The Runaway Jury

There was little doubt that Mr. Grimes was no stranger to litigation.

On one side of the bar were two hundred little people, those dragged into court by the power of the law. On the other side was the law itself-the Judge sitting elevated above the rest, the packs of stuffy lawyers looking down their nasty noses, the clerks, the deputies, the bailiffs. On behalf of the draftees, Mr. Herman Grimes had struck a mighty blow at the establishment, and he was rewarded with chuckles and light laughter from his colleagues. He didn’t care.

Across the railing, the lawyers smiled because the prospective jurors were smiling, and they shifted in their seats and scratched their heads because no one knew what to do. "I’ve never seen this before," they whispered.

The law said that a blind person may be excused from jury service, and when the Judge saw the word may he quickly decided to placate Mr. Grimes and deal with him later. No sense getting sued in your own courtroom. There were other ways to exclude him from jury duty. He’d discuss it with the attorneys. "On second thought, Mr. Grimes, I think you’d make an excellent juror. Please be seated."

Herman Grimes nodded and smiled and politely said, "Thank you, sir."

How do you factor in a blind juror? The experts mulled this question as they watched him slowly bend and sit. What are his prejudices? Which side will he favor? In a game with no rules, it was a widely held axiom that people with handicaps and disabilities made great plaintiff’s jurors because they better understood the meaning of suffering. But there were countless exceptions.

From the back row, Rankin Fitch strained to his right in a vain effort to make eye contact with Carl Nussman, the man who’d already been paid $1,200,000 to select the perfect jury. Nussman sat in the midst of his jury consultants, holding a legal pad and studying the faces as if he’d known perfectly well that Herman Grimes was blind. He hadn’t, and Fitch knew he hadn’t. It was a minor fact that had slipped through their vast web of intelligence. What else had they missed? Fitch asked himself. He’d peel the hide off Nussman as soon as they broke for a recess.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen," the Judge continued, his voice suddenly sharper and anxious to move on now that an on-the-spot discrimination suit had been averted. "We enter into a phase of jury selection that will be somewhat time-consuming. It deals with physical infirmities which might prevent you from serving. We are not going to embarrass you, but if you have a physical problem, we need to discuss it. We’ll start with the first row."

As Gloria Lane stood in the aisle by row one, a man of about sixty raised his hand, then got to his feet and walked through the small swinging gate of the bar. A bailiff led him to the witness chair and shoved the microphone away. The Judge moved to the end of the bench and leaned downward so that he could whisper to the man. Two lawyers, one from each side, took their places directly in front of the witness stand and blocked the view from the spectators. The court reporter completed the tight huddle, and when everyone was in place the Judge softly asked about the man’s affliction.

It was a herniated disc, and he had a letter from his doctor. He was excused and left the courtroom in a hurry.

When Harkin broke for lunch at noon, he had dismissed thirteen people for medical reasons. The tedium had set in. They would resume at one-thirty, for much more of the same.

NICHOLAS EASTER left the courthouse alone, and walked six blocks to a Burger King, where he ordered a Whopper and a Coke. He sat in a booth near the window, watching kids swing in the small playground, scanning a USA Today, eating slowly because he had an hour and a half.

The same blonde who first met him at the Computer Hut in tight jeans now wore baggy Umbros, a loose T-shirt, new Nikes, and carried a small gym bag over her shoulder. She met him for the second time as she walked by his booth carrying her tray and stopped when she seemed to recognize him.

"Nicholas," she said, feigning uncertainty.

He looked at her, and for an awkward second knew they’d met somewhere before. The name escaped him.

"You don’t remember me," she said with a pleasant smile. "I was in your Computer Hut two weeks ago looking for-"

"Yeah, I remember," he said with a quick glance at her nicely tanned legs. "You bought a digital radio."

"Right. The name is Amanda. If I remember correctly, I left you my phone number. I guess you lost it."

"Would you like to sit down?"

"Thank you." She sat quickly and took a french fry.

"I still have the number," he said. "In fact-"

"Don’t bother. I’m sure you’ve called several times. My answering machine is broken."

"No. I haven’t called, yet. But I was thinking about it."

"Sure," she said, almost giggling. She had perfect teeth, which she delighted in showing him. Her hair was in a ponytail. She was too cute and too put together to be a jogger. And there was no evidence of sweat on her face.

"So what are you doing here?" he asked.

"On my way to aerobics."

"You’re eating french fries before you do aerobics?"

"Why not?"

"I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem right."

"I need the carbohydrates."

"I see. Do you smoke before aerobics?"

"Sometimes. Is that why you haven’t called? Because I smoke?"

"Not really." "Come on, Nicholas. I can take it." She was still smiling and trying to be coy.

"Okay, it crossed my mind."

"Figures. Have you ever dated a smoker?"

"Not that I recall."

"Why not?"

"Maybe I don’t want to breathe it secondhand, I don’t know. It’s not something I spend time worrying about."

"Have you ever smoked?" She nibbled on another fry and watched him intently.

"Sure. Every kid tries it. When I was ten, I stole a pack of Camels from a plumber working around our house. Smoked them all in two days, got sick, and thought I was dying of cancer." He took a bite of his burger.

"And that was it?"

He chewed and thought it over before saying, "I think so. I can’t remember another cigarette. Why did you start?"

"Stupid. I’m trying to quit."

"Good. You’re too young."

"Thanks. And let me guess. When I quit, you’ll give me a call, right?"

"I may call you anyway."

"I’ve heard this before," she said, all toothy and teasing. She took a long drink from her straw, then said, "Can I ask what you’re doing here?"

"Eating a Whopper. And you?"

"I’ve told you. I’m headed to the gym."

"Right. I was just passing through, had some business downtown, got hungry."

"Why do you work in a Computer Hut?"

"You mean, like, why am I wasting my life working for minimum wage in a mall?"

"No, but close."

"I’m a student."

"Where?"

"Nowhere. I’m between schools."

"Where was the last school?"

"North Texas State."

"Where’s the next one?"

"Probably Southern Mississippi."

"What are you studying?"

"Computers. You ask a lot of questions."

"But they’re easy ones, aren’t they?"

"I suppose. Where do you work?"

"I don’t. I just divorced a rich man. No kids. I’m twenty-eight, single, and would like to stay that way, but a date every now and then would be nice. Why don’t you give me a call?"