The Runaway Jury

Though the Hulics longed for a jet, a small cute one with leather seats and two pilots, they were temporarily stuck with an old twin-engine Cessna, which Cal could fly if the sun was up and the clouds were gone. He wouldn't dare fly it at night, especially to a crowded place like Miami, so they boarded a commuter flight at the Gulfport Municipal Airport and flew to Atlanta. From there they flew to Miami International, first class, with Stella knocking down two martinis and a glass of wine in less than an hour. It had been a long week. Her nerves were ragged from the stress of civic service.



They poured their luggage into a cab and headed for Miami Beach, where they checked into a new Sheraton.



Marlee followed them. She'd sat behind them on the commuter, and she'd flown coach from Atlanta. Her cab waited as she loitered about the lobby to make sure they were checked in. She then found a room a mile down the beach at a resort hotel. She waited until almost eleven, Friday night, before she called.



Stella had been tired and simply wanted a drink and dinner in the room. Several drinks. She'd shop tomorrow, but for now she needed liquids. When the phone rang, she was flat on the bed, barely conscious. Cal, clad only in drooping boxers, grabbed the phone. "Hello."



"Yes, Mr. Hulic," came the very crisp, professional voice of a young lady. "You need to be careful."



"Say what?"



"You're being followed." Cal rubbed his red eyes. "Who is this?"



"Listen carefully please. Some men are watching your wife. They're here in Miami. They know you took flight 4476 from Biloxi to Atlanta, flight 533 on Delta to Miami, and they know exactly which room you're in now. They're watching every move."



Cal looked at the phone and slapped himself lightly on the forehead. "Wait a minute. I-"



"And they'll probably wire your phones tomorrow," she added helpfully. "So, please be very careful."



"Who are these guys?" he asked loudly, and Stella perked up slightly. She managed to swing her bare feet onto the floor and focus on her husband through foggy eyes.



"They're agents hired by the tobacco companies," was the reply. "And they're vicious."



The young lady hung up. Cal again looked at the receiver, then looked at his wife, a pathetic sight. She was reaching for the cigarettes. "What is it?" she demanded with a thick tongue, and Cal repeated every word.



"Oh my god!" she shrieked and walked to the table by the TV where she clutched a wine bottle and poured another glass. "Why are they after me?" she asked, falling into a chair and spilling cheap cabernet on her hotel bathrobe. "Why me?"



"She didn't say they were gonna kill you," he explained, with a slight trace of regret.



"Why are they following me?" She was near tears.



"I don't know, dammit," Cal growled as he took another beer from the mini-bar. They drank in silence for a few minutes, neither wanting to look at the other, both bewildered.



Then, the phone rang again and she let out a yelp. Cal took the receiver, slowly said, "Hello."



"Hi, it's me again," came the same voice, this time quite merry. "Something I forgot to mention. Don't call the cops or anything. These guys are doing nothing illegal. It's best just to pretend as if nothing is wrong, okay?"



"Who are you?" he asked.



"Bye." And she was gone.



LISTING FOODS owned not one but three jets, one of which was dispatched early Saturday morning to collect Mr. Lonnie Shaver and fly him to Charlotte, alone. His wife had been unable to find a baby-sitter for the three kids. The pilots greeted him warmly and offered him coffee and fruit before takeoff.



Ken met him at the airport in a company van with a company driver, and fifteen minutes later they arrived at the SuperHouse headquarters in suburban Charlotte. Lonnie was greeted by Ben, the other pal from the first meeting in Biloxi, and together Ben and Ken gave Lonnie a quick tour of their corporate center. The building was new, a one-story brick with lots of glass and completely indistinguishable from a dozen others they'd passed on the drive from the airport. The hallways were wide and tiled and spotless; the offices were sterile and filled with technology. Lonnie could almost hear the sound of money being printed.



They shared coffee with George Teaker, CEO, in his large office with a view of a small courtyard filled with plastic greenery. Teaker was youthful, energetic, clad in denim (his usual Saturday office dress, he explained). On Sundays he wore a jogging suit. He fed Lonnie the party line-the company was growing like crazy and they wanted him on board. Then Teaker was off to a meeting.



In a small, white boardroom with no windows, Lonnie was placed at a table with coffee and doughnuts before him. Ben disappeared, but Ken stuck close as the lights dimmed and an image appeared on the wall. It was a thirty-minute video about SuperHouse-its brief history, its current position in the market, its ambitious growth plans. And its people, the "real assets."



According to the script, SuperHouse planned to increase both gross sales and number of stores by fifteen percent a year for the next six years. Profits would be stunning.



The lights came on, and an earnest young man with a name that was quickly forgotten appeared and took a position across the table. He was a benefits specialist, and had all the answers to all the questions about health care, pension plans, vacations, holidays, sick leave, employee stock options. Everything was covered in one of the packages on the table before Lonnie, so he could mull over it later.



After a long lunch with Ben and Ken in a swanky suburban restaurant, Lonnie went back to the boardroom for a few more meetings. One covered the training program they were contemplating for him. The next, presented by video, outlined the structure of the company in relation to its parent and to its competitors. Boredom hit hard. For a man who'd spent the entire week sitting on his rear listening to lawyers haggle with experts, this was no way to spend a Saturday afternoon. Excited though he was about his visit and its prospects, he suddenly needed fresh air.



Ken, of course, knew this, and the moment the video ended he suggested they go play golf, a sport Lonnie had yet to try. Ken, of course, knew this too, so he suggested they get some sunshine anyway. Ken's BMW was blue and spotless, and he drove it with great care into the countryside, past manicured farms and estates and tree-lined roads until they reached the country club.



For a black guy from a lower-middle-class family in Gulfport, the thought of stepping foot in a country club was intimidating. Lonnie at first resented the idea, and vowed to leave if he saw no other black faces. On second thought, however, he was somewhat flattered that his new employers would think so highly of him. They were really nice guys, genuine and seemingly anxious for him to adjust to their corporate culture. There'd been no mention of money yet, but how could it be less than he was earning now?



They stepped into the Club Lounge, a sprawling room of leather chairs, stuffed game on the walls, and a cloud of blue cigar smoke hanging near the pitched ceiling. A serious boy room. At a large table near the window, with the eighteenth green just below, they found George Teaker, now in golf attire, having a drink with two black gentlemen, also nicely dressed and apparently not long off the links. All three stood and warmly greeted Lonnie, who was relieved to see kindred spirits. In fact, a huge weight left his chest, and he was suddenly ready for a drink, though he was careful with alcohol. The burly black man was Morris Peel, a loud and hearty soul who smiled constantly and introduced the other, a Percy Kellum from Atlanta. Both men were in their mid-forties, and as the first round of drinks was ordered, by Peel, he explained that he was a vice president with Listing Foods, the parent company in New York, and that Kellum was a regional something or other for Listing.



No pecking order was established; none was needed. It was obvious that Peel, from the parent in New York, ranked higher than Teaker, who carried the title of CEO but only ran a division. Kellum was positioned somewhere further down the pole. Ken, even lower. And Lonnie was just happy to be there. Over the second drink, with the formalities and polite chitchat out of the way, Peel, with great relish and humor, offered his biography. Sixteen years earlier, he had been the first black mid-level manager to enter the world of Listing Foods, and he had been a pain in the ass. He'd been hired as a token, not as a talent, and he'd been forced to claw his way upward. Twice he'd sued the company, and twice he'd won. And once the boys upstairs realized he was determined to join them, and that he had the brains to do so, they accepted him as a person. It still wasn't easy, but he had their respect. Teaker, now on his third scotch, leaned in and offered, confidentially of course, that Peel was being groomed for the big job. "You could be talking to a future CEO," he said to Lonnie. "One of the first black CEO's of a Fortune 500 company."



Because of Peel, Listing Foods had implemented an aggressive program of recruiting and promoting black managers. This is where Lonnie would fit in. Hadley Brothers was a decent company, but quite old-fashioned and quite Southern, and Listing was not surprised to find but a few blacks with more authority than floor sweepers.



For two hours, as darkness fell across the eighteenth green and a piano player sang in the lounge, they drank and talked and planned the future. Dinner was just down the hall, in a private dining room with a fireplace and a moosehead above the mantel. They ate thick steaks flavored with sauce and mushrooms. Lonnie slept that night in a suite on the third floor of the country club, and awoke to a splendid fairway view, and a slight hangover.



Only two brief meetings were planned for late Sunday morning. The first, again with Ken present, was a planning session with George Teaker, in a jogging suit, and fresh from a five-miler. "Best thing in the world for a hangover," he said. He wanted Lonnie to run the store in Biloxi under a new contract for a period of ninety days, after which they would evaluate his performance. Assuming everyone was pleased, and they certainly expected to be, then he would be transferred to a larger store, probably in the Atlanta area. A larger store meant more responsibility, and more compensation. After a year there, he would be reevaluated, and probably moved again. During this fifteen-month period, he would be required to spend at least one weekend each month in Charlotte in a management trainee program, one that was outlined in excruciating detail in a packet on the table.



Teaker finally finished, and ordered more black coffee.



The last guest was a wiry young black man with a bald head and a meticulous suit and tie. His name was Taunton, and he was a lawyer from New York, from Wall Street, actually. His firm represented Listing Foods, he explained gravely, and in fact, he worked on nothing but Listing's business. He was there to present a proposed contract of employment, a rather routine matter but nonetheless an important one. He handed Lonnie a document, only three or four pages, but it seemed much heavier after having traveled from Wall Street. Lonnie was impressed beyond words.



"Look it over," Taunton said, tapping his chin with a designer pen. "And we'll talk next week. It's fairly standard. The compensation paragraph has several blanks. We'll fill them in later."



Lonnie glanced at the first page, then placed it with the other papers and packets and memos in a pile that was growing by the moment. Taunton whipped out a legal pad and seemed to prepare himself for a nasty cross-examination. "Just a few questions," he said.



Lonnie had a painful flashback to the courtroom in Biloxi where the lawyers always had "just a few more questions."



"Sure," Lonnie said, glancing at his watch. He couldn't help it.



"No criminal record of any sort?"



"No. Just a few speeding tickets."



"No lawsuits pending against you personally?"



"No."



"Any against your wife?"



"No."



"Have you ever filed for bankruptcy?"



"No."



"Ever been arrested?"



"No."



"Indicted?"



"No."



Taunton flipped a page. "Have you, in your capacity as a store manager, ever been involved in litigation?"



"Yeah, lemme see. About four years ago, an old man slipped and fell on a wet floor. He sued. I gave a deposition."



"Did it go to trial?" Taunton asked with great interest. He had reviewed the court file, had a copy of it in his thick briefcase, and knew every detail of the old man's claim.



"No. The insurance company settled out of court. I think they paid him twenty thousand or so."



It was twenty-five thousand, and Taunton wrote this figure on his legal pad. The script called for Teaker to speak at this point. "Damned trial lawyers. They're a blight on society."



Taunton looked at Lonnie, then at Teaker, then said defensively, "I'm not a trial lawyer."



"Oh, I know that," Teaker said. "You're one of the good guys. It's those greedy ambulance chasers I hate."



"Do you know what we paid last year for liability insurance coverage?" Taunton asked Lonnie, as if he might be able to provide an intelligent guess. He just shook his head.



"Listing paid over twenty million."



"Just to keep the sharks away," Teaker added.



There was a dramatic pause in the conversation, or at least a pause aimed at drama as Taunton and Teaker bit their lips and showed their disgust and seemed to appear to contemplate the money wasted for protection against lawsuits. Then Taunton looked at something on his legal pad, glanced at Teaker, and asked, "I don't suppose you've discussed the trial, have you?"



Teaker looked surprised. "I don't think it's necessary. Lonnie's on board. He's one of us."



Taunton appeared to ignore this. "This tobacco trial in Biloxi has serious implications throughout the economy, especially for companies like ours," he said to Lonnie, who nodded gently and tried to understand how the trial might affect anyone other than Pynex. Teaker said to Taunton, "I'm not sure you're supposed to discuss it."



Taunton continued, "It's okay. I know trial procedure. You don't mind, do you, Lonnie? I mean, we can trust you on this, can't we?"



"Sure. I won't say a word."



"If the plaintiff wins this case and there's a big verdict, it will open the floodgates of tobacco litigation. Trial lawyers will go crazy. They'll bankrupt the tobacco companies."



"We make a lot of money off tobacco sales, Lonnie," Teaker said with perfect timing.



"Then they'll probably sue dairy companies claiming cholesterol kills people." Taunton's voice was rising and he was leaning forward across the table. The issue had struck a nerve. "There has to be an end to these trials. The tobacco industry has never lost one of them. I think their record is something like fifty-five wins, no losses. Folks on juries have always understood that you smoke at your own risk."



"Lonnie understands this," Teaker said, almost defensively.



Taunton took a deep breath. "Sure. Sorry if I said too much. It's just that this Biloxi trial has a lot at stake."



"No problem," Lonnie said. And he really wasn't bothered by the talk. Taunton was, after all, a lawyer, and he certainly knew the law, and perhaps it was okay if he spoke of the trial in broad terms without going into specifics. Lonnie was satisfied. He was on board. No problem out of him.



Taunton was suddenly all smiles as he packed away his notes and promised to give Lonnie a call midweek. The meeting was over and Lonnie was a free man. Ken drove him to the airport where the same Lear with the same pleasant pilots sat idling and ready.



THE WEATHERMAN promised a chance of afternoon showers, and that was all Stella wanted to hear. Cal insisted there wasn't a cloud to be seen, but she wouldn't take a look. She pulled the shades and watched movies until noon. She ordered a grilled cheese and two bloody marys, then slept for a while with the door chained and a chair propped against it. Cal was off to the beach, specifically a topless one he'd heard about but never got the chance to visit on account of his wife. With her safely boarded up inside their room on the tenth floor, he was free to roam the sands and admire young flesh. He sipped a beer at a thatched-roof bar and thought how wonderful the trip had become. She was afraid to be seen, thus the credit cards were safe for the weekend.



They caught an early flight Sunday morning and returned to Biloxi. Stella was hungover and weary from a weekend of being watched. She was apprehensive about Monday and the courtroom.