The Runaway Jury

In a small, white boardroom with no windows, Lonnie was placed at a table with coffee and doughnuts before him. Ben disappeared, but Ken stuck close as the lights dimmed and an image appeared on the wall. It was a thirty-minute video about SuperHouse-its brief history, its current position in the market, its ambitious growth plans. And its people, the "real assets."

According to the script, SuperHouse planned to increase both gross sales and number of stores by fifteen percent a year for the next six years. Profits would be stunning.

The lights came on, and an earnest young man with a name that was quickly forgotten appeared and took a position across the table. He was a benefits specialist, and had all the answers to all the questions about health care, pension plans, vacations, holidays, sick leave, employee stock options. Everything was covered in one of the packages on the table before Lonnie, so he could mull over it later.

After a long lunch with Ben and Ken in a swanky suburban restaurant, Lonnie went back to the boardroom for a few more meetings. One covered the training program they were contemplating for him. The next, presented by video, outlined the structure of the company in relation to its parent and to its competitors. Boredom hit hard. For a man who’d spent the entire week sitting on his rear listening to lawyers haggle with experts, this was no way to spend a Saturday afternoon. Excited though he was about his visit and its prospects, he suddenly needed fresh air.

Ken, of course, knew this, and the moment the video ended he suggested they go play golf, a sport Lonnie had yet to try. Ken, of course, knew this too, so he suggested they get some sunshine anyway. Ken’s BMW was blue and spotless, and he drove it with great care into the countryside, past manicured farms and estates and tree-lined roads until they reached the country club.

For a black guy from a lower-middle-class family in Gulfport, the thought of stepping foot in a country club was intimidating. Lonnie at first resented the idea, and vowed to leave if he saw no other black faces. On second thought, however, he was somewhat flattered that his new employers would think so highly of him. They were really nice guys, genuine and seemingly anxious for him to adjust to their corporate culture. There’d been no mention of money yet, but how could it be less than he was earning now?

They stepped into the Club Lounge, a sprawling room of leather chairs, stuffed game on the walls, and a cloud of blue cigar smoke hanging near the pitched ceiling. A serious boy room. At a large table near the window, with the eighteenth green just below, they found George Teaker, now in golf attire, having a drink with two black gentlemen, also nicely dressed and apparently not long off the links. All three stood and warmly greeted Lonnie, who was relieved to see kindred spirits. In fact, a huge weight left his chest, and he was suddenly ready for a drink, though he was careful with alcohol. The burly black man was Morris Peel, a loud and hearty soul who smiled constantly and introduced the other, a Percy Kellum from Atlanta. Both men were in their mid-forties, and as the first round of drinks was ordered, by Peel, he explained that he was a vice president with Listing Foods, the parent company in New York, and that Kellum was a regional something or other for Listing.

No pecking order was established; none was needed. It was obvious that Peel, from the parent in New York, ranked higher than Teaker, who carried the title of CEO but only ran a division. Kellum was positioned somewhere further down the pole. Ken, even lower. And Lonnie was just happy to be there. Over the second drink, with the formalities and polite chitchat out of the way, Peel, with great relish and humor, offered his biography. Sixteen years earlier, he had been the first black mid-level manager to enter the world of Listing Foods, and he had been a pain in the ass. He’d been hired as a token, not as a talent, and he’d been forced to claw his way upward. Twice he’d sued the company, and twice he’d won. And once the boys upstairs realized he was determined to join them, and that he had the brains to do so, they accepted him as a person. It still wasn’t easy, but he had their respect. Teaker, now on his third scotch, leaned in and offered, confidentially of course, that Peel was being groomed for the big job. "You could be talking to a future CEO," he said to Lonnie. "One of the first black CEO’s of a Fortune 500 company."

Because of Peel, Listing Foods had implemented an aggressive program of recruiting and promoting black managers. This is where Lonnie would fit in. Hadley Brothers was a decent company, but quite old-fashioned and quite Southern, and Listing was not surprised to find but a few blacks with more authority than floor sweepers.

For two hours, as darkness fell across the eighteenth green and a piano player sang in the lounge, they drank and talked and planned the future. Dinner was just down the hall, in a private dining room with a fireplace and a moosehead above the mantel. They ate thick steaks flavored with sauce and mushrooms. Lonnie slept that night in a suite on the third floor of the country club, and awoke to a splendid fairway view, and a slight hangover.

Only two brief meetings were planned for late Sunday morning. The first, again with Ken present, was a planning session with George Teaker, in a jogging suit, and fresh from a five-miler. "Best thing in the world for a hangover," he said. He wanted Lonnie to run the store in Biloxi under a new contract for a period of ninety days, after which they would evaluate his performance. Assuming everyone was pleased, and they certainly expected to be, then he would be transferred to a larger store, probably in the Atlanta area. A larger store meant more responsibility, and more compensation. After a year there, he would be reevaluated, and probably moved again. During this fifteen-month period, he would be required to spend at least one weekend each month in Charlotte in a management trainee program, one that was outlined in excruciating detail in a packet on the table.

Teaker finally finished, and ordered more black coffee.

The last guest was a wiry young black man with a bald head and a meticulous suit and tie. His name was Taunton, and he was a lawyer from New York, from Wall Street, actually. His firm represented Listing Foods, he explained gravely, and in fact, he worked on nothing but Listing’s business. He was there to present a proposed contract of employment, a rather routine matter but nonetheless an important one. He handed Lonnie a document, only three or four pages, but it seemed much heavier after having traveled from Wall Street. Lonnie was impressed beyond words.

"Look it over," Taunton said, tapping his chin with a designer pen. "And we’ll talk next week. It’s fairly standard. The compensation paragraph has several blanks. We’ll fill them in later."

Lonnie glanced at the first page, then placed it with the other papers and packets and memos in a pile that was growing by the moment. Taunton whipped out a legal pad and seemed to prepare himself for a nasty cross-examination. "Just a few questions," he said.

Lonnie had a painful flashback to the courtroom in Biloxi where the lawyers always had "just a few more questions."

"Sure," Lonnie said, glancing at his watch. He couldn’t help it.

"No criminal record of any sort?"

"No. Just a few speeding tickets."

"No lawsuits pending against you personally?"

"No."

"Any against your wife?"

"No."

"Have you ever filed for bankruptcy?"

"No."

"Ever been arrested?"

"No."

"Indicted?"

"No."

Taunton flipped a page. "Have you, in your capacity as a store manager, ever been involved in litigation?"