The Runaway Jury 6 страница

“The food's pretty good, ” Mr. O'Reilly said in self-defense.

“I think you're overdoing it a bit, ” said Mrs. Gladys Card, a prim little lady with white hair and a sweet voice.

“Then eat your soggy sandwich and stay out of this, ” Nicholas snapped, much too harshly.

“Are you gonna show your ass every day at lunch? ” asked Frank Herrera, a retired colonel from somewhere up North. Herrera was short and portly with tiny hands and an opinion, so far, on just about everything. He was the only one who was truly disappointed when he wasn't elected foreman.

Jerry Fernandez had already nicknamed him Napoleon. Nap for short. The Retarded Colonel as an alternative.

“There were no complaints yesterday, ” Nicholas shot back.

“Let's eat. I'm starving, ” Herrera said, unwrapping a sandwich. A few of the others did the same.

The aroma of baked chicken and french fries rose from the table. As Mr. O'Reilly finished unpacking a container of pasta salad, he said, “I'll be happy to bring over some plates and forks on Monday. No problem. ”

Nicholas quietly said, “Thanks, ” and sat down.

THE DEAL was an easy” one to make. The details were wrapped up between two old friends over a three-hour lunch at the ‘21’ Club on Fifty-second. Luther Vandemeer, CEO of Trellco, and his former protege, Larry Zell, now CEO of Listing Foods, had discussed the basics on the phone, but needed to meet face-to-face over food and wine so no one could hear them. Vandemeer gave him the background of the latest serious threat down in Biloxi, and didn't hide the truth that he was worried. Sure, Trellco was not a named defendant, but the entire industry was under fire and the Big Four was standing firm. Zell knew this. He'd worked for Trellco for seventeen years, and had learned to hate trial lawyers a long time ago.

There was a small regional grocery chain, Hadley Brothers, out of Pensacola, which just happened to own a few stores along the Mississippi Coast. One such store was in Biloxi, and its manager was a sharp young black man named Lonnie Shaver. Lon-nie Shaver just happened to be on the jury down there. Vandemeer wanted SuperHouse, a much larger grocery chain in Georgia and the Carolinas, to purchase, at whatever premium necessary, Had-ley Brothers. SuperHouse was one of twenty or so divisions of Listing Foods. It would be a small transaction-Vandemeer's people had already done the numbers-and would cost Listing no more than six million. Hadley Brothers was privately owned, so the deal would create virtually no attention. Listing Foods had grossed two billion last year, so six million was no sweat. The company had eighty million in cash and little debt. And to sweeten the deal, Vandemeer promised that Trellco would quietly purchase Hadley Brothers in two years if Zell wished to unload it.

Nothing could go wrong. Listing and Trellco were totally independent of each other. Listing was already in the business of owning grocery chains. Trellco was not directly involved in the litigation down there. It was a simple handshake deal between two old friends.

Later, of course, there would need to be a personnel shakeup within Hadley Brothers, one of the usual realignments inherent in any buyout or merger or whatever it was to be called. Vandemeer would need to pass along some instructions for Zell to send down the line until the right amount of pressure could be placed on Lonnie Shaver.

And it needed to be done quickly. The trial was scheduled to last for four more weeks. Week one would end in just a few hours.

After a brief nap in his office in downtown Manhattan, Luther Vandemeer called the number in Bi-loxi and left a message for Rankin Fitch to call him in the Hamptons over the weekend.

FITCH'S OFFICE was in the back of an empty store, a five-and-dime that had closed years earlier. The rent was low, parking was plentiful, no one noticed the place, and it was just a short walk from the courthouse. There were five large rooms, all hastily built with unpainted plywood walls; the sawdust was still on the floor. The furniture was cheap, rented, and consisted primarily of folding tables and plastic chairs. The lighting was fluorescent and plentiful. The outer doors were heavily secured. Two men with guns guarded the suite at all times.

If pennies had been pinched throwing the place together, nothing had been spared in getting it plugged in. Computers and monitors were everywhere. Wires to faxes and copiers and phones ran over the floor in no apparent design. Fitch had the latest technology, and he had the people to operate it.

The walls of one room were covered with large photos of the fifteen jurors. Computer printouts were tacked to another wall. A huge seating chart was on another wall, and an employee was adding data to the block under Gladys Card's name.

The room in the back was the smallest, and it was strictly off-limits for the regular employees, though they all knew what was happening in it. The door locked automatically from the inside, and Fitch had the only key. It was a viewing room, with no windows, a large screen on one wall, and half a dozen comfortable chairs. Friday afternoon, Fitch and two jury experts sat in the dark and stared at the screen. The experts preferred not to engage in small talk with Fitch, and Fitch wasn't about to entertain them. Silence.

The camera was a Yumara XLT-2, a tiny unit capable of fitting almost anywhere. The lens was half an inch in diameter, and the camera itself weighed less than a pound. It had been meticulously installed by one of Fitch's boys, and was now situated in a well-worn brown leather satchel sitting on the floor in the courtroom under the defense table, and being covertly guarded by Oliver McAdoo, a lawyer from Washington and the only foreigner selected by Fitch to sit alongside Cable and the rest. Mc-Adoo's job was to think strategy, smile at the jurors, and feed documents to Cable. His real job, known only to Fitch and a few others, was to walk into the courtroom each day, heavily laden with the tools of warfare, including two large, identical brown briefcases, one of which held the camera, and to sit at approximately the same spot at the defense table. He was the first defense lawyer in the courtroom each morning. He would set the satchel upright, aim it at the jury box, then quickly call Fitch on a cellphone to get things adjusted.

At any given moment during the trial, there were twenty or so briefcases scattered through the courtroom, most congregated on or under the counsel tables, but some were stacked together near the clerk's bench, some were under chairs where the lower-tier lawyers labored, some were even leaning against the bar, seemingly abandoned. While they varied in size and color, as a collection they all looked pretty much the same, including McAdoo's. One he opened occasionally to retrieve papers, but the other, the one holding the camera, was locked so tight that explosives would be required to open it. Fitch's strategy was simple-if, for some unimaginable reason, the camera attracted attention, then in the ensuing fracas McAdoo would simply switch briefcases and hope for the best.

Detection was extremely remote. The camera made no noise and sent signals no human could hear. The briefcase sat near several others, and it 'occasionally got itself jostled or even kicked over, but readjustment was easy. McAdoo would simply find a quiet spot and call Fitch. They'd perfected the system during the Cimmino trial last year in Alien-town.

The technology was amazing. The tiny lens captured the width and depth of the jury box, and sent all fifteen faces, in color, down the street to Fitch's little viewing room where two jury consultants sat throughout the day and studied every slight twitch and yawn.

Depending on what was happening in the jury box, Fitch would then chat with Durr Cable, and tell him their people in the courtroom had picked up on this and that. Neither Cable nor any of the local defense lawyers would ever know about the camera.

The camera recorded dramatic responses Friday afternoon. Unfortunately, it was frozen on the jury box. The Japanese had yet to design one that could scan from inside a locked briefcase and focus on other points of interest. So the camera couldn't see the enlarged photos of the shriveled, blackened lungs of Jacob Wood, but the jurors certainly saw them. As Rohr and Dr. Fricke worked through their script, the jurors, without exception, gawked with unrestrained horror at the ghastly wounds slowly inflicted over thirty-five years.

Rohr's timing was perfect. The two photos were mounted on a large tripod in front of the witness stand, and when Dr. Fricke finished his testimony at fifteen minutes after five, it was time to adjourn for the weekend. The last image the jurors had, the one they'd think about for the next two days and the one that would prove to be unshakable, was of the charred lungs, removed from the body and posed on a white sheet.

Eight

Easter laid an easy trail to follow throughout the weekend. He left the courtroom Friday, and walked again to O'Reilly's Deli, where he had a quiet conversation with Mr. O'Reilly. They could be seen smiling. Easter purchased a sack full of food and a tall beverage. He then walked straight to his apartment and didn't leave. At eight Saturday morning, he drove to the mall, where he worked a twelve-hour shift selling computers and gadgets. He ate tacos and fried beans in the food garden with a teenager named Kevin, a co-worker. There was no visible communication with any female who remotely resembled the girl they were looking for. He returned to his apartment after work, and didn't leave.

Sunday brought a pleasant surprise. At 8 A. M., he left his apartment and drove to the Biloxi small-craft harbor, where he met none other than Jerry Fernandez. They were last seen leaving the pier in a thirty-foot fishing boat with two others, presumably friends of Jerry's. They returned eight and a half hours later with red faces, a large cooler of some undetermined species of saltwater fish, and a boat full of empty beer cans.

The fishing was the first discernible hobby of Nicholas Easter. And Jerry was the first friend they'd been able to discover.

There was no sign of the girl, not that Fitch really expected to find her. She was proving to be quite patient, and this in itself was maddening. Her first little clue was most assuredly a setup for the second, and the third. The waiting was a torment.

However, Swanson, the ex-FBI agent, was now convinced she would reveal herself to them within the week. Her scheme, whatever it was, was predicated on more contact.

She waited only until Monday morning, thirty minutes before the trial resumed. The lawyers were already in place, plotting in small groups around the courtroom. Judge Harkin was in chambers dealing with an emergency matter in a criminal case. The jurors were gathering in the jury room. Fitch was down the street in his office, in his command bunker. An assistant, a young man named Konrad, who was a whiz with phones, wires, tapes, and high-tech surveillance gadgets, stepped through the open door and said, “There's a phone call you might want to take. ”

Fitch, as always, stared at Konrad and instantly analyzed the situation. All of his phone calls, even from his trusted secretary in Washington, were taken at the front desk and cleared to him by use of an intercom system built into the phones. It worked this way every time.

“Why? ” he asked with a great deal of suspicion.

“She says she has another message for you. ”

“Her name? ”

“She won't say. She's very coy, but she insists it's important. ”

Another long pause as Fitch looked at the blinking light on one of the phones. “Any idea how she got the number? ”

“No. ”

“Are you tracing it? ”

“Yes. Give us a minute. Keep her on the line. ”

Fitch punched the button and lifted the receiver. “Yeah, ” he said as nicely as possible.

“Is this Mr. Fitch? ” she asked, quite pleasantly.

“It is. And who is this? ”

“Marlee. ”

A name! He paused a second. Every phone call was automatically recorded, so he could analyze it later. “Good morning, Marlee. And do you have a last name? ”

“Yeah. Juror number twelve, Fernandez, will walk into the courtroom in about twenty minutes holding a copy of Sports Illustrated. It's the October 12 issue with Dan Marino on the cover. ”

“I see, ” he said as if he were taking notes. “Anything else? ”

“Nope. Not now. ”

“And when might you call again? ”

“Don't know. ”

“How'd you get the phone number? ”

“Easy. Remember, number twelve, Fernandez. ” There was a click, and she was gone. Fitch punched another button, then a two-digit code. The entire conversation was replayed on a speaker above the phones.

Konrad raced in with a printout. “Came from a pay phone in Gulfport, a convenience store. ”

“What a surprise, ” Fitch said as he grabbed his jacket and began straightening his tie. “Guess I'll run to court. ”

NICHOLAS WAITED until most of his colleagues were either sitting at the table or standing nearby, and he waited until there was a lull in the chatter. He said loudly, “Well, did anyone get bribed or stalked over the weekend? ” There were some grins and light laughs but no confessions.

“My vote's not for sale, but it can certainly be rented, ” said Jerry Fernandez, repeating a punchline he'd heard from Nicholas on the fishing boat yesterday. This was humorous to everyone but Herman Grimes.

“Why does he keep lecturing us like that? ” asked Millie Dupree, obviously delighted someone had broken the ice and anxious to start the gossip. Others moved in closer and leaned forward to hear what the ex-law student thought about it. Rikki Coleman stayed in the corner with a newspaper. She'd already heard this.

“These cases have been tried before, ” Nicholas explained reluctantly. “And there have been some shenanigans with the juries. ”

“I don't think we should discuss this, ” Herman said.

“Why not? It's harmless. We're not discussing evidence or testimony. ” Nicholas was authoritative. Herman was not sure.

“Judge said not to talk about the trial, ” he protested, waiting for someone to come to his aid. There were no volunteers. Nicholas had the floor, and said, “Relax, Herman. This is not about evidence or the things we'll eventually deliberate over.

THE RUNAWA. Y JURY This is about... ” He hesitated a second for effect, then continued, “This is about jury tampering. ”

Lonnie Shaver lowered his computer printout of grocery inventory and eased closer to the table. Rikki was now listening. Jerry Fernandez had heard it all on the boat yesterday, but it was irresistible.

“There was a tobacco trial, a very similar one in Quitman County, Mississippi, about seven years ago, up in the Delta. Some of you may remember it. It was a different tobacco company, but some of the players are the same, on both sides. And there was some pretty outrageous behavior both before the jury was picked and after the trial started. Judge Harkin, of course, has heard all the stories, and he is watching us very closely. Lots of people are watching us. ”

Millie glanced around the table for a second. “Who? ” she asked.

“Both sides. ” Nicholas had decided to play it fair, because both sides had been guilty of misconduct in the other trials. “Both sides hire these guys called jury consultants, and they come in here from all over the country to help pick the perfect jury. The perfect jury, of course, is not one that will be fair, but one that'll deliver the verdict they want. They study us before we're selected. They—”

“How do they do that? ” interrupted Mrs. Gladys Card.

“Well, they photograph our homes and apartments, our cars, our neighborhoods, our offices, our kids and their bikes, even ourselves. This is all legal and ethical, but they come close to crossing the line. They check public records, things such as court files and tax rolls, in an effort to get to know us. They might even talk to our friends and co-workers and neighbors. This happens in every big trial nowadays. ”

All eleven were listening and staring, inching closer and trying to remember if they'd seen any strangers lurking around corners with cameras. Nicholas took a sip of coffee, then continued: “After the jury is picked, they change gears a little. The panel has been narrowed from two hundred to fifteen, and so we're much easier to watch. Throughout the trial each side will keep a group of jury consultants in the courtroom, watching us and trying to read our reactions. They usually sit on the first two rows, though they move around a lot. ”

“You know who they are? ” Millie asked in disbelief.

“I don't know their names, but they're fairly easy to spot. They're well dressed, and they stare at us constantly. ”

“I thought those folks were reporters, ” said Retired Colonel Frank Herrera, unable to ignore the conversation.

“I hadn't noticed, ” said Herman Grimes, and everyone smiled, even Poodle.

“Watch them today, ” Nicholas said. “They usually start off behind their respective counsel. In fact, I have a great idea. There's this one woman whom I'm almost positive is a jury consultant for the defense. She's about forty, heavyset with thick short hair. Every morning so far she's been on the front row behind Durwood Cable. When we go out this morning, let's stare at her. All twelve of us, just glare at her real hard and watch her unravel. ”

“Even me? ” Herman asked.

“Yes, Herm, even you. Just turn to ten o'clock, and stare with the rest of us. ”

“Why are we playing games? ” asked Sylvia “Poodle” Taylor-Tatum.

“Why not? What else have we got to do for the next eight hours? ”

“I like it, ” said Jerry Fernandez. “Maybe it'll make 'em stop staring at us. ”

“How long do we stare? ” asked Millie.

“Let's do it while Judge Harkin is reading us the riot act this morning. That'll take ten minutes. ” They more or less agreed with Nicholas.

Lou Dell came for them at exactly nine, and they left the jury room. Nicholas held two magazinesone of which was the October 12 issue of Sports Illustrated. He walked beside Jerry Fernandez until they came to the door leading into the courtroom, and as they began to file in he casually turned to his new friend and said, “Want something to read? ”

The magazine was slightly pressing his stomach, so Jerry just as casually took it and said, “Sure, thanks. ” They walked through the door into the courtroom.

Fitch knew Fernandez, number twelve, would have the magazine, but the sight of it was still a jolt. He watched him shuffle along the back row and take his seat. Fitch had seen the cover on a newsstand four blocks from the courthouse, and he knew it was Marino in the aquamarine jersey, number thirteen, arm cocked and ready to drill one.

The surprise quickly gave way to excitement. The girl Marlee was working the outside while someone on the jury was working the inside. Maybe there were two or three or four on the jury who were conspiring with her. Didn't matter to Fitch. The more the better. These people were setting the table, and Fitch was ready to deal.

“JOHNGRISHAM The jury consultant's name was Ginger, and she worked for Carl Nussman's firm in Chicago. She had sat through dozens of trials. She usually spent half of each day in the courtroom, changing places during recesses, removing her jacket, removing her eyeglasses. She was an old pro at studying juries, and she'd seen it all. She was on the front row behind the defense lawyers; a colleague sat a few feet down scanning a newspaper as the jury settled in.

Ginger looked at the jury and waited for His Honor to greet them, which he did. Most of the jurors nodded and sjniled at the Judge, then all of them, every one of them including the blind man, turned and stared directly at her. A couple had smiles, but most seemed rather perturbed about something.

She looked away.

Judge Harkin trudged through his script-one ominous question after another-and he too quickly noticed that his jury was preoccupied with one of the spectators.

They kept staring, in perfect unison.

Nicholas struggled to keep from howling. His luck was incredible. There were about twenty people sitting on the left side of the courtroom, behind the defense lawyers, and two rows behind Ginger sat the hulking figure of Rankin Fitch. From the jury box, Fitch was in the same line of vision as Ginger, and from fifty feet away it was difficult to tell exactly who the jurors were staring at-Ginger or Fitch.

Ginger certainly thought it was her. She found some notes to study while her colleague scooted farther away.

Fitch felt naked as the twelve faces studied him from the jury box. Small beads of sweat popped through above his eyebrows. The Judge asked more questions. A couple of the lawyers turned awkwardly to look behind them.

“Keep staring, ” Nicholas said softly without moving his lips.

Wendall Rohr glanced over his shoulder to see who was sitting out there. Ginger's shoelaces caught her attention. They kept staring.

It was unheard of for a trial judge to ask a jury to pay attention. Harkin had been tempted before, but it was usually a juror who'd become so bored with the testimony that he'd fallen asleep and was snoring. And so he raced through the rest of his tampering questions, then loudly said, “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Now we will continue with Dr. Milton Fricke. ”

Ginger suddenly had to visit the ladies' room, and she scurried from the courtroom as Dr. Fricke entered from a side door and resumed his place on the witness stand.

Cable had just a few questions on cross-examination, he said politely, with great deference to Dr. Fricke. He was not about to argue science with a scientist, but he hoped to score a few minor points with the jury. Fricke admitted that not all of the damage to Mr. Wood's lungs could be attributed to smoking Bristols for almost thirty years. Jacob Wood worked in an office for many years with other smokers, and, yes, it's true that some of the destruction of his lungs could have been caused by exposure to other smokers. “But it's still cigarette smoke, ” Dr. Fricke reminded Cable, who readily agreed.

And what about air pollution? Is it possible that breathing dirty air added to the condition of the lungs? Dr. Fricke admitted that this was certainly a possibility.

Cable asked a dangerous question, and he got by with it. “Dr. Fricke, if you look at all of the possible causes-direct cigarette smoke, indirect cigarette smoke, air pollution, an, d any others that we've failed to mention-is it possible for you to say how much of the damage to the lungs was caused by smoking Bristols? ”

Dr. Fricke concentrated on this for a moment, then said, “The majority of the damage. ”

“How much-sixty percent, eighty percent? Is it possible for a medical scientist such as yourself to give us an approximate percentage? ”

It was not possible, and Cable knew it. He had two experts ready for rebuttal in the event Fricke stepped out of bounds and speculated too much.

“I'm afraid I can't do that, ” Fricke said.

“Thank you. One final question, Doctor. What percentage of cigarette smokers suffer from lung cancer? ”

“Depends on which study you believe. ”

“You don't know? ”

“I have a good idea. ”

“Then answer the question. ”

“About ten percent. ”

“No further questions. ”

“Dr. Fricke, you are excused, ” said His Honor. “Mr. Rohr, please call your next witness. ”

“Dr. Robert Bronsky. ”

As the witnesses were passing each other in front of the bench, Ginger reentered the courtroom and took a seat on the back row, as far from the jurors as possible. Fitch took advantage of the brief break to leave. He attracted Jose in the atrium, and they hurried out of the courthouse and back to the dime store.

BRONSKY TOO was a superbly educated medical researcher who had almost as many degrees and published almost as many articles as Fricke. They knew each other well because they worked together at the research center in Rochester. Rohr took great pleasure in walking Bronsky through his marvelous pedigree. Once he was qualified as an expert, they launched into a clinic on the basics: Tobacco smoke is extremely complex in makeup, with over four thousand compounds identified in its composition. A total of sixteen known carcinogens, fourteen alkalis, and numerous other compounds with known biological activity are included in the four thousand plus compounds. Tobacco smoke is a mixture of gases in tiny droplets, and when a person inhales, about fifty percent of the inhaled smoke is retained in the lungs, and some of the droplets are deposited directly in the walls of the bronchial tubes.

Two lawyers from Rohr's team quickly set up a large tripod in the center of the courtroom, and Dr. Bronsky left the witness stand to lecture a bit. The first chart was a list of all the compounds known to exist in tobacco smoke. He didn't name them all, because he didn't have to. Each of the names looked menacing, and when viewed as a group they looked downright deadly.

The next chart was a list of the known carcinogens, and Bronsky gave each one a brief summary. In addition to these sixteen, he said, tapping his pointing stick in his left hand, there may well be other, yet undetected, carcinogens present in tobacco smoke. And it's quite possible that two or more of these might act in combination to reinforce each other to cause cancer.

They dwelt on the carcinogens for the entire morning. With each new chart, Jerry Fernandez and the other smokers felt sicker and sicker until Sylvia the Poodle was almost light-headed as they left the jury box to eat lunch. Not surprisingly, the four of them first went to the “smoke hole, ” as Lou Dell called it, for a quick one before they joined the rest to eat.

Lunch was waiting and evidently the wrinkles had been ironed out. The table was set with china and the iced tea was poured into real glasses. Mr. O'Reilly served custom-made sandwiches to those who'd ordered them, and he opened large bowls of steaming vegetables and pasta for the others. Nicholas spared no compliment.

FITCH WAS IN THE VIEWING ROOM with two of his jury people when the call came. Konrad nervously knocked on the door. There were strict orders against getting near the room without authorization from Fitch.

“It's Marlee. Line four, ” Konrad whispered, and Fitch froze at the news. He then walked quickly to his office door down a makeshift hallway.

“Trace it, ” he ordered.

“We are. ”

“I'm sure she's at a pay phone. ”

Fitch punched button four on his phone, said, “Hello. ”

“Mr. Fitch? ” came the familiar voice.

“Yes. ”

“Do you know why they were staring at you? ”

“No. ”

“I'll tell you tomorrow. ”

“Tell me now. ”

“No. Because you're tracing the call. And if you keep tracing the calls, then I'll stop calling. ”

“Okay. I'll stop tracing. ”

“And you expect me to believe you? ”

“What do you want? ”

“Later, Fitch. ” She hung up. Fitch replayed the conversation as he waited for her phone to be located. Konrad appeared with the expected news that it was indeed a pay phone, this one in a mall in Gautier/thirty minutes away.

Fitch fell into a large, rented swivel chair and studied the wall for a moment. “She wasn't in the courtroom this morning, ” he said softly, thinking aloud, tugging at the tip of his goatee. “So how did she know they were staring at me? ”

“Who was staring? ” asked Konrad. His duties did not include sentry work in the courtroom. He never left the dime store. Fitch explained the curious incident of being stared at by the jury.

“So who's talking to her? ” Konrad asked.

“That's the question. ”

THE AFTERNOON was spent on nicotine. From one-thirty until three, then from three-thirty until adjournment at five, the jurors learned more than they cared to about nicotine: It is a poison contained in tobacco smoke. Each cigarette contains from one to three milligrams of nicotine, and for smokers who inhale, as did Jacob Wood, up to ninety percent of the nicotine is absorbed into the lungs. Dr. Bron-sky spent most of his time on his feet, pointing at various parts of the human body displayed in a brightly colored, life-size drawing mounted on the tripod. He explained in great detail how nicotine causes constriction of the superficial vessels in the limbs; it raises the blood pressure; it increases the pulse rate; it makes the heart work harder. Its effects on the digestive tract are insidious and complex. It can cause nausea and vomiting, especially when one begins to smoke. Secretions of saliva and movement of the gut are first stimulated and then depressed. It acts as a stimulant on the central nervous system. Bronsky was methodical yet sincere; he made a single cigarette sound like a dose of lethal poison.

And the worst thing about nicotine is that it's addictive. The last hour-again timed perfectly by Rohr-was spent convincing the jurors that nicotine was wildly addictive, and that this knowledge had been around for at least four decades.

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