The Runaway Jury

"Why would they follow you?" asked Angel.

"Same reason they’re following all of us."

"I don’t believe that," Poodle said.

Stella certainly believed it, but if Nicholas, the ex-law student, planned to keep it from the Judge, then so did she.

"Why are they following us?" Angel asked again, nervously.

"Because it’s just what they do. The tobacco companies spent millions selecting us, and now they’re spending even more to watch us."

"What are they looking for?"

"Ways to get to us. Friends we might talk to. Places we might go. They typically start gossip in the various communities where we live, little rumors about the deceased, bad things he did while he was alive. They’re always looking for a weak spot. That’s why they’ve never lost a jury trial."

"How do you know it’s the tobacco company?" asked Poodle, lighting another one.

"I don’t. But they have more money than the plaintiff. In fact, they have unlimited funds to fight these cases with."

Jerry Fernandez, always ready to help with a joke or assist in a gag, said, "You know, come to think of it, I remember seeing this strange little dude peeking around a corner at me this weekend. Saw him more than once." He glanced at Nicholas for approval, but Nicholas was watching Stella. Jerry winked at Poodle, but she didn’t see.

Lou Dell knocked on the door.

NO PLEDGES or anthems Monday morning. Judge Harkin and the lawyers waited, ready to spring forward with unabashed patriotism at the slightest hint the jurors might be in the mood, but nothing happened. The jurors took their seats, already a bit tired it seemed and resigned to another long week of testimony. Harkin flashed them a warm welcoming smile, then proceeded with his patented monologue about unauthorized contact. Stella looked at the floor without a word. Cal was watching from the third row, present to give her support.

Scotty Mangrum rose and informed the court that the plaintiff would like to resume with the testimony of Dr. Hilo Kilvan, who was fetched from the rear somewhere and placed on the witness stand. He nodded politely at the jury. No one nodded back.

For Wendall Rohr and the plaintiff’s team of lawyers, the weekend had brought no break in their labors. The trial itself presented enough challenges, but the distraction of the fax from MM on Friday had wrecked all pretense of order. They had traced its origin to a truck stop near Hattiesburg, and after accepting some cash, a clerk had given a weak description of a young woman, late twenties maybe early thirties, with dark hair tucked under a brown fishing cap and a face half-hidden behind large dark sunshades. She was short, but then maybe she was average. Maybe she was about five six or five seven. She was slender, that was for sure, but after all it had been before nine on a Friday morning, one of their busiest periods. She’d paid five bucks for a one-page fax to a number in Biloxi, a law office, which in itself seemed odd and thus remembered by the clerk. Most of their faxes dealt with fuel permits and special loads.

No sign of her vehicle, but then again the place was packed.

It was the collective opinion of the eight principal plaintiff’s lawyers, a group with a combined total of 150 years of trial experience, that this was something new. Not a one could recall a single trial in which a person on the outside contacted the lawyers involved with hints of what the jury might do. They were unanimous in their belief that she, MM, would be back. And though they at first denied it, through the weekend they grudgingly arrived at the belief that she would probably ask for money. A deal. Money for a verdict.

They could not, however, muster the courage to plot a strategy to deal with her when she wanted to negotiate. Maybe later, but not now.

Fitch, on the other hand, thought of little else. The Fund currently had a balance of six and a half million dollars, with two of that budgeted for the remaining trial expenses. The money was quite liquid and very movable. He’d spent the weekend monitoring jurors and meeting with lawyers and listening to summaries from his jury people, and he’d spent time on the phone with D. Martin Jankle at Pynex. He’d been pleased with the results of the Ken and Ben show in Charlotte, and had been assured by George Teaker that Lonnie Shaver was a man they could trust. He’d even watched a secret video of the last meeting in which Taunton and Teaker had all but convinced Shaver to sign a pledge.

Fitch slept four hours Saturday and five Sunday, about average for him though sleep was difficult. He dreamed of the girl Marlee and of what she might bring him. This could be the easiest verdict yet.

He watched the opening ceremonies Monday from the viewing room with a jury consultant. The hidden camera had been working so well they had decided to try a better one, one with a larger lens and clearer picture. It was locked in the same briefcase and placed under the same table, and no one in the busy courtroom had a clue.

No Pledge of Allegiance, nothing out of the ordinary, but then Fitch had expected this. Surely Marlee would’ve called if something special was planned.

He listened as Dr. Hilo Kilvan resumed his testimony, and almost smiled to himself as the jurors seemed to dread it. His consultants and his lawyers were unanimous in the belief that the plaintiff’s witnesses had yet to capture the jury. The experts were impressive with credentials and visual aids, but the tobacco defense had seen it all before.

The defense would be simple and subtle. Their doctors would argue strenuously that smoking does not cause lung cancer. Other impressive experts would argue people make informed choices about smoking. Their lawyers would argue that if cigarettes are allegedly so dangerous, then you smoke at your own risk.

Fitch had been through it many times before. He’d memorized the testimony. He’d suffered through the arguments of the lawyers. He’d sweated while the juries deliberated. He’d quietly celebrated the verdicts, but he’d never had the chance to purchase one.

CIGARETTES kill four hundred thousand Americans each year, according to Dr. Kilvan, and he had four large charts to prove it. It is the single deadliest product on the market, nothing else comes close. Except for guns, and they, of course, are not designed to be aimed and fired at people. Cigarettes are designed to be lit and puffed; thus they are used properly. They are deadly if used exactly as intended.

This point hit home with the jury, and it would not be forgotten. But by ten-thirty they were ready for the morning coffee and potty break. Judge Harkin recessed for fifteen minutes. Nicholas slipped a note to Lou Dell, who gave it to Willis, who happened to be awake for the moment. He took the note to the Judge. Easter wanted a private conference at noon, if possible. It was urgent.

NICHOLAS EXCUSED HIMSELF from lunch with the explanation that his stomach was queasy and he’d lost his appetite. He needed to visit the boys’ room, he said, and he’d be back in a moment. No one cared. Most were leaving the table anyway to avoid being near Stella Hulic.

He cut through the narrow back hallways and entered the chambers where the Judge was waiting, alone with a cold sandwich. They greeted each other tensely. Nicholas carried a small brown leather handbag. "We need to talk," he said, sitting.

"Do the others know you’re here?" Harkin asked. "No. But I need to be quick."

"Go." Harkin ate a corn chip and pushed his plate away.

"Three things. Stella Hulic, number four, front row, went to Miami this weekend, and she was followed by unknown persons believed to be working for the tobacco company."

His Honor stopped chewing. "How do you know?"

"I overheard a conversation this morning. She was trying to whisper this to another juror. Don’t ask me how she knew she was being followed-I didn’t hear all of it. But the poor woman is a wreck. Frankly, I think she had a coupla drinks before court this morning. Vodka, I’d say. Probably bloody marys."