No serious efforts," he said.

"Forty million dollars last year to Smoke Free Kids?"

"Sounds like something they'd do. Makes 'em seem warm and fuzzy, doesn't it?"

"Are you aware that the industry is on record supporting legislation to restrict vending machines in areas where kids congregate?"

"I think I've heard of that. Sounds lovely, doesn't it?"

"Are you aware that the industry last year gave ten million dollars to California for a statewide kindergarten program designed to warn youngsters about underage smoking?"

"No. What about overage smoking? Did they tell the little fellas that it was okay to smoke after their eighteenth birthdays? Probably did."

Cable had a checklist, and seemed content to fire off the questions while ignoring the answers.

"Are you aware that the industry supports a bill in Texas to ban smoking in all fast-food establishments, places frequented by teenagers?"

"Yeah, and do you know why they do things like that? I'll tell you why. So they can hire people like you to tell jurors like these about it. That's the only reason-it sounds good in court."

"Are you aware that the industry is on record supporting legislation which imposes criminal penalties against convenience stores which sell tobacco products to minors?"

"Yeah, I think I heard that one too. It's window dressing. They'll drop a few bucks here and there to preen and posture and buy respectability. They'll do this because they know the truth, and the truth is that two billion dollars a year in advertising will guarantee addiction by the next generation. And you're a fool if you don't believe this."

Judge Harkin leaned forward. "Mr. Robilio, that is uncalled-for. Don't do it again. I want it stricken from the record."

"Sorry, Your Honor. And sorry to you, Mr. Cable. You're just doing your job. It's your client I can't stand."

Cable was thrown off track. He offered up a lame "Why?" and wished immediately he'd kept his mouth shut.

"Because they're so devious. These tobacco people are bright, intelligent, educated, ruthless, and they'll look you in the face and tell you with all sincerity that cigarettes are not addictive. And they know it's a lie."

"No further questions," Cable said, halfway to his table.

GARDNER WAS A TOWN of eighteen thousand an hour from Lubbock. Pamela Blanchard lived in the old section of town, two blocks off Main Street in a house built at the turn of the century and nicely renovated. Brilliant red and gold maple trees covered the front lawn. Children roamed the street on bikes and skateboards.

By ten Monday, Fitch knew the following: She was married to the president of a local bank, a man who'd been married once before and whose wife had died ten years ago. He was not the father of Nicholas Easter or Jeff or whoever the h.e.l.l he was. The bank had almost collapsed during the oil bust of the early eighties, and many locals were still afraid to use it. Pamela's husband was a native of the town. She was not. She may have come from Lubbock, or maybe it was Amarillo. They got married in Mexico eight years ago, and the local weekly barely recorded it. No wedding picture. Just an announcement next to the obituaries that N. Forrest Blanchard, Jr., had married Pamela Kerr. After a brief honeymoon in Cozumel, they would reside in Gardner.

The best source in town was a private investigator named Rafe who'd been a cop for twenty years and claimed to know everyone. Rafe, after being paid a sizable retainer in cash, worked without sleep Sunday night. No sleep, but plenty of bourbon, and by dawn he reeked of sour mash. Dante and Joe Boy worked beside him, in his grungy office on Main, and repeatedly declined the whiskey.

Rafe talked to every cop in Gardner, and finally found one who could talk to a lady who lived across the street from the Blanchards. Bingo. Pamela had two sons by a previous marriage; it ended in divorce. She didn't talk much about them, but one was in Alaska and one was a lawyer, or was studying to be a lawyer. Something like that.

Since neither son grew up in Gardner, the trail soon ran cold. No one knew them. In fact, Rafe couldn't find anyone who'd ever seen Pamela's sons. Then Rafe called his lawyer, a sleazy divorce specialist who routinely used Rafe's primitive surveillance services, and the lawyer knew a secretary at Mr. Blanchard's bank. The secretary talked to Mr. Blanchard's personal secretary, and it was discovered that Pamela was from neither Lubbock nor Amarillo, but Austin. She'd worked there for a bankers' a.s.sociation, and that's how she'd met Mr. Blanchard. The secretary knew of the prior marriage, and was of the opinion that it had ended many years ago. No, she had never seen Pamela's sons. Mr. Blanchard never discussed them. The couple lived quietly and almost never entertained.

Fitch received reports every hour from Dante and Joe Boy. Late Monday morning, he called an acquaintance in Austin, a man he'd worked with six years earlier in a tobacco trial in Marshall, Texas. It was an emergency, Fitch explained. Within minutes, a dozen investigators were scouring phone books and making calls. It wasn't long before the bloodhounds picked up the trail.

Pamela Kerr had been an executive secretary for the Texas Bankers a.s.sociation, in Austin. One phone call led to another, and a former co-worker was located working as a private school guidance counselor. Using the ruse that Pamela was a prospective juror in a capital murder case in Lubbock, the investigator described himself as an a.s.sistant district attorney who was trying to gather legitimate information about the jurors. The co-worker felt obligated to answer a few questions, though she hadn't seen or talked to Pamela in years.

Pamela had two sons, Jeff and Alex. Alex was two years older than Jeff, and had graduated from high school in Austin, then drifted to Oregon. Jeff had also finished high school in Austin, with honors, then gone to college at Rice. The boys' father had abandoned the family when they were toddlers, and Pamela had done an outstanding job as a single mother.

Dante, fresh off the private jet, accompanied an investigator to the high school, where they were allowed to rummage through old yearbooks in the library. Jeff Kerr's 1985 senior picture was in color-a blue tux, large blue bow tie, short hair, earnest face looking directly at the camera, the same face Dante had studied for hours in Biloxi. Without hesitation he said, "This is our man," then quietly ripped the page from the yearbook. He immediately called Fitch on a cellphone from between the stacked tiers of books.

Three phone calls to Rice revealed that Jeff Kerr graduated there in 1989 with a degree in psychology. Posing as a representative from a prospective employer, the caller found a Rice professor of political science who'd taught and who remembered Kerr. He said the young man went to law school at Kansas.

With the guarantee of serious cash, Fitch found by phone a security firm willing to drop everything and began scouring Lawrence, Kansas, for any trace of Jeff Kerr.

FOR ONE normally so chipper, Nicholas was quite reserved during lunch. He didn't say a word as he ate a heavily stuffed baked potato from O'Reilly's. He avoided glances and looked downright sad.

The mood was shared. Leon Robilio's voice stayed with them, a robotic voice subst.i.tuted for a real one lost to the ravages of tobacco, a robotic voice which delivered the sickening dirt he once helped hide. It still rang in their ears. Three thousand kids a day, one third of whom die from their addiction. Gotta hook the next generation!

Loreen Duke tired of picking at her chicken salad. She looked across the table at Jerry Fernandez, and said, "Can I ask you something?" Her voice broke a weary silence.

"Sure," he said.

"How old were you when you started smoking?"

"Fourteen."

"Why did you start?"

"The Marlboro Man. Every kid I hung around with smoked Marlboros. We were country kids, liked horses and rodeos. The Marlboro Man was too cool to resist."

At that moment, every juror could see the billboards-the rugged face, the chin, the hat, the horse, the worn leather, maybe the mountains and some snow, the independence of lighting up a Marlboro while the world left him alone. Why wouldn't a young boy of fourteen want to be the Marlboro Man?

"Are you addicted?" asked Rikki Coleman, playing with her usual fat-free plate of lettuce and boiled turkey. The "addicted" rolled off her tongue as if they were discussing heroin.

Jerry thought for a moment and realized his friends were listening. They wanted to know what powerful urges kept a person hooked.

"I don't know," he said. "I guess I could quit. I've tried a few times. Sure would be nice to stop. Such a nasty habit."

"You don't enjoy it?" Rikki asked.

"Oh, there are times when a cigarette hits the spot, but I'm doing two packs a day now and that's too much."

"What about you, Angel?" Loreen asked Angel Weese, who sat next to her and generally said as little as possible. "How old were you when you started?"

"Thirteen," Angel said, ashamed.

"I was sixteen," Sylvia Taylor-Tatum admitted before anyone could ask.

"I started when I was fourteen," Herman offered from the end in an effort at conversation. "Quit when I was forty."

"Anybody else?" Rikki asked, finishing the confessional.

"I started at seventeen," the Colonel said. "When I joined the Army. But I kicked the habit thirty years ago." As usual, he was proud of his self-discipline.

"Anybody else?" Rikki asked again, after a long, silent pause.

"Me. I started when I was seventeen and quit two years later," Nicholas said, though it was not true.

"Did anybody here start smoking after the age of eighteen?" Loreen asked.

Not a word.

NITCHMAN, in plain clothes, met Hoppy for a quick sandwich. Hoppy was nervous about being seen in public with an FBI agent, and was quite relieved when Nitchman appeared in jeans and a plaid shirt. Wasn't like Hoppy's pals and acquaintances around town could instantly spot the local feds, but he was still nervous nevertheless. Besides, Nitchman and Napier were from a special unit in Atlanta, they'd told Hoppy.

He replayed what he'd heard in court that morning, said the voiceless Robilio made quite an impression and seemed to have the jury in his pocket. Nitchman, not for the first time, professed little interest in the trial and explained again he was just doing what his bosses in Washington told him to do. He handed Hoppy a folded sheet of paper, plain white with tiny numbers and words scattered on the top and bottom, and said this had just come from Cristano at Justice. They wanted Hoppy to see it.