The Runaway Jury 4 страница

“Been making them for eighteen years, ” she said. “Used to put raisins in them, but had to quit. ” She rolled her eyes up at him as if the rest of the story was just too scandalous.

“Why? ” he asked, because he felt compelled.

“Gave 'em gas. Sometimes every sound can be heard in the courtroom. Know what I mean? ”

“I guess. ”

“Coffee? ”

“I can get my own. ”

“Fine then. ” She whirled around and pointed to a stack of papers in the center of the long table. “There's a list of instructions from Judge Harkin. He wants every juror to take one, read it carefully, and sign at the bottom. I'll collect them later. ”

“Thanks. ”

“I'll be in the hall by the door if you need me. That's where I stay. They're gonna put a damned deputy with me for this one, can you believe it? Just makes me sick. Probably some clod who can't hit a barn with a shotgun. But anyway, I guess this is about the biggest one we've ever had. Civil, that is. You wouldn't believe some of the criminal ones we've had. ” She took the doorknob and yanked it toward her. “I'm out here, dear, if you need me. ”

The door closed, and Nicholas gazed at the muffin. Slowly, he took a small bite. It was mostly bran and sugar, and he thought for a second about the sounds in the courtroom. He tossed it in the waste-basket and poured black coffee into a plastic cup. The plastic cups would have to go. If they planned for him to camp here for four to six weeks, then they'd have to provide real cups. And if the county could afford pretty doughnuts, then it could certainly afford bagels and croissants.

There was no decaf coffee. He made a note of this. And no hot water for tea, just in case some of his new friends weren't coffee drinkers. Lunch had better be good. He would not eat tuna salad for the next six weeks.

Twelve chairs were arranged neatly around the table, which was in the center of the room. The thick layer of dust he had noticed three weeks ago had been removed; the place was much tidier, and ready for use. On one wall was a large blackboard, with erasers and fresh chalk. Across the table, on the opposite wall, three large windows, from floor to ceiling, looked upon the courthouse lawn, still green and fresh though summer had ended over a month ago. Nicholas looked through a window and watched the foot traffic on the sidewalks.

The latest from Judge Harkin was a list of a few things to do, and many to avoid: Get organized. Elect a foreman, and if you are unable to do so, notify His Honor and he will be happy to select one. Wear the red-and-white Juror buttons at all times. Lou Dell would dispense these. Bring something to read during downtimes. Do not hesitate to ask for anything. Do not discuss the case among yourselves until you are instructed to do so by His Honor. Do not discuss the case with anyone, period. Do not leave the courthouse without permission. Do not use the telephones without permission. Lunch will be catered and eaten in the jury room. A daily menu will be provided each day before the trial resumes at nine. Notify the court immediately if you or anyone you know is in any way contacted with regard to your involvement in this trial. Notify the court immediately if you see or hear or notice anything suspicious which may or may not be related to your service as a juror in this case.

Odd directions, these last two. But Nicholas knew the details of a tobacco trial in east Texas, a trial which blew up after only one week when it was discovered that mysterious agents were slinking through the small town and offering huge sums of money to relatives of jurors. The agents disappeared before they were caught, and it was never learned which side they worked for, though both made heated accusations. Cooler heads laid heavy odds that it was the work of the tobacco boys. The jury appeared to have a strong sympathy bent to it, and the defense was delighted when the mistrial was declared.

Though there was no way to prove it, Nicholas was certain Rankin Fitch was the phantom behind the payoffs. And he knew Fitch would quickly go to work on his new set of friends.

He signed the bottom of the sheet and left it on the table. There were voices in the hallway, and Lou Dell was meeting another juror. The door opened with a kick and a thud, and Mr. Herman Grimes entered first with his walking stick tapping along in front of him. His wife was close behind, not touching him but instantly inspecting the room and describing it under her breath. “Long room, twenty-five by fifteen, length in front of you, width from left to right, long table running lengthwise in center with chairs around it, nearest chair to you is eight feet. ” He froze as he gathered this in, his head moving in whatever direction she was describing. Behind her, Lou Dell stood in the doorway with hands on hips and just dying to feed the blind man a muffin.

Nicholas took a few steps and introduced himself. He grabbed Herman's outstretched hand and they exchanged pleasantries. He said hello to Mrs. Grimes, then led Herman to the food and coffee where he poured him a cup and stirred in sugar and cream. He described the doughnuts and the muffins, a preemptive strike against Lou Dell, who lingered near the door. Herman was not hungry.

“My favorite uncle is blind, ” Nicholas said for the benefit of all three. “I'd consider it an honor if you'd allow me to assist you during the trial. ”

“I'm perfectly capable of handling myself, ” Herman said with a trace of indignation, but his wife couldn't conceal a warm smile. Then she winked and nodded.

“I'm sure you are, ” Nicholas said. “But I know there are lots of little things. I just want to help. ”

“Thank you, ” he said after a brief pause.

“Thank you, sir, ” his wife said.

“I'll be outside in the hallway if you need anything, ” Lou Dell said.

“What time should I come get him? ” Mrs. Grimes asked.

“Five. If sooner, I'll call. ” Lou Dell was closing the door as she rattled off instructions.

Herman's eyes were covered with dark glasses. His hair was brown, thick, well greased, and barely yielding to gray.

“There's a bit of paperwork, ” Nicholas said when they were alone. “Take a seat there in front of you and I'll go over it. ” Herman felt the table, set down his coffee, then groped for a chair. He outlined it with his fingertips, got his bearings, and sat down.

JOHNGRISHAM Nicholas took an instruction sheet and began reading.

AFTER SPENDING FORTUNES on the selection, the opinions came cheap. Everybody had one. The experts for the defense congratulated themselves on picking such a fine jury, though most of the puffing and posturing was done for the benefit of the legion of lawyers working round the clock. Durr Cable had seen worse juries, but he'd seen much friendlier ones too. He'd also learned many years ago that it was virtually impossible to predict what any jury would do. Fitch was happy, or as happy as he could allow himself, though that didn't stop his bitching and snarling about everything. Four smokers were on the jury. Fitch clung to the unspoken belief that the Gulf Coast, with its topless joints and casinos and proximity to New Orleans, was not a bad place to be right now because of its tolerance for vice.

On the other side of the street, Wendall Rohr and his trial counsel declared themselves satisfied with the composition of the jury. They were especially delighted with the unexpected addition of Mr. Herman Grimes, the first blind juror in the history of anyone's memory. Mr. Grimes had insisted on being evaluated just the same as those “with sight, ” and had threatened legal action if treated differently. His hair-trigger reliance on lawsuits greatly warmed the hearts of Rohr and company, and his handicap was a plaintiff's lawyer's dream. The defense had objected on all imaginable grounds, including the inability to see the forthcoming exhibits. Judge Harkin had allowed the lawyers to quietly quiz Mr. Grimes about this, and he assured them he could see the exhibits if the exhibits could be sufficiently described in writing. His Honor then decided that a separate court reporter would be used to type descriptions of the exhibits. A disc could then be fed into Mr. Grimes' braille computer, and he could read at night. This made Mr. Grimes very happy, and he quit talking about discrimination suits. The defense softened a bit, especially when it learned that he had once smoked for many years and had no problems being around people who continued the habit.

So, both sides were cautiously pleased with their jury. No radicals had been seated. No bad attitudes had been detected. All twelve had high school diplomas, two had college degrees, and another three had accumulated credits. Easter's written answers admitted completion of high school, but his college studies were still a mystery.

And as both sides prepared for the first full day of real trial activities, they quietly pondered the great question, the one they loved to guess about. As they looked at the seating charts and studied the faces for the millionth time, they asked over and over, “Who will be the leader? ”

Every jury has a leader, and that's where you find your verdict. Will he emerge quickly? Or will she lie back and take charge during deliberations? Not even the jurors knew at this point.

AT TEN SHARP, Judge Harkin studied the packed courtroom and decided everyone was in place. He pecked his gavel lightly and the whispers ceased. Everyone was ready. He nodded at Pete, his ancient bailiff in a faded brown uniform, and said simply, “Bring in the jury. ” All eyes watched the door beside the jury box. Lou Dell appeared first, leading her flock like a mother hen, then the chosen twelve filed in and went to their assigned seats. The three alternates took their positions in folding chairs. After a moment of settling in-adjusting seat cushions and hem lengths and placing purses and paperbacks on the floor-the jurors grew still and of course noticed that they were being gawked at.

“Good morning, ” His Honor said with a loud voice and a large smile. Most of them nodded back.

“I trust you've found the jury room and gotten yourselves organized. ” A pause, as he lifted for some reason the fifteen signed forms Lou Dell had dispensed then collected. “Do we have a foreman? ” he asked.

The twelve nodded in unison.

“Good. Who is it? ”

“It's me, Your Honor, ” Herman Grimes said from the first row, and for a quick second the defense, all its lawyers and jury consultants and corporate representatives, suffered a collective chest pain. Then they breathed, slowly, but never allowing the slightest indication that they had anything but the greatest love and affection for the blind juror who was now the foreman. Perhaps the other eleven just felt sorry for the old boy.

“Very well, ” His Honor said, relieved that his jury was able to reach this routine selection without apparent acrimony. He'd seen much worse. One jury, half white and half black, had been unable to elect a foreman. They later brawled over the lunch menu.

“I trust you've read my written instructions, ” he continued, then launched into a detailed lecture in which he repeated twice everything he'd already put in print.

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 Con-Pack-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 classify 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, buttoned 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. Damning evidence was on the way.

In short, the plaintiff would prove cigarette smoke, because it contains natural carcinogens, and pesticides, and radioactive particles, and asbestos-like 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 assured 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 assigned 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 Lonriie 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 passed, 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 hassle 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 Har-kin. ”

“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 buttons? ” 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 rehearsed 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 button.

“Sorry to interrupt, sir, ” Nicholas said, stopping at the edge of the table, a table covered with warm bread and leafy salads and large glasses 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.

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