The Runaway Jury

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.

Chapter 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.