The Runaway Jury Part 29

"Eighty cents."

"That's enough."

Derrick raced into the parking lot where he caught Cleve waiting with his engine running and his window down. "I'll bet the other side'll pay more," he said, leaning over.

"Then go try. Walk up to them tomorrow and tell them you want fifty thousand bucks for one vote."

"And ten percent."

"You're clueless, son." Cleve slowly switched off the ignition and got out of the car. He lit a cigarette. "You don't understand. A defense verdict means no money changes hands. Zero for the plaintiff means zero for the defense. It means no percentages for anybody. The plaintiff's lawyers get forty percent of zero. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah," Derrick said slowly, though obviously still confused.

"Look, what I'm offering you is something that's illegal as h.e.l.l. Don't get greedy. If you do, then you'll get caught."

"Ten thousand seems cheap for something this big."

"No, don't look at it that way. Think of it like this. She's ent.i.tled to nothing, okay. Zero. She's doing her civic duty, getting fifteen bucks a day from the county for being a good citizen. The ten thousand is a bribe, a dirty little gift that has to be forgotten as soon as it's received."

"But if you offer a percentage, then she'll be motivated to work harder in the jury room."

Cleve drew a long puff and exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "You just don't understand. If there's a plaintiff's verdict, it will be years before the money changes hands. Look, Derrick, you're making this too complicated. Take the money. Talk to Angel. Help us out."

"Twenty-five thousand."

Another long puff, then the cigarette fell to the asphalt, where Cleve ground it with his boot. "I'll have to talk to my boss."

"Twenty-five thousand, per vote."

"Per vote?"

"Yeah. Angel can deliver more than one."

"Who?"

"I ain't saying."

"Lemme talk to my boss."

IN ROOM 54, Henry Vu read letters from his daughter at Harvard while his wife Qui studied new insurance policies for their fleet of fishing boats. Because Nicholas was watching movies down the hall, 48 was empty. In 44, Lonnie and his wife cuddled under the covers for the first time in almost a month, but they had to hurry since her sister had the kids. In 58, Mrs. Grimes watched sitcoms while Herman loaded trial narratives into his computer. Room 50 was empty because the Colonel was in the Party Room, alone again because Mrs. Herrera was off in Texas visiting a cousin. And 52 was also empty because Jerry was drinking beer with the Colonel and Nicholas and waiting until later to sneak across the hall to Poodle's room. In 56, Shine Royce, alternate number two, worked on a large bag of rolls and b.u.t.ter he'd taken from the dining room, watched TV, and once again thanked G.o.d for his good fortune. Royce was fifty-two, unemployed, lived in a rented trailer with a younger woman and her six kids, and hadn't earned fifteen dollars a day doing anything in years. Now, he simply had to sit and listen to a trial and the county would not only pay him but feed him too. In 46, Phillip Savelle and his Pakistani mate drank herbal tea and smoked pot with the windows open.

Across the hall in Room 49, Sylvia Taylor-Tatum talked on the phone with her son. In 45, Mrs. Gladys Card played gin rummy with Mr. Nelson Card, he of the prostate history. In 51, Rikki Coleman waited for Rhea, who was running late and might not make it because the baby-sitter hadn't called. In 53, Loreen Duke sat on her bed, eating a brownie and listening with wretched envy as Angel Weese and her boyfriend rattled the walls next door in 55.

And in 47, Hoppy and Millie Dupree made love like never before. Hoppy had arrived early with a large sack of Chinese food and a bottle of cheap champagne, something he hadn't tried in years. Under normal circ.u.mstances, Millie would've fussed about the alcohol, but these days were far from normal. She sipped a little of the beverage from a plastic motel cup, and ate a generous portion of sweet and sour pork. Then Hoppy attacked her.

When they finished, they lay in the darkness and talked softly about the kids and school and the home in general. She was quite weary of this ordeal, and anxious to get back to her family. Hoppy spoke forlornly of her absence. The kids were testy. The house was a wreck. Everybody missed Millie.

He dressed and turned on the television. Millie found her bathrobe and poured another tiny bit of champagne.

"You're not gonna believe this," Hoppy said, fishing through a coat pocket and retrieving a folded piece of paper.

"What is it?" she asked, taking the paper and unfolding it. It was a copy of Fitch's bogus memo listing the many sins of Leon Robilio. She read it slowly, then looked suspiciously at her husband. "Where did you get this?" she demanded.

"It came across the fax yesterday," Hoppy said sincerely. He'd practiced his answer because he couldn't stand the thought of lying to Millie. He felt like a wretch, but then Napier and Nitchman were out there somewhere, just waiting.

"Who sent it?" she asked.

"Don't know. It looks like it came from Washington."

"Why didn't you throw it away?"

"I don't know. I-"

"You know it's wrong to show me stuff like this, Hoppy." Millie flung the paper on the bed and walked closer to her husband, hands on hips. "What are you trying to do?"

"Nothing. It just got faxed to my office, that's all."

"What a coincidence! Somebody in Washington just happened to know your fax number, just happened to know your wife was on the jury, just happened to know Leon Robilio testified, and just happened to suspect that if they sent you this you'd be stupid enough to bring it over here and try to influence me. I want to know what's going on!"

"Nothing. I swear," Hoppy said, on his heels.

"Why have you taken such a sudden interest in this trial?"

"It's fascinating."

"It was fascinating for three weeks and you hardly mentioned it. What's going on, Hoppy?"

"Nothing. Relax."

"I can tell when something's bothering you."

"Get a grip, Millie. Look, you're edgy. I'm edgy. This thing has all of us somewhat out of whack. I'm sorry for bringing it."

Millie finished off her champagne and sat on the edge of the bed. Hoppy sat next to her. Mr. Cristano at Justice had suggested in rather strong terms that Hoppy get Millie to show the memo to all of her friends on the jury. He dreaded telling Mr. Cristano that this probably wouldn't happen. But then, how would Mr. Cristano know for sure what happened to the d.a.m.ned thing?

As Hoppy pondered this Millie started crying. "I just want to go home," she said, eyes red, lip quivering. Hoppy put his arm around her and squeezed tightly.

"I'm sorry," he said. She cried even harder.

Hoppy felt like crying too. This meeting had proved worthless, the s.e.x notwithstanding. According to Mr. Cristano, the trial would end in a few short days. It was imperative that Millie soon be convinced that the only verdict was one for the defense. Since their time together was scarce. Hoppy would be forced to tell her the awful truth. Not now, not tonight, but surely during the next personal visit.

Twenty-nine.

The Colonel's routine never varied. Like a good soldier, he rose at precisely five-thirty every morning for fifty pushups and situps before a quick, cold shower. At six, he went to the dining room, where there'd d.a.m.ned well better be some fresh coffee and plenty of newspapers. He ate toast with jam and no b.u.t.ter, and greeted each of his colleagues with a hale and hearty good morning as they drifted in and out. They were sleepy-eyed and anxious to return to their rooms where they could sip coffee and watch the news in private. It was a h.e.l.luva way to start the day, being forced to greet the Colonel and return his verbal barrage. The longer they were sequestered, the more hyper he became before sunrise. Several of the jurors waited until eight, when he was known to promptly leave and return to his room.

At six-fifteen Thursday morning, Nicholas said h.e.l.lo to the Colonel as he poured a cup of coffee, then endured a brief discussion about the weather. He left the makeshift dining room and eased quietly down the empty, darkened hall. Several TV's could already be heard. Someone was talking on the phone. He unlocked his door and quickly set the coffee on the dresser, removed a stack of newspapers from a drawer, then left the room.

Using a key he'd stolen from the rack under the front desk, Nicholas entered Room 50, the Colonel's. The smell of cheap aftershave lingered heavily. Shoes were a.s.sembled in a perfect row against one wall. The clothes in the closet were neatly hung and precisely starched. Nicholas fell to his knees, lifted the edge of the bedspread, and deposited the newspapers and magazines under the bed. One was a copy of yesterday's Mogul Mogul.

He silently left the room and returned to his. An hour later he called Marlee. a.s.suming Fitch was listening to all of her calls, he simply said, "Darlene, please." To which she said, "Wrong number." Both hung up. He waited five minutes and dialed the number to a cellphone Marlee kept hidden in a closet. They expected Fitch to tap her phones and wire her apartment.

"Delivery's complete," he said.

Thirty minutes later Marlee left her apartment and found a pay phone at a biscuit drive-through. She called Fitch, and waited for her call to be routed.

"Good morning, Marlee," he said.

"Hey, Fitch. Look, I'd love to talk on the phone, but I know all this is getting recorded."

"No it's not. I swear."

"Right. There's a Kroger at the corner of Fourteenth and Beach Boulevard, five minutes from your office. There are three pay phones near the front entrance, right side. Go to the one in the middle. I'll call in seven minutes. Hurry, Fitch." She hung up.

"Sonofab.i.t.c.h!" Fitch screamed as he threw down the receiver and bolted for the door. He yelled at Jose and together they raced out the back door and jumped into the Suburban.

As expected, the pay phone was ringing when Fitch got there.

"Hey, Fitch. Look, Herrera, number seven, is really getting on Nick's nerves. I think we'll lose him today."

"What!"

"You heard me."

"Don't do it, Marlee!"

"Guy's a real pain. Everybody's sick of him."

"But he's on our side!"

"Oh, Fitch. They'll all be on our side when it's over. Anyway, be there at nine for the suspense."

"No, listen, Herrera is vital to-" Fitch got himself cut off in mid-sentence when he heard the click on her end. Then the line was dead. He gripped the receiver and began pulling on it, as if he'd slowly rip it from the phone and hurl it across the parking lot. Then he released it, and without cursing or yelling he calmly walked back to the Suburban and told Jose to go to the office.

Whatever she wanted. It didn't matter.

JUDGE HARKIN lived in Gulfport, fifteen minutes from the courthouse. For obvious reasons, his phone number was not listed in the local directory. Who needed convicts from the jail calling at all hours of the night?

As he was in the process of kissing his wife and gathering his cup of coffee for the road, the phone in the kitchen rang and Mrs. Harkin took it. "It's for you, dear," she said, handing it to His Honor, who set down his coffee and briefcase and glanced at his watch.

"h.e.l.lo," he said.

"Judge, I'm sorry to bother you at home like this," said a nervous voice, one almost in a whisper. "This is Nicholas Easter, and if you want me to hang up right now, I'll do it."

"Not yet. What's the matter?"

"We're still at the motel, getting ready to leave, and, well, I think I need to talk to you first thing this morning."

"What is it, Nicholas?"

"I hate to call you, but I'm afraid some of the other jurors might be getting suspicious of our notes and chats in chambers."

"Maybe you're right."

"So I thought I'd call you. This way they'll never know we've talked."

"Let's try it. If I think we should stop the conversation, then I'll do so." Harkin wanted to ask how a sequestered juror obtained his phone number, but decided to wait.

"It's about Herrera. I think maybe he's reading some stuff that isn't on the approved list."

"Like what?"

"Like Mogul Mogul. I walked into the dining room early this morning. He was there all alone, and he tried to hide a copy of Mogul Mogul from me. Isn't that some kind of business magazine?" from me. Isn't that some kind of business magazine?"

"Yes, it is." Harkin had read yesterday's column by Barker. If Easter was telling the truth, and why should he doubt him, then Herrera would be sent home immediately. The reading of any unauthorized material was grounds for dismissal, maybe even contempt. The reading of yesterday's Mogul Mogul by any juror bordered on grounds for a mistrial. "Do you think he's discussed it with anyone else?" by any juror bordered on grounds for a mistrial. "Do you think he's discussed it with anyone else?"

"I doubt it. Like I said, he was trying to hide it from me. That's why I got suspicious. I don't think he'd discuss it with anyone. But I'll listen carefully."

"You do that. I'll call Mr. Herrera in first thing this morning and interrogate him. We'll probably search his room."

"Please don't tell him I'm the snitch. I feel rotten doing this."

"It's okay."

"If the other jurors get word we're talking, then my credibility is gone."

"Don't worry."

"I'm just nervous, Judge. We're all tired and ready to go home."

"It's almost over, Nicholas. I'm pushing the lawyers as hard as I can."

"I know. Sorry, Judge. Just make sure no one knows I'm playing the mole here. I can't believe I'm doing this."

"You're doing the right thing, Nicholas. And I thank you for it. I'll see you in a few minutes."

Harkin kissed his wife much quicker the second time, and left the house. By car phone, he called the Sheriff and asked him to go to the motel and wait. He called Lou Dell, something he did most mornings while driving to court, and asked her if Mogul Mogul was sold at the motel. No, it wasn't. He called his law clerk and asked her to locate both Rohr and Cable and have them waiting in chambers when he arrived. He listened to a country station and wondered how in the world a sequestered juror got a copy of a business magazine not readily available on the streets of Biloxi. was sold at the motel. No, it wasn't. He called his law clerk and asked her to locate both Rohr and Cable and have them waiting in chambers when he arrived. He listened to a country station and wondered how in the world a sequestered juror got a copy of a business magazine not readily available on the streets of Biloxi.

Cable and Rohr were waiting with the law clerk when Judge Harkin entered his chambers and closed his door. He removed his jacket, took his seat, and summarized the allegations against Herrera without divulging his source. Cable was annoyed because Herrera was deemed by all to be a solid defense juror. Rohr was irritated because they were losing another juror and a mistrial couldn't be far away.

With both lawyers unhappy, Judge Harkin felt much better. He sent his law clerk to the jury room to fetch Mr. Herrera, who was sipping his umpteenth cup of decaf and chatting with Herman over his braille computer. Frank glanced around quizzically after Lou Dell called his name, and left the room. He followed Willis the deputy through the back corridors behind the courtroom. They stopped at a side door, where Willis knocked politely before entering.

The Colonel was greeted warmly by the Judge and the lawyers, and he was shown a chair in the cramped room, a chair sitting snugly next to one occupied by the court reporter, who sat ready with her stenographic machine.