The Runaway Jury

After almost twenty years of shrimping, Henry Vu seldom slept past four-thirty. He got his hot tea early on Friday, and with the Colonel gone he sat alone at the table and scanned a newspaper. Nicholas soon joined him. As he often did, Nicholas hurried through the pleasantries and asked about Vu's daughter at Harvard. She was the source of immense pride, and Henry's eyes danced when he told of her last letter.



Others came and went. The conversation turned to Vietnam and the war. Nicholas confided in Henry for the first time that his father had been killed there in 1972. It wasn't true, but Henry was deeply touched by the story. Then, when they were alone, Nicholas asked, "So what do you think about this trial?"



Henry took a long drink of heavily creamed tea, and licked his lips. "Is it okay to talk about it?"



"Sure. It's just me and you. Everybody's talking, Henry. That's the nature of a jury. Everybody but Herman."



"What does everybody else think?"



"I think most of us have an open mind. The most important thing is that we stick together. It's crucial that this jury reach a verdict, preferably unanimous, but at least a vote of nine to three one way or the other. A hung jury would be disastrous."



Henry took another drink and pondered this. He understood English perfectly, could speak it well though with an accent, but like most laymen, natives and immigrants alike, had little grasp of the law. "Why?" he asked. He trusted Nicholas, as did virtually all the jurors, because Nicholas had studied the law and seemed incredibly adept at comprehending facts and issues the rest of them missed.



"Very simple. This is the mother of all tobacco trials-Gettysburg, Iwo Jima, Armageddon. This is where the two sides have met to unload their heaviest ammo. There's gotta be a winner, and there's gotta be a loser. Clear and decisive. The issue of whether tobacco companies are to be held liable for cigarettes has to be settled right here. By us. We've been chosen, and it's up to us to reach a verdict."



"I see," Henry said, nodding, still confused.



"The worst thing we can do is hang ourselves, split down the middle and have a mistrial declared."



"Why would that be so bad?"



"Because it's a cop-out. We'd simply be passing the buck to the next jury. If we get hung up and go home, it'll cost each side millions of dollars because they'll have to come back in two years and replay the whole thing. Same judge, same lawyers, same witnesses, everything will be the same but the jury. We will, in effect, be saying that we didn't have enough sense to reach a decision, but the next jury from Harrison County will be smarter."



Henry leaned to his right a bit, in the direction of Nicholas. "What're you gonna do?" he asked, just as Millie Dupree and Mrs. Gladys Card entered giggling and went for the coffee. They chatted with the guys for a moment, then left to watch Katie on the "Today Show." They just loved Katie.



"What're you gonna do?" Henry whispered again, eyes on the door.



"I don't know right now, and it's not important. The important thing is for us to stick together. All of us."



"You're right," Henry said.



DURING THE COURSE of the trial, Fitch had developed the habit of keeping himself busy at his desk during the hours before court while staring at the phone. His eyes seldom left it. He knew she would call Friday morning, though he had no idea what scheme or ploy or heart-stopping prank she'd be up to.



At eight sharp, Konrad interrupted on the intercom with the simple words "It's her."



Fitch lunged for the phone. "Hello," he said pleasantly.



"Hey, Fitch. Look, guess who's bothering Nicholas now?"



He stifled a groan and closed his eyes hard. "I don't know," he said.



"I mean, this guy is really giving Nicholas a hard time. We might have to bump him."



"Who?" Fitch pleaded.



"Lonnie Shaver."



"Oh! Damn! No! You can't do that!"



"Gee, Fitch."



"Don't do it, Marlee! Dammit!"



She paused to let him despair for a second. "You must be fond of Lonnie."



"You gotta stop this, Marlee, okay? This is getting us nowhere." Fitch was very aware of how desperate he sounded, but he was no longer in control.



"Nicholas has to have harmony on his jury. That's all. Lonnie has become a thorn."



"Don't do it, please. Let's talk about this."



"We're talking, Fitch, but not for long."



Fitch took a deep breath, then another. "The game is almost over, Marlee. You've had your fun, now what do you want?"



"Got a pen?"



"Sure."



"There's a building on Fulton Street, Number 120. White brick, two stories, an old building chopped into tiny offices. Upstairs, Number 16, belongs to me, for at least another month. It's not pretty, but that's where we'll meet."



"When?"



"In an hour. Just the two of us. I'll watch you come and go, and if I see any of your goons then I'll never speak to you again."



"Sure. Whatever."



"And I'll check you for bugs and mikes."



"There won't be any."



EVERY LAWYER on Cable's defense team held the opinion that Rohr had spent too much time with his scientists; nine full days in all. But with the first seven, the jury had at least been free to go home at night. The mood was vastly different now. The decision was made to pick their two best researchers, get them on the stand, and get them off as quickly as possible.



They had also made the decision to ignore the issue of nicotine addiction, a radical departure from the normal defense in cigarette cases. Cable and his crew had studied each of the sixteen previous trials. They had talked to many of the jurors who had decided those cases, and they were repeatedly told that the weakest part of the defense came when the experts put forth all sorts of fancy theories to prove that nicotine was in fact not addictive. Everyone knew the opposite to be true. It was that simple.



Don't try to convince jurors otherwise.



The decision required Fitch's approval, which he grudgingly gave.



The first witness Friday morning was a shaggy-headed nerd with a thin red beard and heavy bifocals. The beauty show was apparently over. His name was Dr. Gunther, and it was his opinion that cigarette smoking really didn't cause cancer after all. Only ten percent of smokers get cancer, so what about the other ninety percent? Not surprisingly, Gunther had a stack of relevant studies and reports, and couldn't wait to stand before the jury with a tripod and a pointer and explain in breathless detail his latest findings.



Gunther was not there to prove anything. His job was to contradict Dr. Hilo Kilvan and Dr. Robert Bronsky, experts for the plaintiff, and to muddy the waters so there would be considerable doubt in the minds of the jurors about just how deadly smoking really was. He couldn't prove smoking didn't cause lung cancer, and he argued that no amount of research had proved that smoking absolutely does cause it. "More research is needed," he said every ten minutes.



ON THE CHANCE that she might be watching, Fitch walked the last block to 120 Fulton Street, a pleasant stroll along the shaded sidewalk with leaves dropping gently from above. The building was in the old part of town, four blocks from the Gulf, in a neat line of carefully painted two-stories, most of which seemed to be offices. Jose was told to wait three streets over.



No chance of a body mike or a wire. She'd broken him of that habit at their last meeting, on the pier. Fitch was alone, wireless, mikeless, bugless, without a camera or an agent nearby. He felt liberated. He would have to survive by brains and wit, and he welcomed the challenge.



He climbed the sagging wooden stairs, stood before her unmarked office door, took notice of the other unmarked doors in the cramped hallway, and gently knocked. "Who is it?" came her voice.



"Rankin Fitch," he answered just loud enough to be heard.



A dead bolt rattled from the inside, then Marlee appeared in a gray sweatshirt and blue jeans, no smile at all, no greeting of any sort. She closed the door behind Fitch, locked it, and walked to one side of a rented folding table. Fitch took the measure of the room, a cubbyhole with no window, one door, peeling paint, three chairs, and a table. "Nice place," he said, looking at the brown water spots on the ceiling.



"It's clean, Fitch. No phones for you to tap, no vents for cameras, no wires in the walls. I'll check it every morning, and if I find your trail, then I'll simply walk out the door and never come back."



"You have a low impression of me."



"It's one you deserve."



Fitch looked again at the ceiling, then the floor. "I like the place."



"It'll serve its purpose."



"Its purpose being?"



Her purse was the only item on the table. She removed the same sensor-scan from it, and aimed it at Fitch from head to toe.



"Come on, Marlee," he protested. "I promised."



"Yeah right. You're clean. Have a seat," she said, nodding at one of two chairs on his side of the table. Fitch shook the folding chair, a rather thin job that might not meet his challenge. He lowered himself onto it, then leaned forward with his elbows on the table, which was also not too stable, so he was perched precariously at both ends. "Are we ready to talk money?" he asked with a nasty grin.



"Yes. It's a simple deal, really, Fitch. You wire me a bunch of money, and I promise to deliver you a verdict."



"I think we should wait until after the verdict."



"You know I'm not that stupid."



The folding table was three feet wide. Both were leaning on it, their faces not far apart. Fitch often used his bulk and his nasty eyes and his sinister goatee to physically intimidate those around him, especially the younger lawyers in the firms he hired. If Marlee was intimidated, she certainly didn't show it. Fitch admired her poise. She stared straight into his eyes, never blinking, a most difficult task.



"Then there are no guarantees," he said. "Juries are unpredictable. We could give you the money-"



"Drop it, Fitch. You and I both know the money will be paid before the verdict."



"How much money?"



"Ten million."



He managed a guttural discharge, as if choking on a golf ball, then he coughed loudly as his elbows flew up and his eyes rolled and his fat jowls shook in utter, sheer disbelief. "You must be kidding," he managed to say in a raspy voice, glancing around for a cup of water or a bottle of pills or anything to help him through this horrible shock.



She watched the show calmly, never blinking, never taking her eyes off him. "Ten million, Fitch. It's a bargain. And it's nonnegotiable."



He coughed again, his face slightly redder. Then he gathered his composure and thought of a response. He'd guessed in the millions, and he knew he'd sound foolish trying to negotiate down as if his client couldn't afford it. She probably had the latest quarterly reports for each of the Big Four.



"How much is in The Fund?" she asked, and Fitch's eyes instinctively narrowed. As far as he could tell, she hadn't blinked yet.



"The what?" he asked. No one knew about The Fund!



"The Fund, Fitch. Don't play games with me. I know all about your little slush fund. I want the ten million wired from The Fund account to a bank in Singapore."



"I don't think I can do that."



"You can do anything you want, Fitch. Stop playing games. Let's cut the deal now and get on with our business."



"What if we wire five now and five after the verdict?"



"Forget it, Fitch. It's ten million now. I don't like the idea of tracking you down and trying to collect the last installment after the trial. For some reason, I think I'd waste a lot of time."



"When do we wire it?"



"I don't care. Just make sure it's received before the jury gets the case. Otherwise the deal is off."



"What happens if the deal is off?"



"One of two things. Either Nicholas will hang the jury, or hell send it nine to three for the plaintiff."



The veneer cracked above the eyebrows, two long wrinkles pinched together as he absorbed these predictions, delivered so matter-of-factly. Fitch had no doubts about what Nicholas could do because Marlee had no doubts. He slowly rubbed his eyes. The game was over. No more exaggerated reactions to anything she said. No more feigned disbelief at her demands. She was in control.



"It's a deal," he said. "We'll wire the money, pursuant to your instructions. I must warn you, though, that wires can take time."



"I know more about wiring money than you do, Fitch. I'll explain precisely how I want it done. Later."



"Yes ma'am."



"So we have a deal?"



"Yes," he said, extending his hand across the table. She shook it limply. Both smiled at the absurdity. Two crooks shaking hands over an agreement no court of law could enforce because no court of law would ever know about it.



BEVERLY MONK'S APARTMENT was a fifth-floor loft in a dingy Village warehouse. She shared it with four other starving actresses. Swanson followed her to a corner coffee shop and waited until she had settled at a window table with an espresso, a bagel, and a newspaper with want ads. With his back to the other tables, he approached her and asked, "Excuse me. Are you Beverly Monk?"



She looked up, startled, and said, "Yes. Who are you?"



"A friend of Claire Clement's," he said as he quickly slid into the chair across from her.



"Have a seat," she said. "What do you want?" She was nervous but the shop was crowded. She was safe, she thought. He looked nice enough.



"Information."



"You called me yesterday, didn't you?"



"Yes, I did. I lied, said I was Jeff Kerr. I'm not."



"Then who are you?"



"Jack Swanson. I work for some lawyers in Washington."



"Is Claire in trouble?"



"None whatsoever."



"Then what's all the fuss?"



Swanson gave a quick version of Claire's summons for jury service in a huge trial and his duty to track down the backgrounds of certain prospective jurors. This time it was a contaminated landfill case in Houston where billions were at stake, thus the expense of digging so deeply.



Swanson and Fitch were gambling on two things. The first was Beverly's slow recognition of Jeff Kerr's name on the phone yesterday. The second was her assertion that she hadn't talked to Claire in four years. They were assuming both to be genuine.



"We'll pay for information," Swanson said.



"How much?"



"A thousand dollars cash to tell me everything you know about Claire Clement." Swanson quickly removed an envelope from his coat pocket and laid it on the table.



"Are you sure she's in no trouble?" asked Beverly, staring at the gold mine before her.



"I'm sure. Take the money. If you haven't seen her in four or five years, why should you care?"



Good point, thought Beverly. She grabbed the envelope and stuck it in her purse. "There's not much to tell."



"How long did you work with her?"



"Six months."



"How long did you know her?"



"Six months. I was working as a waitress at Mulligan's when she started. We got to be friends. Then I left town and drifted east. I called her once or twice when I lived in New Jersey, then we sorta just forgot about each other."



"Did you know Jeff Kerr?"



"No. She wasn't dating him at the time. She told me about him later, after I'd left town."



"Did she have other friends, male and female?"



"Yeah, sure. Don't ask me to name them. I left Lawrence five, maybe six years ago. I really don't remember when I left."



"You can't name any of her friends?"



Beverly drank some espresso and thought for a minute. Then she rattled off the names of three people who'd worked with Claire. One had been checked out with no results. One was being tracked at the moment. One had not been found.



"Where did Claire go to college?"



"Somewhere in the Midwest."



"You don't know the name of the school?"



"I don't think so. Claire was very quiet about her past. You got the impression something bad happened back there, and she didn't talk about it. I never knew. I thought maybe it was a bad romance, maybe even a marriage, or maybe a bad family, rotten childhood, or something. But I never knew."



"Did she discuss it with anybody?"



"Not to my knowledge."



"Do you know her hometown?"



"She said she moved around a lot. Again, I didn't ask a lot of questions."



"Was she from the Kansas City area?"



"I don't know."



"Are you sure her real name was Claire Clement?"



Beverly withdrew and frowned. "You think maybe it wasn't?"



"We have reason to believe she was someone else before she arrived in Lawrence, Kansas. Do you remember anything about another name?"



"Wow. I just assumed she was Claire. Why would she change her name?"



"We'd love to know." Swanson removed a small notepad from a pocket and studied a checklist. Beverly was another dead end.



"Did you ever go to her apartment?"



"Once or twice. We'd cook and watch movies. She didn't party much, but she invited me over with friends."



"Anything unusual about her apartment?"



"Yeah. It was very nice, a modern condo, well furnished. It was obvious she had money from sources other than Mulligan's. I mean, we got paid three bucks an hour plus tips."



"So she had money?"



"Yeah. A lot more than we did. But, again, she was very secretive. Claire was a casual friend and a fun person to be around. You just didn't ask a lot of questions."



Swanson pressed her on other details and came up dry. He thanked her for her help and she thanked him for the cash, and as he was leaving she offered to make a few calls. It was an obvious solicitation for more money. Swanson said fine, but then cautioned her about revealing what she was doing.



"Look, I'm an actress, okay. This is a piece of cake."



He left her a business card with his Biloxi hotel number written on the back.



HOPPY THOUGHT Mr. Cristano was a bit too harsh. But then, the situation was deteriorating, according to the mysterious folks in Washington whom Mr. Cristano answered to. There was discussion at Justice about simply aborting the whole scheme and sending Hoppy's case on to the federal grand jury.



If Hoppy couldn't convince his own wife, how the hell was he supposed to influence an entire jury?



They sat in the back of the long black Chrysler and drove along the Gulf toward nowhere in particular but Mobile in general. Nitchman drove and Napier rode shotgun and both managed to act completely oblivious to the mauling of Hoppy in the backseat.



"When do you see her again?" Cristano asked.



"Tonight, I think."



"The time has come, Hoppy, for you to tell her the truth. Tell her what you've done, tell her everything."



Hoppy's eyes watered and his lip quivered as he stared at the tinted window and saw his wife's pretty eyes as he laid bare his soul. He cursed himself for his stupidity. If he had a gun he could almost shoot Todd Ringwald and Jimmy Hull Moke, but he could most definitely shoot himself. Maybe he'd take these three clowns out first, but, no doubt about it, Hoppy could blow his own brains out.



"I guess so," he mumbled.



"Your wife must become an advocate, Hoppy. Do you realize this? Millie Dupree has to be a force in that jury room. Since you've been unable to convince her with the merits, now you have to motivate her with the fear of seeing you go off to prison for five years. You have no choice."



At the moment, he'd rather face prison than face Millie with the truth. But he didn't have that choice. If he didn't convince her, she'd learn the truth and he'd go off to prison.



Hoppy started crying. He bit his lip and covered his eyes and tried to stop the damned tears, but he couldn't help it. As they drove peacefully along the highway, the only sounds for several miles were the pitiful whimperings of a broken man.



Only Nitchman couldn't conceal a tiny grin.