The Runaway Jury

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.

Most of the lawyers were secretly embarrassed by the silly display of patriotism, but, Hey!, if the jurors were happy, then they were happy too. Only Wendall Rohr kept staring, seemingly speechless. An associate nudged him and they fell into a hushed conversation as His Honor raced through the standard comments and questions for the jury.

"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.