The Runaway Jury Part 4

Nicholas Easter sat on the front row, second seat from the left. He froze his face into a mask of noncommitment, and as Harkin droned on he began to take in the rest of the players. With little movement of the head, he cut his eyes around the courtroom. The lawyers, packed around their tables like vultures ready to pounce on roadkill, were, without exception, staring unabashedly at the jurors. Surely they'd tire of this, and soon.

On the second row behind the defense sat Rankin Fitch, his fat face and sinister goatee looking straight into the shoulders of the man in front of him. He was trying to ignore Harkin's admonitions and pretending to be wholly unconcerned about the jury, but Nicholas knew better. Fitch missed nothing.

Fourteen months earlier, Nicholas had seen him in the Cimmino courtroom in Allentown, Pennsylvania, looking then much the same as he looked now-thick and shadowy. And he'd seen him on the sidewalk outside the courthouse in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, during the Glavine trial. Two sightings of Fitch were enough. Nicholas knew that Fitch now knew that he'd never attended college at North Texas State. He knew Fitch was more concerned about him than about any of the other jurors, and with very good reason.

Behind Fitch were two rows of suits, sharply dressed clones with scowling faces, and Nicholas knew these to be the worried boys from Wall Street. According to the morning paper, the market had chosen not to react to the jury's composition. Pynex was holding steady at eighty bucks a share. He couldn't help but smile. If he suddenly jumped to his feet and shouted, "I think the plaintiff should get millions!" the suits would bolt for the door and Pynex would drop ten points by lunch.

The other three-Trellco, Smith Greer, and ConPack-were also trading evenly.

On the front rows were little pockets of distressed souls who Nicholas was certain had to be the jury experts. Now that the selecting was done, they moved to the next phase-the watching. It fell to their miserable lot to hear every word of every witness and predict how the jury absorbed the testimony. The strategy was that if a particular witness made a feeble or even damaging impression on the jury, then he or she could be yanked off the stand and sent home. Perhaps another, stronger witness could then be used to repair the damage. Nicholas wasn't sure about this. He'd read a lot about jury consultants, even attended a seminar in St. Louis where trial lawyers told war stories about big verdicts, but he still wasn't convinced these "cutting edge" experts were little more than con artists.

They claimed to evaluate jurors just by watching their bodily reactions, however slight, to what was said. Nicholas managed another smile. What if he stuck his finger up his nose and left it there for five minutes? How would that little expression of body language be interpreted?

He couldn't cla.s.sify the rest of the spectators. No doubt there were a number of reporters, and the usual collection of bored local lawyers and other courthouse regulars. The wife of Herman Grimes sat midway back, beaming with pride in the fact that her husband had been elected to such a lofty position. Judge Harkin stopped his rambling and pointed at Wendall Rohr, who stood slowly, b.u.t.toned his plaid jacket while flashing his false teeth at the jurors, and strode importantly to the lectern. This was his opening statement, he explained, and in it he would outline his case for the jury. The courtroom was very quiet.

They would prove that cigarettes cause lung cancer, and, more precisely, that the deceased, Mr. Jacob Wood, a fine fellow, developed lung cancer after smoking Bristols for almost thirty years. The cigarettes killed him, Rohr announced solemnly, tugging at a pointed patch of gray beard below his chin. His voice was raspy but precise, capable of floating up and down to hit the right dramatic pitch. Rohr was a performer, a seasoned actor whose crooked bow tie and clicking dentures and mismatched clothing were designed to endear him to the average man. He wasn't perfect. Let the defense lawyers, in their impeccable dark suits and rich silk ties, talk down their long noses at these jurors. But not Rohr. These were his people.

But how would they prove cigarettes cause lung cancer? There'd be lots of proof, really. First, they would bring in some of the most distinguished cancer experts and researchers in the country. Yes, that's right, these great men were on their way to Biloxi to sit and chat with this jury and explain unequivocally and with mountains of statistics that cigarettes do in fact cause cancer.

Then, and Rohr couldn't suppress a wicked smile as he prepared to reveal this, the plaintiff would present to the jury people who'd once worked for the tobacco industry. Dirty laundry would be aired, right there in that very courtroom. d.a.m.ning evidence was on the way.

In short, the plaintiff would prove cigarette smoke, because it contains natural carcinogens, and pesticides, and radioactive particles, and asbestoslike fibers, causes lung cancer.

At this point, there was little doubt in the courtroom that Wendall Rohr could not only prove this, but would be able to prove it without much trouble. He paused, tugged at the ends of his bow tie with all ten chubby fingers, and glanced at his notes, then, very solemnly, began talking about Jacob Wood, the deceased. Beloved father and family man, hard worker, devout Catholic, member of the church softball team, veteran. Started smoking when he was just a kid who, like everyone else back then, was not aware of the dangers. A grandfather. And so on.

Rohr got overly dramatic for a moment, but seemed to know it. He briefly covered the area of damages. This was a big trial, he announced, one of vast importance. The plaintiff expected, and would certainly ask for, a lot of money. Not just actual damages-the economic value of Jacob Wood's life, plus his family's loss of his love and affection-but also punitive damages.

Rohr rambled on a bit about punitive damages, seemed to lose his place a few times, and it was clear to most of the jurors that he was so inspired by the prospect of a huge punitive verdict that he lost his concentration.

Judge Harkin, in writing, had allowed one hour for each side's opening statement. And had promised, in writing, to cut off any lawyer who ran over. Though he suffered from the common lawyerly affliction of overkill, Rohr knew not to mess with His Honor's clock. He finished in fifty minutes with a somber appeal for justice, thanked the jurors for their attention, smiled and clicked his dentures, and sat down.

Fifty minutes in a chair with no conversation and precious little movement feels like hours, and Judge Harkin knew it. He announced a recess for fifteen minutes, to be followed by the defendant's opening statement.

DURWOOD CABLE finished his remarks in under thirty minutes. He coolly and deliberately a.s.sured the jurors that Pynex had experts of its own, scientists and researchers who would clearly explain that cigarettes in fact do not cause lung cancer. The skepticism of the jurors was expected, and Cable asked only for their patience and open-mindedness. Sir Durr spoke without the benefit of notes, and each word was drilled into the eyes of a juror. His eyes moved down the first row, then up slightly to the second, taking in their curious gazes one at a time. His voice and stare were almost hypnotic, but honest. You wanted to believe this man.

Six.

The first crisis occurred at lunch. Judge Harkin announced the noon recess at twelve-ten, and the courtroom sat still as the jurors filed out. Lou Dell met them in the narrow hallway and couldn't wait to shuffle them to the jury room. "Just have a seat," she said, "and lunch will be here in a moment. Coffee's fresh." Once all twelve were in the room, she shut them in and left to check on the three alternates, who were kept separated in a smaller room down the hall. With all fifteen in place, she returned to her post and glared at Willis, the mentally deficient deputy a.s.signed to stand nearby with a loaded gun on his belt and protect somebody.

The jurors slowly scattered about the jury room, some stretching or yawning, others continuing formal introductions-most making small talk about the weather. For some, the movements and small talk were stiff; demeanor to be expected from people suddenly thrown into a room with perfect strangers. With nothing to do but eat, the noon meal loomed as a major event. What were they going to be fed? Surely, the food would be decent.

Herman Grimes took a seat at the head of the table, fitting for the foreman, he thought, and was soon chatting away with Millie Dupree, a kindly soul of fifty who actually knew another blind person. Nicholas Easter introduced himself to Lonnie Shaver, the only black male on the jury, and a man who clearly did not want to serve. Shaver managed a grocery store for a large regional chain, and was the highest-ranking black in the company. He was wiry and nervous, and found it difficult to relax. The idea of spending the next four weeks away from the store was frightening.

Twenty minutes pa.s.sed, and no lunch appeared. At exactly twelve-thirty, Nicholas said from across the room, "Hey, Herman, where's our lunch?"

"I'm just the foreman," Herman replied with a smile as the room was suddenly quiet.

Nicholas walked to the door, opened it, and summoned Lou Dell. "We're hungry," he said.

She slowly lowered her paperback, looked at the eleven other faces, and said, "It's on the way."

"Where is it coming from?" he demanded.

"O'Reilly's Deli. Just around the corner." Lou Dell didn't appreciate the questions.

"Listen, we're penned up in here like a bunch of house pets," Nicholas said. "We can't leave like normal people to go eat. I don't understand why we can't be trusted to walk down the street and enjoy a nice lunch, but the Judge has spoken." Nicholas took a step closer and glared down at the gray bangs hanging over Lou Dell's eyes. "Lunch is not going to be a ha.s.sle every day, okay?"

"Okay."

"I suggest you get on the phone and find out where our lunch is, or I'll discuss it with Judge Harkin."

"Okay."

The door closed, and Nicholas walked to the coffeepot.

"That was a bit harsh, don't you think?" asked Millie Dupree. The others were listening.

"Maybe, and if it was, then I'll apologize. But if we don't get things straight up front, then they'll forget about us."

"It's not her fault," Herman said.

"Her job is to take care of us." Nicholas walked to the table and sat near Herman. "Do you realize that in virtually every other trial they allow the jurors to leave like normal people and go eat? Why do you think we wear these Juror b.u.t.tons?" The others moved closer to the table.

"How do you know?" asked Millie Dupree from directly across the table.

Nicholas shrugged as if he knew plenty but maybe couldn't talk about it. "I know a little about the system."

"And how's that?" Herman asked.

Nicholas paused for effect, then said, "I had two years of law school." He took a long sip of coffee as the others weighed this engaging bit of background.

Easter's stature among his peers rose immediately. He'd already proved himself to be friendly and helpful, courteous and bright. Now, though, he was silently elevated because he knew the law.

No food had arrived by twelve forty-five. Nicholas abruptly stopped a conversation and opened the door. Lou Dell was glancing at her watch in the hallway. "I've sent Willis," she said nervously. "Should be here any minute now. I'm really sorry."

"Where's the men's room?" Nicholas asked.

"Around the corner, to your right," she said, relieved and pointing. He didn't stop at the men's room, but instead walked quietly down the rear staircase and out of the courthouse. He made his way along Lamuese Street for two blocks until he came to the Vieux Marche, a pedestrian mall lined with neat shops along what was once the central business section of Biloxi. He knew the area well because it was only a quarter of a mile from his apartment building. He liked the cafes and delis along the Vieux Marche. There was a good bookstore.

He turned left and was soon entering a large, old white building that housed Mary Mahoney's, a locally famous restaurant where most of the town's legal community usually gathered for lunch when court was in session. He'd rehea.r.s.ed this walk a week ago, and had even had his lunch at a table close to the Honorable Frederick Harkin.

Nicholas entered the restaurant, and asked the first waitress he saw if Judge Harkin was eating. Yes. And where might he be? She pointed, and Nicholas walked quickly through the bar, through a small foyer, and into a large dining room with windows and sunshine and lots of fresh flowers. It was crowded, but he saw His Honor at a table of four. Harkin saw him coming, and his fork froze halfway up with a meaty grilled shrimp stuck to the end of it. He recognized the face as one of his jurors, and he saw the bold red-and-white Juror b.u.t.ton.

"Sorry to interrupt, sir," Nicholas said, stopping at the edge of the table, a table covered with warm bread and leafy salads and large gla.s.ses of iced tea. Gloria Lane, the Circuit Clerk, was also momentarily speechless. A second woman was the court reporter, and a third was Harkin's law clerk.

"What are you doing here?" Harkin asked, a speck of goat cheese on his lower lip.

"I'm here on behalf of your jury."

"What's the matter?"

Nicholas leaned down so he wouldn't create a scene. "We're hungry," he said, his anger apparent through clenched teeth and clearly absorbed by the four stricken faces. "While you folks are sitting here having a nice lunch, we're sitting over there in a cramped room waiting on deli food that, for some reason, can't find its way to us. We're hungry, sir, with all due respect. And we're upset."

Harkin's fork hit his plate hard, the shrimp bouncing off and tumbling to the floor. He tossed his napkin on the table while mumbling something completely indecipherable. He looked at the three women, arched his eyebrows, and said, "Well, let's go see." He stood, followed by the women, and the five of them stormed out of the restaurant.

Lou Dell and Willis were nowhere to be seen when Nicholas and Judge Harkin and the three women entered the hallway and opened the door to the jury room. The table was bare-no food. The time was five minutes after one. The jurors stopped their chatting and stared at His Honor.

"It's been almost an hour," Nicholas said, waving at the empty table. If the other jurors were astonished to see the Judge, their surprise quickly turned to anger.

"We have the right to be treated with dignity," snapped Lonnie Shaver, and with that Harkin was thoroughly defeated.

"Where's Lou Dell?" he said in the general direction of the three women. Everyone looked at the door, and suddenly Lou Dell was rushing forth. She stopped cold when she saw His Honor. Harkin faced her squarely.

"What's going on?" he asked firmly, but with control.

"I just talked to the deli," she said, out of breath and scared, beads of sweat on her cheeks. "There's been a mixup. They claim someone called and said we wouldn't need lunch until one-thirty."

"These people are starving," Harkin said, as if by now Lou Dell didn't know this. "One-thirty?"

"It's just a mixup at the deli. Somebody got their wires crossed."

"Which deli?"

"O'Reilly's."

"Remind me to speak to the owner of the deli."

"Yes sir."

The Judge turned his attention to his jury. "I'm very sorry. This will not happen again." He paused for a second, looked at his watch, then offered them a pleasant smile. "I'm inviting you to follow me to Mary Mahoney's and join me for lunch." He turned to his law clerk, and said, "Call Bob Mahoney and tell him to prepare the back room."

They dined on crab cakes and grilled snapper, fresh oysters and Mahoney's famous gumbo. Nicholas Easter was the man of the hour. When they finished dessert a few minutes after two-thirty, they followed Judge Harkin, at a leisurely pace, back to the courtroom. By the time the jury was seated for the afternoon session, everyone present had heard the story of their splendid lunch.

Neal O'Reilly, owner of the deli, later met with Judge Harkin and swore on a Bible that he had talked to someone, a young female claiming to be with the Circuit Clerk's office, and that she had specifically instructed him to deliver lunch at precisely one-thirty.

THE TRIAL'S FIRST WITNESS was the deceased, Jacob Wood, testifying by a video deposition taken a few months before his death. Two twenty-inch monitors were rolled into place before the jury, and a series of six others were situated around the courtroom. The wiring had been completed while the jury feasted at Mary Mahoney's.

Jacob Wood was propped up with pillows in what appeared to be a hospital bed. He wore a plain white T-shirt with a sheet covering him from the waist down. He was thin, gaunt, and pale, and took oxygen from a tiny tube running from behind his bony neck into his nose. He was told to begin, and he looked at the camera and stated his name and address. His voice was raspy and sick. He was also suffering from emphysema.

Though he was surrounded by lawyers, Jacob's face was the only one to be seen. Occasionally a small skirmish would erupt off-camera among the lawyers, but Jacob didn't seem to care. He was fifty-one, looked twenty years older, and was clearly pounding at death's door.

With prompting from his lawyer, Wendall Rohr, he shared his biography beginning with his birth, and this took almost an hour. Childhood, early education, friends, homes, Navy, marriage, jobs, kids, habits, hobbies, adult friends, travel, vacation, grandkids, thoughts of retirement. Watching a dead man talk was quite compelling at first, but the jurors soon learned that his life had been just as boring as theirs. The heavy lunch settled in, and they began to twitch and fidget. Brains and eyelids grew sluggish. Even Herman, who could only hear the voice and imagine the face, got bored. Fortunately, His Honor began to suffer from the same post-lunch sinking spell, and after an hour and twenty minutes he called for a quick recess.

The four smokers on the jury needed a break, and Lou Dell happily walked them to a room with an open window, a room next to the men's toilet, a small cubicle normally used to hold juvenile delinquents awaiting court appearances. "If you can't quit smoking after this trial, something's wrong," she said, in a very flat effort at humor. Not a smile from the four. "Sorry," she said, closing the door behind her. Jerry Fernandez, thirty-eight, a car salesman with heavy casino debts and a bad marriage, lit his first, then waved his lighter in the faces of the three women. They pulled heavy puffs and blew large clouds at the window. "Here's to Jacob Wood," Jerry said as a toast. Nothing from the three women. They were too busy smoking.

Mr. Foreman Grimes had already delivered one brief lecture on the illegalities of discussing the case; he simply wouldn't tolerate it because Judge Harkin was harping on it so strenuously. But Herman was in the next room, and Jerry was curious. "Wonder if ole Jacob ever tried to quit?" he said, to no one in particular.

Sylvia Taylor-Tatum, drawing ferociously on the end of a slender, emanc.i.p.ated cigarette, replied, "I'm sure we're about to find out," then released an impressive torrent of bluish vapors from her long, pointed nose. Jerry loved nicknames, and he had already secretly tagged her as Poodle because of her narrow face, sharp protruding nose, and s.h.a.ggy thick graying hair that parted perfectly in the center and fell in heavy layers to her shoulders. She was at least six feet tall, very angular, with a constant frown that kept people away. Poodle intended to be left alone.

"I wonder who's next," Jerry said, trying to start a conversation.

"I guess all those doctors," Poodle said, staring through the window.

The other two ladies simply smoked, and Jerry gave it up.

THE WOMAN'S NAME was Marlee, at least that was the alias she'd chosen to use for this period of her life. She was thirty, short brown hair, brown eyes, medium height, slim build with simple clothing carefully selected to avoid attention. She looked great in tight jeans and short skirts, she looked great in anything or nothing, really, but for the moment she wanted no one to notice her. She'd been in the courtroom on two prior occasions-once two weeks earlier when she'd sat through another trial, and once during jury selection in the tobacco case. She knew her way around. She knew where the Judge kept his office and where he ate lunch. She knew the names of the plaintiff's lawyers and those of the defense-no small task. She'd read the court file. She knew in which hotel Rankin Fitch was hiding during the trial.

During the recess, she got herself cleared through the metal detector at the front door, and eased into the rear row of the courtroom. Spectators were stretching and lawyers were huddling and conferencing. She saw Fitch standing in a corner, chatting with two people she believed to be jury consultants. He did not notice her. There were about a hundred people present.

A few minutes pa.s.sed. She carefully watched the door behind the bench, and when the court reporter came out with a cup of coffee, Marlee knew the Judge could not be far behind. She took an envelope from her purse, waited a second, then walked a few feet to one of the deputies guarding the front door. She flashed a comely smile and said, "Could you do me a favor?"

He almost smiled in return and noticed the envelope. "I'll try."

"I've gotta run. Could you hand this to that gentleman over there in the corner? I don't want to interrupt him."

The deputy squinted in the direction she was pointing, across the courtroom. "Which one?"

"The heavyset man in the middle, with the goatee, dark suit."

At this moment, the bailiff entered from behind the bench and shouted, "Court come to order!"

"What's his name?" the deputy asked, his voice lower.

She handed him the envelope and pointed to the name on it. "Rankin Fitch. Thanks." She patted him on the arm and vanished from the courtroom.

Fitch leaned down the row and whispered something to an a.s.sociate, then made his way to the rear of the courtroom as the jury returned. He'd seen enough for one day. Fitch typically spent little time in the courtroom once the juries were selected. He had other means of monitoring the trial.

The deputy stopped him at the door and handed him the envelope. Fitch was startled to see his name in print. He was an unknown, a nameless shadow who introduced himself to no one and lived under an a.s.sumed name. His D.C. firm was called Arlington West a.s.sociates, about as bland and nondescript as he could imagine. No one knew his name-except of course his employees, his clients, and a few of the lawyers he hired. He glared at the deputy without muttering a "Thank you," then stepped into the atrium, still staring in disbelief at the envelope. The printed letters were no doubt from a feminine hand. He slowly opened it, and removed a single sheet of white paper. Printed neatly in the center was a note: "Dear Mr. Fitch: Tomorrow, juror number two, Easter, will wear a gray pullover golf shirt with red trim, starched khakis, white socks, and brown leather shoes, lace-up."

Jose the driver sauntered over from a water fountain and stood like an obedient watchdog beside his boss. Fitch reread the note, then looked blankly at Jose. He walked to the door, opened it slightly, and asked the deputy to step outside the courtroom.

"What's the matter?" the deputy asked. His position was inside, against the door, and he was a man who followed orders.

"Who gave you this?" Fitch asked as nicely as was possible for him. The two deputies manning the metal detector were watching curiously.

"A woman. I don't know her name."

"When did she give it to you?"

"Just before you left. Just a minute ago."

With that, Fitch looked quickly around. "Do you see her here?"