The Runaway Jury

It was certainly not ordinary for Fitch, a man who’d sabotaged more juries than any person in the history of American jurisprudence. He’d laid the usual traps and gathered the usual dirt. His scams were proceeding flawlessly. Only one fire, so far. No broken bones. But the girl Marlee had changed everything. Through her he’d be able to purchase a verdict, a slam-dunk defense judgment that would humiliate Rohr and frighten away the legion of hungry trial lawyers circling like vultures, waiting for the carcass.

In this, the biggest tobacco trial yet, with the biggest plaintiff’s lawyers lined up with millions, his beloved little Marlee would hand him a verdict. Fitch believed this, and it consumed him. He thought of her every minute and he saw her in his dreams.

If not for Marlee, Fitch wouldn’t be sleeping at all. The time was right for a plaintiff’s verdict; right courtroom, right judge, right mood. The experts were by far the best Fitch had encountered in his nine years of directing the defense. Nine years, eight trials, eight defense verdicts. As much as he hated Rohr, he could admit, only to himself, that he was the right lawyer to nail the industry.

A victory over Rohr in Biloxi would be a huge barricade to future tobacco litigation. It might very well save the industry.

When Fitch tallied the jury’s vote, he always started with Rikki Coleman, because of the abortion. He had her vote in his pocket, she just didn’t know it yet. Then he added Lonnie Shaver. Then Colonel Herrera. Millie Dupree would be easy. His jury people were convinced that Sylvia Taylor-Tatum was virtually incapable of sympathy, and besides she smoked. But his jury people didn’t know she was sleeping with Jerry Fernandez. Jerry and Easter were buddies. Fitch was predicting the three of them-Sylvia, Jerry, and Nicholas-would vote the same. Loreen Duke sat next to Nicholas, and the two were often seen whispering during the trial. Fitch thought she would follow Easter. And if Loreen did, then so would Angel Weese, the only other black female. Weese was impossible to read.

No one doubted that Easter would dominate the deliberations. Now that Fitch knew Easter had two years of law school, he was willing to bet that this information had been shared with the entire jury.

It was impossible to predict how Herman Grimes might vote. But Fitch wasn’t counting on him. Likewise with Phillip Savelle. Fitch felt good about Mrs. Gladys Card. She was old and conservative and likely to be turned off when Rohr asked them for twenty million or so.

So Fitch had four in the bag, with Mrs. Gladys Card being a possible fifth. Flip a coin on Herman Grimes. Concede Savelle on the grounds that anyone so in tune with nature had to dislike tobacco companies. That left Easter and his gang of five. Nine votes were needed by either side for a verdict. Anything less would hang the jury and force Harkin to declare a mistrial. Mistrials become retrials, something Fitch did not want in this case.

The horde of legal analysts and scholars closely watching the trial agreed on little, but they were unified in their prediction that a unanimous, twelve-vote verdict in favor of Pynex would chill, if not completely freeze, tobacco litigation for a decade.

Fitch was determined to deliver one, whatever the cost.

THE MOOD in Rohr’s office was much lighter Monday night. With no more witnesses to call, the pressure was momentarily off. Some fine scotch was poured in the conference room. Rohr sipped his mineral water and nibbled on cheese and crackers.

The ball was now in Cable’s court. Let him and his crew spend a few days prepping witnesses and labeling documents. Rohr had only to react, to cross-examine, and he had watched every videotaped deposition of every defense witness a dozen times.

Jonathan Kotlack, the lawyer in charge of jury research, likewise drank only water and speculated with Rohr about Herman Grimes. Both felt they had him. And they felt good about Millie Dupree and Savelle, the strange one. Herrera worried them. All three of the blacks-Lonnie, Angel, and Loreen –  were solidly on board. It was, after all, a case of a little person against a large powerful corporation. Surely the blacks would come through. They always did.

Easter was the key because he was the leader, everybody knew that. Rikki would follow him. Jerry was his pal. Sylvia Taylor-Tatum was passive and she’d follow the crowd. As would Mrs. Gladys Card.

They only needed nine, and Rohr was convinced he had them.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Back in Lawrence, Small, the investigator, worked his list of leads diligently and got nowhere. He loafed around Mulligan’s Monday night, drinking against orders, chatting occasionally with the waitresses and law students and succeeding at nothing but arousing suspicion among the youth.

Early Tuesday morning, he made one visit too many. The woman’s name was Rebecca, and a few years back, while still a grad student at KU, she had worked at Mulligan’s with Claire Clement. They had been friends, according to a source dug up by Small’s boss. Small found her in a downtown bank, where she worked as manager. He introduced himself awkwardly, and she was immediately suspicious.

"Didn’t you work with Claire Clement a few years back?" he asked, looking at a notepad, standing on one side of her desk because she was standing on the other. He had not been invited in, and she was busy.

"Maybe. Who wants to know?" Rebecca asked, arms crossed, head cocked, phone buzzing somewhere behind her. In marked contrast to Small, she was sharply dressed and missed nothing.

"Do you know where she is now?"

"No. Why are you asking?"

Small repeated the narrative he’d memorized. It was all he had. "Well, see, she’s a potential juror in a big trial, and my firm has been hired to conduct a thorough investigation into her background."

"Where’s the trial?"

"Can’t tell you that. You guys worked together at Mulligan’s, right?"

"Yes. That was a long time ago."

"Where was she from?"

"Why is that important?"

"Well, to be honest, it’s on my list of questions. We’re just checking her out, okay? Do you know where she came from?"

"No."

This was an important question because Claire’s trail had started and stopped in Lawrence. "Are you sure?"

She cocked her head the other way and glared at this klutz. "I don’t know where she came from. When I met her, she was working at Mulligan’s. The last time I saw her, she was working at Mulligan’s."

"Have you talked to her recently?"

"Not in the last four years."

"Did you know Jeff Kerr?"

"No."

"Who were her friends here in Lawrence?"

"I don’t know. Look, I’m very busy, and you’re wasting your time. I didn’t know Claire that well. Nice girl and all, but we were not close. Now, please, I have things to do." She was pointing to the door by the time she finished, and Small reluctantly left her office.

With Small out of the bank, Rebecca closed her office door and dialed the number to an apartment in St. Louis. The recorded voice on the other end belonged to her friend Claire. They chatted at least once a month, though they hadn’t seen each other in a year. Claire and Jeff lived an odd life, drifting and never staying long in one place, never anxious to reveal their whereabouts. Only the apartment in St. Louis remained the same. Claire had warned her that people might come poking around with curious questions. She had hinted more than once that she and Jeff were working for the government in some mysterious capacity.

At the sound of the tone, Rebecca left a brief message about Small’s visit.

MARLEE CHECKED her voice mail each morning, and the message from Lawrence made her blood run cold. She wiped her face with a moist cloth, and tried to calm herself.