The Runaway Jury

"How rich?"

She laughed at this, then checked her watch. "I need to go. My class starts in ten minutes." She was on her feet, getting her bag but leaving her tray. "I’ll see you around." She drove off in a small BMW.

THE REST of the sick folks were hastily cleared from the panel, and by 3 P.M. the number was down to 159. Judge Harkin ordered a fifteen-minute recess, and when he returned to the bench he announced they were entering into a different phase of jury selection. He delivered a strong lecture on civic responsibility, and practically dared anyone to claim a nonmedical hardship. The first attempt was by a harried corporate executive who sat in the witness chair and softly explained to the Judge, the two lawyers, and the court reporter that he worked eighty hours a week for a large company that was losing lots of money, and any time away from the office would be disastrous. The Judge instructed him to return to his seat and await further directions.

The second attempt was by a middle-aged woman who operated an unlicensed day care center in her home. "I keep kids, Your Honor," she whispered, fighting back tears. "It’s all I can do. I collect two hundred dollars a week, and I barely get by. If I have to serve on this jury, then I’ll have to hire a stranger to keep the kids. Their parents won’t like this, plus I can’t afford to hire anyone. I’ll go busted."

The prospective jurors watched with great interest as she walked down the aisle, past her row, and out of the courtroom. Her story must’ve been a good one. The harried corporate executive fumed.

By five-thirty, eleven people had been excused, and sixteen others had been sent back to their seats after failing to sound sufficiently pitiful. The Judge instructed Gloria Lane to pass out another, lengthier questionnaire, and told the remaining jurors to have it answered by nine in the morning. He dismissed them, with firm warnings against discussing the case with strangers.

Rankin Fitch was not in the courtroom when it adjourned Monday afternoon. He was in his office down the street. There was no record of any Nicholas Easter at North Texas State. The blonde had recorded their little chat at Burger King, and Fitch had listened to it twice. It had been his decision to send her in for a chance meeting. The meeting was risky, but it worked. She was now on a plane back to Washington. Her answering machine in Biloxi was on and would remain so until after the jury was selected. If Easter decided to call, something Fitch doubted, he wouldn’t be able to reach her.

Chapter Four

It asked questions like, Do you now smoke cigarettes? And if so, how many packs a day? And if so, how long have you smoked? And if so, do you want to stop? Have you ever smoked cigarettes as a habit? Has any member of your family, or someone you know well, suffered any disease or illness directly associated with smoking cigarettes? If so, who? (Space provided below. Please give person’s name, nature of disease or illness, and state whether or not the person was successfully treated.) Do you believe smoking causes (a) lung cancer; (b) heart disease; (c) high blood pressure; (d) none of the above; (e) all of the above?

Page three held the weightier matters: State your opinion on the issue of tax dollars being used to fund medical care for smoking-related health problems. State your opinion on the issue of tax dollars being used to subsidize tobacco farmers. State your opinion on the issue of banning smoking in all public buildings. What rights do you think smokers should have? Large empty spaces were available for these answers.

Page four listed the names of the seventeen lawyers who were officially attorneys of record, then it listed the names of eighty more who happened to be in some related practice with the first seventeen. Do you personally know any of these lawyers? Have you ever been represented by any of these lawyers? Have you ever been involved in any legal matter with any of these lawyers?

No. No. No. Nicholas made quick check marks.

Page five listed the names of potential witnesses, sixty-two people including Celeste Wood, the widow and plaintiff. Do you know any of these people? No.

He mixed another cup of instant coffee and added two packs of sugar. He’d spent an hour with these questions last night, and another hour had already passed this morning. The sun was barely up. Breakfast had been a banana and a stale bagel. He ate a small bite of the bagel, thought about the last question, then answered it with a pencil in a neat, almost tedious hand-all caps printed, because his cursive was ragged and barely legible. And he knew that before dark today an entire committee of handwriting experts on both sides would be poring over his words, not caring so much about what he said but more about how he formed his letters. He wanted to appear neat and thoughtful, intelligent and open-minded, capable of hearing with both ears and deciding matters fairly, an arbitrator they would clamor for.

He’d read three books on the ins and outs of handwriting analysis.

He flipped back to the tobacco subsidy question because it was a tough one. He had an answer read because he’d given much thought to the issue, and he wanted to write it clearly. Or maybe vaguely. Maybe in such a way that he wouldn’t betray his feelings, yet wouldn’t scare either side.

Many of these same questions had been used in the Cimmino case last year in Allentown, Pennsylvania. Nicholas had been David then, David Lancaster, a part-time film student with a genuine dark beard and fake horn-rimmed glasses who worked in a video store. He’d copied the questionnaire before turning it in on the second day of jury selection. It was a similar case, but with a different widow and a different tobacco company, and though there’d been a hundred lawyers involved, they were all different from this bunch. Only Fitch remained the same.

Nicholas/David had made the first two cuts then, but was four rows away when the panel was seated. He shaved his beard, ditched the pharmacy eyeglasses, and left town a month later.

The folding card table vibrated slightly as he wrote. This was his dinette-the table and three mismatched chairs. The tiny den to his right was furnished with a flimsy rocker, a TV mounted on a wooden crate, and a dusty sofa he’d purchased at a flea market for fifteen dollars. He probably could have afforded to rent some nicer pieces, but renting required forms and left a trail. There were people out there practically digging through his garbage to find out who he was.

He thought of the blonde and wondered where she might turn up today, no doubt with a cigarette close at hand and an eagerness to draw him into another banal chat about smoking. The idea of calling her hadn’t crossed his mind, but the question of which side she worked for was quite intriguing. Probably the tobacco companies, because she was exactly the type of agent Fitch liked to use.

Nicholas knew from his studies of the law that it was highly unethical for the blonde, or any other hireling for that matter, to directly approach a potential juror. He also knew that Fitch had enough money to make the blonde disappear from here, without a trace, only to surface at the next trial as a redhead with a different brand and an interest in horticulture. Some things were impossible to uncover.

The one bedroom was consumed almost entirely with a king-size mattress, lying directly on the floor with nothing under it, another purchase from the flea market. A series of cardboard boxes served as the chest of drawers. Clothing littered the floor. It was a temporary home, with the look of a place one might use for a month or two before leaving town in the middle of the night; which was exactly what he had in mind. He’d lived there for six months already, and the apartment number was his official address, at least the one used when he registered to vote and obtained his Mississippi driver’s license. He had nicer quarters four miles away, but couldn’t run the risk of being seen there.