The Runaway Jury

"I’m well aware of that," Fitch snapped.

"We have to know these people."

"We’re doing our best. We can’t help it if the jury lists here are not as current as other states’."

Jankle took a long drink and stared at Fitch. Fitch, after all, was a well-paid security thug, nothing remotely near the level of CEO of a major company. Call him whatever you want – consultant, agent, contractor – fact was, he worked for them. Sure he had some clout right now, liked to swagger and bark because he was pushing the buttons, but dammit he was just a glorified thug. These thoughts Jankle kept to himself.

"Anything else?" Fitch demanded of Jankle, as if his initial inquiry were thoughtless, as though if he had nothing productive to say then maybe he should just keep his mouth shut.

"Do you trust these lawyers?" Jankle asked, not for the first time.

"We’ve covered this before," Fitch answered.

"We can certainly cover it again if I choose."

"Why are you worried about our lawyers?" Fitch asked.

"Because, well, because they’re from around here."

"I see. And you think it’d be wise to bring in some New York lawyers to talk to our jury? Maybe some from Boston?"

"No, it’s just that, well, they’ve never defended a tobacco case."

"There’s never been a tobacco case on the Coast before. Are you complaining?"

"They just worry me, that’s all."

"We’ve hired the best in this area," Fitch said. "Why do they work so cheap?"

"Cheap. Last week you were worried about defense costs. Now our lawyers are not charging enough. Make up your mind."

"Last year we paid four hundred bucks an hour for Pittsburgh lawyers. These guys work for two hundred. That worries me."

Fitch frowned at Luther Vandemeer, CEO of Trellco. "Am I missing something here?" he asked. "Is he serious? We’re at five million bucks for this case, and he’s afraid I’m pinching pennies." Fitch waved in the direction of Jankle. Vandemeer smiled and took a drink.

"You spent six million in Oklahoma," Jankle said.

"And we won. I don’t recall any complaints after the verdict came in."

"I’m not complaining now. I’m just voicing a concern."

"Great! I’ll go back to the office, gather all the lawyers together, and tell them my clients are upset about the bills. I’ll say, ‘Look, fellas, I know you’re getting rich off us, but that’s not good enough. My clients want you to bill more, okay. Stick it to us. You guys are working too cheap.’ That sound like a good idea?"

"Relax, Martin," Vandemeer said. "The trial hasn’t started yet. I’m confident we’ll be sick of our own lawyers before we leave here."

"Yeah, but this trial’s different. We all know that." Jankle’s words trailed off as he lifted his glass. He had a drinking problem, the only one of the four. His company had quietly dried him out six months ago, but the pressure of the lawsuit was too much. Fitch, a former drunk himself, knew Jankle was in trouble. He would be forced to testify in a few weeks.

As if Fitch didn’t have enough to worry about, he was now saddled with the burden of keeping D. Martin Jankle sober until then. Fitch hated him for his weakness.

"I assume the plaintiff’s lawyers are ready," asked another CEO.

"Safe assumption," Fitch said with a shrug. "There are enough of them."

Eight, at last count. Eight of the largest tort firms in the country had allegedly put up a million bucks each to finance this showdown with the tobacco industry. They had picked the plaintiff, the widow of a man named Jacob L. Wood. They had picked the forum, the Gulf Coast of Mississippi, because the state had beautiful tort laws and because juries in Biloxi could at times be generous. They hadn’t picked the judge, but they couldn’t have been luckier. The Honorable Frederick Harkin had been a plaintiff’s lawyer before a heart attack sent him to the bench. It was no ordinary tobacco case, and everyone in the room knew it.

"How much have they spent?"

"I’m not privy to that information," Fitch said. "We’ve heard rumors that their war chest may not be as loaded as advertised, maybe a small problem collecting the up-front money from a few of the lawyers. But they’ve spent millions. And they have a dozen consumer groups hanging around ready to pitch in advice."

Jankle rattled his ice, then drained the last drop of liquid from his glass. It was his fourth drink. The room was silent for a moment as Fitch stood and waited and the CEO’s watched the carpet.

"How long will it last?" Jankle finally asked.

"Four to six weeks. Jury selection goes fast here. We’ll probably seat a jury by Wednesday."

"Allentown lasted three months," Jankle said.

"This ain’t Kansas, Toto. You want a three-month trial?"

"No, I was just, well . . ." Jankle’s words trailed off sadly.

"How long should we stay in town?" Vandemeer said, instinctively glancing at his watch.

"I don’t care. You can leave now, or you can wait until the jury is picked. You all have those big jets. If I need you, I can find you." Fitch set his water on the mantel and looked around the room. He was suddenly ready to leave. "Anything else?"

Not a word.

"Good."

He said something to Jose as he opened the front door, then he was gone. They stared in silence at the posh carpet, worrying about Monday, worrying about lots of things. Jankle, his hands quivering slightly, finally lit a cigarette.

WENDALL ROHR made his first fortune in the suing game when two offshore oil workers were burned on a Shell rig in the Gulf. His cut was almost two million, and he quickly considered himself a trial lawyer to be reckoned with. He spread his money around, picked up more cases, and by the age of forty had an aggressive firm and a decent reputation as a courtroom brawler. Then drugs, a divorce, and some bad investments ruined his life for a while, and at the age of fifty he was checking titles and defending shoplifters like a million other lawyers. When a wave of asbestos litigation swept the Gulf Coast, Wendall was once again in the right place. He made his second fortune, and vowed never to lose it. He built a firm, refurbished a grand suite of offices, even found a young wife. Free of booze and pills, Rohr directed his considerable energies into suing corporate America on behalf of injured people. On his second trip, he rose even quicker in trial lawyer circles. He grew a beard, oiled his hair, became a radical, and was beloved on the lecture circuit.

Rohr met Celeste Wood, the widow of Jacob Wood, through a young lawyer who had prepared Jacob’s will in anticipation of death. Jacob Wood died at the age of fifty-one after smoking three packs a day for almost thirty years. At the time of his death, he was a production supervisor in a boat factory, earning forty thousand a year.

In the hands of a less ambitious lawyer, the case appeared to be nothing more than a dead smoker, one of countless others. Rohr, though, had networked his way into a circle of acquaintances who were dreaming the grandest dreams ever known to trial lawyers. All were specialists in product liability, all had made millions collecting on breast implants, Dalkon Shields, and asbestos. Now they met several times a year and plotted ways to mine the mother lode of American torts. No legally manufactured product in the history of the world had killed as many people as the cigarette. And their makers had pockets so deep the money had mildewed.

Rohr put up the first million, and was eventually joined by seven others. With no effort, the group quickly recruited help from the Tobacco Task Force, the Coalition for a Smoke Free World, and the Tobacco Liability Fund, plus a handful of other consumer groups and industry watchdogs. A plaintiff’s trial council was organized, not surprisingly with Wendall Rohr as the chairman and designated point man in the courtroom. Amid as much fanfare as it could generate, Rohr’s group had filed suit four years earlier in the Circuit Court of Harrison County, Mississippi.