John Grisham
The jury consultants are shocked. Their computer models are blown. Their fancy theories are out the window. They are utterly useless at this point.
AFTER A SHORT RECESS, Drummond makes a formal morion to dismiss the entire panel. Kipler declines.
Mr. Billy Porter is excused from jury duty, and leaves in a huff. I think he wanted some more of Drummond. I hope he waits outside to finish him off.
THE EARLY AFTERNOON is spent in chambers going through the tedious process of picking jurors. Drummond and his gang firmly avoid any of the people Deck and I mentioned on the phone last night. They’re convinced we somehow got to these folks, and somehow persuaded them to remain quiet. They’re so bitter they will not look at me.
The result is a jury of my dreams. Six black females, all mothers. Two black males, one a college graduate, one a disabled former truck driver. Three white males, two of whom are union workers. The other lives about four blocks from the Blacks. One white female, the wife of a prominent realtor. I couldn’t avoid her, and I’m not worried. It takes only nine of the twelve to agree on a verdict.
Kipler seats them at 4 P.M., and they take their oaths. He explains that the trial will start in a week. They are not to talk about the case with anyone. He then does something that at first terrifies me, but on second thought is a wonderful idea. He asks both attorneys, me and Drummond, if we’d like to make a few comments to the |uiy,"off the record and informal. Just tell a little about your case. Nothing fancy.
I, of course, was not expecting this, primarily because it’s unheard of. Nonetheless, I shake off my fear, and stand before the jury box. I tell them a little about Donny Ray, about the policy and why we think Great Benefit is wrong. In five minutes I’m finished.
Drummond walks to the box, and a blind person could see the distrust he’s created with the jury. He apologizes for the incident, but stupidly blames most of it on Porter. What an ego. He talks about his version of the facts, says he’s sorry about Donny Ray’s death, but to suggest his client is responsible is ludicrous.
I watch his team and the boys from Great Benefit, and it’s a scared bunch. They have a rotten set of facts. They have a plaintiffs jury. The judge is an enemy. And their star not only lost all credibility with the jury but got his ass whipped as well.
Kipler adjourns us, and the jury goes home.
Chapter Forty-three
SIX DAYS AFTER WE PICK THE JURY AND four days before the trial begins, Deck takes a call at the office from a lawyer in Cleveland who wants to speak with me. I’m immediately suspicious because I don’t know a single lawyer in Cleveland, and I chat with the guy just long enough to get his name. Takes about ten seconds, then I gently cut him off in mid-sentence and go through a little routine as if we’ve somehow been disconnected. It’s been happening all the time lately, I tell Deck loud enough to be recorded in the receiver. We take the three office phones off the hook, and I run to the street where the Volvo is parked. Butch has checked my car phone and it appears remarkably free of bugging devices. Using directory assistance, I call the lawyer in Cleveland. It turns out to be an immensely important phone call. His name is Peter Corsa. His speciality is labor law and employment discrimination of all types, and he represents a young lady by the name of Jackie Lemancyzk. She found her way to his office after she was suddenly fired from Great Benefit for no apparent reason, and together they
plan to seek redress for a multitude of grievances. Contrary to what I’d been told, Ms. Lemancyzk has not left Cleveland. She’s in a new apartment with an unlisted phone.
I explain to Corsa that we’ve made dozens of phone calls to the Cleveland area, but haven’t found a trace of Jackie Lemancyzk. I was told by one of the corporate boys, Richard Pellrod, that she’d returned to her home somewhere in southern Indiana.
Not true, says Corsa. She never left Cleveland, though she has been hiding.
It evolves into a wonderfully juicy story, and Corsa spares no details.
His client was sexually involved with several of her bosses at Great Benefit. He assures me she’s very attractive. Her promotions and pay were given or denied based on her willingness to hop into bed. At one point she was a senior claims examiner, the only female to reach that position, but got herself demoted when she broke off an affair with the VP of Claims, Everett Lufkin, who appears to be nothing more than a weasel but has a fondness for kinky sex.
I concur that he appears to be nothing more than a weasel. I had him in deposition for four hours, and I’ll assault him next week on the witness stand.
Their lawsuit will be for sexual harassment and other actionable practices, but she also knows a lot about Great Benefit’s dirty laundry in the claims department. She was sleeping with the VP of Claims! Lots of lawsuits are coming, he predicts.
I finally pop the big question. "Will she come testify?"
He doesn’t know. Maybe. But she’s scared. These are nasty people with lots of money. She’s in therapy now, really fragile.
He agrees to allow me to talk to her by phone, and we
make arrangements for a late night call from my apartment. I explain that it’s not a good idea to call me at the office.
IT’S IMPOSSIBLE to think about anything but the trial. When Deck’s not at the office, I pace around talking to myself, telling the jury how truly awful Great Benefit is, cross-examining their people, delicately questioning Dot and Ron and Dr. Kord, pleading with the jury in a rather spellbinding closing argument. It is still difficult to ask the jury for ten million in punitive and keep a straight face. Perhaps if I were fifty years old and had tried hundreds of cases and knew what the hell I was doing, then maybe I would have the right to ask a jury for ten million. But for a rookie nine months out of school it seems ridiculous.
But I ask them anyway. I ask them at the office, in my car and especially in my apartment, often at two in the morning when I can’t sleep. I talk to these people, these twelve faces I can now put with names, these wonderfully fair folks who listen to me and nod and can’t wait to get back there and dispense justice.
I’m about to strike gold, to destroy Great Benefit in open court, and I struggle every hour ‘to control these thoughts. Damn, it’s hard. The facts, the jury, the judge, the frightened lawyers on the other side. It’s adding up to a lot of money.
Something has got to go wrong.
I TALK TO JAGKIE LEMANCYZK for an hour. At times she sounds strong and forceful, at times she can barely hold it together. She didn’t want to sleep with these men, she keeps saying, but it was the only way to advance. She’s divorced with a couple of kids.
She agrees to come to Memphis. I offer to fly her down and cover her expenses, and I’m able to convey this with
the calm assurance that my firm has plenty of money. She makes me promise that if she testifies, it has to be a complete surprise to Great Benefit.
She’s scared to death of them. I think a surprise would be lovely.
WE LIVE AT THE OFFICE over the weekend, napping only a few hours at our respective apartments, then returning like lost sheep to the office to prepare some more.
My rare moments of relaxation can be attributed to Tyrone Kipler. I’ve silently thanked him a thousand times for selecting the jury a week before the trial, and for allowing me to address them with a few off-the-cuff remarks. The jury was once a great part of the unknown, an element I feared immensely. Now I know their names and faces, and I’ve chatted with them without the benefit of written notes. They like me. And they dislike my opponent.
However deep my inexperience runs, I truly believe Judge Kipler will save me from myself.
Deck and I say good night around midnight, Sunday. A light snow is falling as I leave the office. A light snow in Memphis usually means no school for a week and the closing of all government offices. The city has never purchased a snowplow. Part of me wants a blizzard so tomorrow will be delayed. Part of me wants to get it over with.