The Runaway Jury Part 25

Nicholas raised his hand again. "Excuse me, Your Honor. It's come to my attention that perhaps some of the jurors would rather shop in New Orleans than take a boat ride in the Gulf."

Again, Rohr was a beat quicker. "We'll be happy to split the cost of a bus, Your Honor. And lunch."

"Same here," Cable said. "Dinner too."

Gloria Lane hustled to the jury box with a clipboard. Nicholas, Jerry Fernandez, Lonnie Shaver, Rikki Coleman, Angel Weese, and Colonel Herrera opted for the boat. The rest chose the French Quarter.

INCLUDING THE VIDEO of Jacob Wood, Rohr and company presented ten witnesses to the jury and took thirteen days to do it. A solid case was built; now it was up to the jury to determine not if cigarettes were dangerous but if it was time to punish their makers.

Had the jury not been sequestered, Rohr would have called at least three more experts: one to discuss the psychology of advertising; one an expert on addiction; one ready to describe in detail the application of insecticides and pesticides to tobacco leaves.

But the jury was very sequestered, and Rohr knew it was time to stop. It was obvious this was no ordinary jury. A blind man. A misfit who did yoga at lunch. At least two strikes so far. Lists of demands at every turn. China and silver for lunch. Beer after work, paid for by the taxpayers. Communal interludes and personal visits. Judge Harkin was finding sleep difficult.

It was certainly not ordinary for Fitch, a man who'd sabotaged more juries than any person in the history of American jurisprudence. He'd laid the usual traps and gathered the usual dirt. His scams were proceeding flawlessly. Only one fire, so far. No broken bones. But the girl Marlee had changed everything. Through her he'd be able to purchase a verdict, a slam-dunk defense judgment that would humiliate Rohr and frighten away the legion of hungry trial lawyers circling like vultures, waiting for the carca.s.s.

In this, the biggest tobacco trial yet, with the biggest plaintiff's lawyers lined up with millions, his beloved little Marlee would hand him a verdict. Fitch believed this, and it consumed him. He thought of her every minute and he saw her in his dreams.

If not for Marlee, Fitch wouldn't be sleeping at all. The time was right for a plaintiff's verdict; right courtroom, right judge, right mood. The experts were by far the best Fitch had encountered in his nine years of directing the defense. Nine years, eight trials, eight defense verdicts. As much as he hated Rohr, he could admit, only to himself, that he was the right lawyer to nail the industry.

A victory over Rohr in Biloxi would be a huge barricade to future tobacco litigation. It might very well save the industry.

When Fitch tallied the jury's vote, he always started with Rikki Coleman, because of the abortion. He had her vote in his pocket, she just didn't know it yet. Then he added Lonnie Shaver. Then Colonel Herrera. Millie Dupree would be easy. His jury people were convinced that Sylvia Taylor-Tatum was virtually incapable of sympathy, and besides she smoked. But his jury people didn't know she was sleeping with Jerry Fernandez. Jerry and Easter were buddies. Fitch was predicting the three of them-Sylvia, Jerry, and Nicholas-would vote the same. Loreen Duke sat next to Nicholas, and the two were often seen whispering during the trial. Fitch thought she would follow Easter. And if Loreen did, then so would Angel Weese, the only other black female. Weese was impossible to read.

No one doubted that Easter would dominate the deliberations. Now that Fitch knew Easter had two years of law school, he was willing to bet that this information had been shared with the entire jury.

It was impossible to predict how Herman Grimes might vote. But Fitch wasn't counting on him. Likewise with Phillip Savelle. Fitch felt good about Mrs. Gladys Card. She was old and conservative and likely to be turned off when Rohr asked them for twenty million or so.

So Fitch had four in the bag, with Mrs. Gladys Card being a possible fifth. Flip a coin on Herman Grimes. Concede Savelle on the grounds that anyone so in tune with nature had to dislike tobacco companies. That left Easter and his gang of five. Nine votes were needed by either side for a verdict. Anything less would hang the jury and force Harkin to declare a mistrial. Mistrials become retrials, something Fitch did not want in this case.

The horde of legal a.n.a.lysts and scholars closely watching the trial agreed on little, but they were unified in their prediction that a unanimous, twelve-vote verdict in favor of Pynex would chill, if not completely freeze, tobacco litigation for a decade.

Fitch was determined to deliver one, whatever the cost.

THE MOOD in Rohr's office was much lighter Monday night. With no more witnesses to call, the pressure was momentarily off. Some fine scotch was poured in the conference room. Rohr sipped his mineral water and nibbled on cheese and crackers.

The ball was now in Cable's court. Let him and his crew spend a few days prepping witnesses and labeling doc.u.ments. Rohr had only to react, to cross-examine, and he had watched every videotaped deposition of every defense witness a dozen times.

Jonathan Kotlack, the lawyer in charge of jury research, likewise drank only water and speculated with Rohr about Herman Grimes. Both felt they had him. And they felt good about Millie Dupree and Savelle, the strange one. Herrera worried them. All three of the blacks-Lonnie, Angel, and Loreen-were solidly on board. It was, after all, a case of a little person against a large powerful corporation. Surely the blacks would come through. They always did.

Easter was the key because he was the leader, everybody knew that. Rikki would follow him. Jerry was his pal. Sylvia Taylor-Tatum was pa.s.sive and she'd follow the crowd. As would Mrs. Gladys Card.

They only needed nine, and Rohr was convinced he had them.

Twenty-five.

Back in Lawrence, Small, the investigator, worked his list of leads diligently and got nowhere. He loafed around Mulligan's Monday night, drinking against orders, chatting occasionally with the waitresses and law students and succeeding at nothing but arousing suspicion among the youth.

Early Tuesday morning, he made one visit too many. The woman's name was Rebecca, and a few years back, while still a grad student at KU, she had worked at Mulligan's with Claire Clement. They had been friends, according to a source dug up by Small's boss. Small found her in a downtown bank, where she worked as manager. He introduced himself awkwardly, and she was immediately suspicious.

"Didn't you work with Claire Clement a few years back?" he asked, looking at a notepad, standing on one side of her desk because she was standing on the other. He had not been invited in, and she was busy.

"Maybe. Who wants to know?" Rebecca asked, arms crossed, head c.o.c.ked, phone buzzing somewhere behind her. In marked contrast to Small, she was sharply dressed and missed nothing.

"Do you know where she is now?"

"No. Why are you asking?"

Small repeated the narrative he'd memorized. It was all he had. "Well, see, she's a potential juror in a big trial, and my firm has been hired to conduct a thorough investigation into her background."

"Where's the trial?"

"Can't tell you that. You guys worked together at Mulligan's, right?"

"Yes. That was a long time ago."

"Where was she from?"

"Why is that important?"

"Well, to be honest, it's on my list of questions. We're just checking her out, okay? Do you know where she came from?"

"No."

This was an important question because Claire's trail had started and stopped in Lawrence. "Are you sure?"

She c.o.c.ked her head the other way and glared at this klutz. "I don't know where she came from. When I met her, she was working at Mulligan's. The last time I saw her, she was working at Mulligan's."

"Have you talked to her recently?"

"Not in the last four years."

"Did you know Jeff Kerr?"

"No."

"Who were her friends here in Lawrence?"

"I don't know. Look, I'm very busy, and you're wasting your time. I didn't know Claire that well. Nice girl and all, but we were not close. Now, please, I have things to do." She was pointing to the door by the time she finished, and Small reluctantly left her office.

With Small out of the bank, Rebecca closed her office door and dialed the number to an apartment in St. Louis. The recorded voice on the other end belonged to her friend Claire. They chatted at least once a month, though they hadn't seen each other in a year. Claire and Jeff lived an odd life, drifting and never staying long in one place, never anxious to reveal their whereabouts. Only the apartment in St. Louis remained the same. Claire had warned her that people might come poking around with curious questions. She had hinted more than once that she and Jeff were working for the government in some mysterious capacity.

At the sound of the tone, Rebecca left a brief message about Small's visit.

MARLEE CHECKED her voice mail each morning, and the message from Lawrence made her blood run cold. She wiped her face with a moist cloth, and tried to calm herself.

She called Rebecca and managed to sound perfectly normal, though her mouth was dry and her heart was pounding. Yes, the man named Small had specifically asked about Claire Clement. And he had mentioned Jeff Kerr. With Marlee's prompting, Rebecca managed to replay the entire conversation.

Rebecca knew not to ask too many questions. "Are you okay?" was about the extent of her inquiry.

"Oh we're fine," Marlee a.s.sured her. "Living on the beach for a while."

Which beach would be nice, but Rebecca let it pa.s.s. No one dug too deep with Claire. They said their good-byes with the usual promises to keep in touch.

Neither she nor Nicholas had believed they would ever be tracked to Lawrence. Now that they had, the questions fell like hard rain around her. Who had found them? Which side, Fitch or Rohr? Most likely Fitch, simply because he had more money and more cunning. What had been their mistake? How did the trail ever leave Biloxi? How much did they know?

And how far would they go? She needed to speak to Nicholas, but he was, at the moment, on a boat somewhere in the Gulf trolling for mackerel and bonding with his fellow jurors.

FITCH, OF COURSE, was not fishing. In fact he hadn't taken a day of rest or pleasure in three months. He was at his desk, neatly arranging piles of paperwork, when the call came. "h.e.l.lo, Marlee," he said into the receiver, to the girl of his dreams.

"Hey, Fitch. You've lost another one."

"Another what?" he asked, biting his tongue to keep from calling her Claire.

"Another juror. Loreen Duke was enthralled by Mr. Robilio, and now she's leading the parade to reward the plaintiff."

"But she hasn't heard our case yet."

"True. You have four smokers now-Weese, Fernandez, Taylor-Tatum, and Easter. Guess how many started smoking after the age of eighteen."

"Don't know."

"None. They all started as kids. Herman and Herrera used to smoke. Guess how old they were when they started."

"Don't know."

"Fourteen and seventeen. That's half of your jury, Fitch, and all started smoking as minors."

"What am I supposed to do about it?"

"Keep lying, I guess. Look, Fitch, what are the chances of us getting together for a little chat, private you know, without all your goons ducking behind bushes?"

"The chances are excellent."

"Another lie. Let's do it this way. Let's meet and talk, and if my people see your people anywhere near us, then it will be our last conversation."

"Your people?"

"Anybody can hire goons, Fitch. You should know this."

"It's a deal."

"You know Casella's, the little seafood joint with outdoor tables at the end of the Biloxi pier."

"I can find it."

"That's where I am now. So when you walk down the pier, I'll be watching. And if I see any character who looks the least bit suspicious, deal's off."

"When?"

"Right now. I'm waiting."

JOSe SLOWED for a second in the parking lot near the small-craft harbor, and Fitch practically jumped from the Suburban. It drove away, and Fitch, very much alone and unwired, strolled down the wooden pier with the heavy wooden planks shifting gently in the tide. Marlee sat at a wooden table with an umbrella above it, with her back to the Gulf, her face to the pier. Lunch was an hour away and the place was deserted.

"h.e.l.lo, Marlee," Fitch said as he approached, stopped, then sat across from her. She wore jeans and a denim shirt, a fishing cap, and sungla.s.ses. "A pleasure. Fitch," she said.

"Are you always so surly?" he asked, settling his squatty frame into a narrow chair, trying his best to smile and be chummy.

"Are you wired. Fitch?"

"No. Of course not."

Slowly, she removed from her bulky purse a thin black device resembling a small Dictaphone. She pushed a b.u.t.ton and placed it on the table, aimed at Fitch's ample gut. "Pardon me, Fitch, just checking to see if you had time to stick a bug here or there."

"I said I wasn't wired, okay," Fitch said, very relieved. Konrad had suggested a small body mike with a tech van parked nearby, but Fitch, in a hurry, had said no.

She glanced at the tiny digital monitor on the end of the sensor-scan, then placed it back in her purse. Fitch smiled, but only for a second.

"I got a call from Lawrence this morning," she said, and Fitch swallowed hard. "Evidently you've got some real meatheads up there banging on doors and kicking over trash cans."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Fitch said, somewhat unsteadily and without sufficient conviction.

It was Fitch! His eyes betrayed him; they fluttered and dropped and darted away quickly before returning to see her, then dropped again, all in an instant but with plenty of proof that she'd caught him. His breath was short for a second, and his shoulders jerked ever so slightly. He'd been nailed.

"Right. One more phone call from old friends and you'll never hear my voice again."

He rallied adequately though. "What's in Lawrence?" he demanded as if his integrity had been questioned.

"Give it up, Fitch. And call off the dogs."

He exhaled heavily while shrugging in utter bewilderment. "Fine. Whatever. I just wish I knew what you were talking about."

"You do. One more phone call and it's over, okay?"

"Okay. Whatever you say."

Though Fitch couldn't see her eyes, he could feel them beaming at him from behind the thick gla.s.ses. She said nothing for a minute. A waiter busied himself at a nearby table, but made no effort to serve them.

Finally, Fitch leaned forward and said, "When do we stop playing games?"

"Now."

"Wonderful. What do you want?"