The Runaway Jury

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.

Chapter 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 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 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.