The Runaway Jury
The cross-examination of Bronsky ended late Thursday afternoon and Marlee struck with a fury Friday morning. Konrad took the first call at seven twenty-five, routed it quickly to Fitch, who was on the phone to Washington, then listened as it played on the speakerphone: "Good morning, Fitch," she said sweetly.
"Good morning, Marlee," Fitch answered with a happy voice, his best effort at pleasantness. "And how are you?"
"Fabulous. Number two, Easter, will wear a light blue denim shirt, faded jeans, white socks, old running shoes, Nikes, I think. And he'll bring with him a copy of Rolling Stone, October issue, Meat Loaf on the cover. Got that?"
"Yes. When can we get together and talk?"
"When I get ready. Adios." She hung up. The call was traced to the lobby of a motel in Hattiesburg, Mississippi, at least ninety minutes away by car.
Pang was sitting in a coffee shop three blocks from Easter's apartment, and within minutes he was loitering under a shade tree fifty yards from the ancient VW Beetle. On schedule, Easter exited through the front entranceway at seven forty-five, and began his customary twenty-minute walk to the courthouse. He stopped at the same corner grocery for the same newspapers and the same coffee.
Of course, he was wearing exactly what she'd promised.
Her second call also came from Hattiesburg, though from a different number. "Got a new wrinkle for you, Fitch. And you're gonna love it."
Fitch, barely breathing, said, "I'm listening."
"When the jurors come out today, instead of sitting, guess what they're gonna do?"
Fitch's brain froze. He couldn't move his lips. He knew he wasn't expected to make an intelligent guess. "I give up," he said.
"They're gonna do the Pledge of Allegiance."
Fitch shot Konrad a bewildered look.
"Got that, Fitch?" she asked, almost mocking.
"Yeah."
Her line went dead.
HER THIRD CALL went to the law offices of Wendall Rohr, who, according to a secretary, was quite busy and unavailable. Marlee understood perfectly well, but explained that she had an important message for Mr. Rohr. The message would arrive in about five minutes on the fax machine, so would the secretary be so kind as to receive it and take it straight to Mr. Rohr before he left for court. The secretary reluctantly agreed, and five minutes later found a plain sheet of paper lying alone in the receiving tray of the fax. There was no transmitting number, no indication of from where or from whom the fax came. In typed, single-spaced words in the center of the page, the message read:
WR: Juror number 2, Easter, will today wear a blue denim shirt, faded jeans, white sox, old Nikes. He likes Rolling Stone and he will prove to be quite patriotic.
MM
The secretary rushed it to Rohr's office where he was packing a bulky briefcase for the day's battle. Rohr read it, quizzed the secretary, then called in his co-counsel for an emergency session.
THE MOOD couldn't quite be classified as festive, especially for twelve people being held against their will, but it was Friday and the chatter was noticeably lighter as they gathered and greeted one another. Nicholas held a seat at the table, near Herman Grimes and across from Frank Herrera, and he waited for what he thought to be a lull in the idle talk. He looked at Herman, who was hard at work with his laptop. He said, "Hey, Herman. I have an idea."
By now Herman had the eleven voices committed to memory, and his wife had spent hours providing matching descriptions. He especially knew Easter's tone.
"Yes, Nicholas."
Nicholas raised his voice in an effort to catch everyone's attention. "Well, when I was a kid, I went to a little private school, and we were trained to begin each day with the Pledge of Allegiance. Every time I see a flag early in the morning, I have this desire to give the pledge." Most of the jurors were listening.
Poodle had gone out for a smoke. "And in the courtroom out there we have this beautiful flag standing behind the Judge, and all we do is sit and look at it."
"I hadn't noticed," Herman said.
"You wanna do the Pledge of Allegiance, out there, in open court?" asked Herrera, Napoleon, the Retired Colonel.
"Yeah. Why not do it once a week?"
"Nothing wrong with that," said Jerry Fernandez, who had secretly been recruited for the event.
"But what about the Judge?" asked Mrs. Gladys Card.
"Why should he care? In fact, why should anyone be bothered if we stand for a moment and honor our flag?"
"You're not playing games, are you?" asked the Colonel.
Nicholas was suddenly wounded. He gazed across the table with aching eyes, and said, "My father was killed in Vietnam, okay. He was decorated. That flag means a lot to me."
And with that, the deal was sealed.
Judge Harkin greeted them with a warm Friday smile as they came through the door one by one. He was prepared to zip through his standard routine about unauthorized contact, and get on with the testimony. It took a second to realize they were not sitting, as usual. They remained standing until all twelve were in place, then they looked at the wall to his left, behind the witness stand, and they covered their hearts with their hands. Easter opened his mouth first and led them in a vigorous recitation of the Pledge of Allegiance.
Harkin's initial reaction was one of total disbelief; it was certainly a ceremony he'd never witnessed, not in a courtroom, not by a group of jurors. Nor had he ever heard of such a thing, and by now he thought he'd heard or seen it all. It was not a part of the daily ritual, had not been approved by him, did not in fact appear in any manual or handbook. And so his first impulse, after the jolt, was to call them down, make 'em stop it; and they'd talk about it later. Then he instantly realized that it seemed horribly unpatriotic and maybe even downright sinful to interrupt a group of well-meaning citizens as they took a moment to honor their flag. He glanced at Rohr and Cable and saw nothing but open mouths and slack jaws.
So then he stood. About halfway through the pledge, he lurched forward and upward, his black robe floating around him, and turned to the wall, clutched his chest, and picked up the chant.
With the jury and the Judge honoring the Stars and Stripes, it suddenly seemed imperative for everyone else to do likewise, especially the lawyers, who couldn't chance disfavor or show the slightest hint of disloyalty. They jumped to their feet, kicking over briefcases and knocking back chairs. Gloria Lane and her deputy clerks, and the court reporter, and Lou Dell, sitting out there on the first row, far side, likewise stood and turned and followed along. The fervor lost its momentum, though, somewhere beyond the third row of spectators, and Fitch was thus fortunately saved from having to stand like a Cub Scout and mumble words he barely remembered.
He was in the back row with Jose on one side and Holly, a comely young associate, on the other. Pang was out in the atrium. Doyle was back on his Dr Pepper crate on the first floor near the Coke machines, dressed like a laborer, joking with the janitors and watching the front lobby.
Fitch watched and listened in utter amazement. The sight of a jury, on its own initiative and working as a group, assuming control of a courtroom in such a manner was simply hard to believe.
The fact that Marlee knew it was coming was bewildering. The fact that she was playing games with it was exhilarating.
At least Fitch, though, had some inkling of what was coming. Wendall Rohr felt thoroughly ambushed. He was so stunned by the sight of Easter dressed precisely as promised, and holding the exact magazine, which he placed under his chair, and then leading his fellow jurymen in the pledge, that he could only mouth the remaining words. And he did so without looking at the flag. He stared at the jury, especially at Easter, and he wondered what the hell was going on.
As the final phrase "... and justice for all" echoed up to the ceiling, the jurors settled into their seats and, as a group, looked quickly around the courtroom to assess the reactions. Judge Harkin adjusted his robe while shuffling some papers and seemed determined to act as if all juries were supposed to do the same thing. What could he say? It had taken thirty seconds.
"I believe we're ready for a new witness," the Judge said, anxious to speed things along.
Rohr stood, still dazed, and said, "The plaintiff calls Dr. Hilo Kilvan."
As the next expert was retrieved from a witness holding room in the back, Fitch quietly slipped out of the courtroom with Jose fast behind him. They walked down the street and into the old dime store.
The two jury wizards in the viewing room were silent. On the main screen, one was watching the initial questioning of Dr. Kilvan. On a smaller monitor, the other was watching a replay of the Pledge of Allegiance. Fitch hovered over the monitor, and asked, "When was the last time you saw that?"
"It's Easter," the nearest expert said. "He led them into it."
"Of course it was Easter," Fitch snapped. "I could see that from the back row of the courtroom." Fitch, as usual, was not playing fair. Neither of these consultants knew of Marlee's phone calls because Fitch had yet to share the information with anyone but his agents-Swanson, Doyle, Pang, Konrad, and Holly.
"So what does that do to your computer analysis?" Fitch asked with heavy sarcasm. "Blows it to hell."
"That's what I figured. Keep watching." He slammed the door and went to his office.
THE DIRECT EXAMINATION of Dr. Hilo Kilvan was handled by a new plaintiff's lawyer, Scotty Mangrum from Dallas. Mangrum had made his fortune suing petrochemical companies for toxic torts, and now at the age of forty-two he was deeply concerned about consumer products that caused injuries and death. After Rohr, he'd been the first lawyer to pony up his million bucks to finance the Wood case, and it had been decided that he would become fluent in statistical summaries of lung cancer. In the past four years, he'd spent countless hours reading every possible study and report on the subject, and he'd traveled extensively to meet with the experts. With great care and no regard for expense, he'd selected Dr. Kilvan as the man to visit Biloxi and share his knowledge with the jury.
Dr. Kilvan spoke perfect but deliberate English, with a touch of an accent that made an instant impression on the jury. Few things can be more persuasive in a courtroom than an expert who's traveled a great distance to be there, and has an exotic name and accent to boot. Dr. Kilvan was from Montreal, where he'd lived the past forty years, and the fact that he was from another country only added to his credibility. The jury was on board long before he got around to his testimony. He and Mangrum tag-teamed through an intimidating resume, with particular emphasis placed on the volume of books Dr. Kilvan had published on the statistical probabilities of lung cancer.
When finally asked, Durr Cable conceded that Dr. Kilvan was qualified to testify in his field. Scotty Mangrum thanked him, and then began with the first study-one comparing ratios of lung cancer mortality between cigarette smokers and non-smokers. Dr. Kilvan had been studying this for the past twenty years at the University of Montreal, and he relaxed in his chair as he explained the basics of this research to the jury. For American men, and he'd studied groups of men and women from around the world but primarily Canadians and Americans, the risk of getting lung cancer for one who smokes fifteen cigarettes a day for ten years is ten times greater than for one who doesn't smoke at all. Increase it to two packs a day, and the risk is twenty times greater. Increase it to three packs a day, the quantity smoked by Jacob Wood, and the risk is twenty-five times greater than for a non-smoker.
Brightly colored charts were produced and mounted on three tripods, and Dr. Kilvan, carefully and without a trace of hurry, demonstrated his findings to the jurors.
The next study was a comparison of the death rates from lung cancer in men in relation to the type of tobacco smoked. Dr. Kilvan explained the basic differences in pipe and cigar smoke and the rates of cancer for American men who used those forms of tobacco. He'd published two books on these comparisons, and was quite ready to show the jury the next series of charts and graphs. The numbers piled up, and they began to blur.
LOREEN DUKE was the first person with the nerve to remove her plate from the table and take it to a corner where she balanced it on her knees and ate alone. Because the lunches were ordered by menu at nine each morning, and because Lou Dell and Willis the deputy and the folks at O'Reilly's Deli and anyone else involved in the serving of the food were determined to have the food on the table at the crack of noon, a certain order was necessary. A seating arrangement was developed. Loreen's seat was directly across the table from Stella Hulic, who smacked as she talked and allowed large chunks of bread to hang from her teeth. Stella was a poorly dressed social climber who'd spent most of her time in recess working desperately to convince the other eleven that she and her husband, a retired plumbing executive named Cal, possessed more than the rest. Cal had a hotel, and Cal had an apartment complex, and Cal had a car wash. There were other investments, most of which managed to pop out with the food as if both were accidents. They took trips, just traveled all the time. Greece was a favorite. Cal had an airplane and several boats.
According to widely accepted knowledge along the Coast, Cal, a few years earlier, had used an old shrimping boat to haul marijuana from Mexico. True or not, the Hulics were now flush, and it was Stella's burden to discuss it with anyone who would listen. She rattled on with an obnoxious nasal twang, one foreign to the Coast, and waited until everyone had filled their mouths and an intense quiet had settled over the table.
She said, "I sure hope we finish early today. Me and Cal are headed to Miami for the weekend. There are some fabulous new shops down there." All heads were bowed because no one could stomach the sight of half a dinner roll packed tightly in a jaw and clearly visible. Each syllable came forth with added sounds of food sticking to teeth.
Loreen left before taking the first bite. She was followed by Rikki Coleman, who offered the feeble excuse that she had to sit by the window. Lonnie Shaver suddenly needed to work during lunch. He excused himself and huddled with his computer while munching on a chicken club.
"Dr. Kilvan certainly is an impressive witness, isn't he?" Nicholas asked the remaining jurors at the table. A few glanced at Herman, who was eating his usual turkey sandwich on white bread with no mayonnaise or mustard or any condiment capable of sticking to his mouth or lips. A sliced turkey sandwich and a nice little pile of ridged potato chips could be easily handled and consumed without the benefit of sight. Herman's jaws slowed for a second, but he said nothing.
"Those statistics are hard to ignore," Nicholas said while smiling at Jerry Fernandez. It was a deliberate attempt to provoke the foreman.
"That's enough," Herman said.
"Enough of what, Herm?"
"Enough talk about the trial. You know the Judge's rules."
"Yeah, but the Judge isn't in here, is he, Herm? And he has no way of knowing what we discuss, does he? Unless, of course, you tell him."
"I might just do that."
"Fine, Herm. What would you like to discuss?"
"Anything but the trial."
"Pick a topic. Football, the weather ..."
"I don't watch football."
"Ha, ha."
There was a heavy pause, a stillness broken only by the slapping of food around the mouth of Stella Hulic. Evidently the quick exchange between the two men had rattled nerves, and Stella chewed even faster.
But Jerry Fernandez had had enough. "Could you please stop smacking your food like that!" he snapped viciously.
He caught her in mid-bite, mouth open, food perceptible. He glared at her as if he might slap her, then he said, after a deep breath, "I'm sorry, okay. It's just that you have these terrible table manners."
She was stunned for a second, then embarrassed. Then she attacked. Her cheeks turned red and she managed to swallow the large portion already in her mouth. "Maybe I don't like yours either," she said, bristling as the other heads lowered. Everyone wanted the moment to pass.
"At least I eat quietly and keep my food in my mouth," Jerry said, very aware of how childish he sounded.
"So do I," Stella said.
"No you don't," said Napoleon, who had the misfortune of sitting next to Loreen Duke and across from Stella. "You make more racket than a three-year-old."
Herman cleared his throat loudly, said, "Let's all take a deep breath now. And let's finish our lunch in peace."
Not another word was spoken as they strained to quietly finish the remains of their lunch. Jerry and Poodle left first for the smoke room, followed by Nicholas Easter, who didn't smoke but needed a change of scenery. A light rain was falling, and the daily walk around the town would have to be canceled.
They met in the small, square room with folding chairs and a window that opened. Angel Weese, the quietest of all jurors, soon joined them. Stella, the fourth smoker, was wounded and had decided to wait behind.
Poodle didn't mind talking about the trial. Neither did Angel. What else did they have in common? They seemed to agree with Jerry that everybody knows cigarettes cause cancer. So if you smoke, you do so at your own risk.
Why give millions to the heirs of a dead man who smoked for thirty-five years? One should know better.