The Runaway Jury

Chapter Thirteen

The hellos and howdies were muffled Monday morning. The routine of gathering by the coffeepot and inspecting the doughnuts and rolls was growing tiresome, not so much from repetition but more from the burdensome mystery of not knowing how long this all might drag on. They broke into small groups, and recounted what happened during their freedom over the weekend. Most ran their errands and shopped and visited with family and went to church, and the humdrum took on new importance for people about to be confined. Herman was late so there were whispers about the trial, nothing important, just a general consensus that the plaintiff's case was sinking in a mire of charts and graphs and statistics. They all believed smoking caused lung cancer. They wanted new information.
Nicholas managed to isolate Angel Weese early in the morning. They had exchanged brief pleasantries throughout the trial, but had talked of nothing substantive. She and Loreen Duke were the only two black women on the jury, and oddly kept their distance from each other. Angel was slender and quiet, single, and worked for a beer distributor. She kept the permanent look of someone in silent pain, and she proved difficult to talk to.
Stella arrived late and looked like death; her eyes were red and puffy, her skin pale. Her hands shook as she poured coffee, and she went straight to the smoke room down the hall, where Jerry Fernandez and Poodle were chatting and flirting as they were now prone to do.
Nicholas was anxious to hear Stella's weekend report. "How about a smoke?" he said to Angel, the fourth official smoker on the jury.
"When did you start?" she asked with a rare smile.
"Last week. I'll quit when the trial's over." They left the jury room under the prying gaze of Lou Dell, and joined the others-Jerry and Poodle still talking; Stella stone-faced and teetering on the brink of a breakdown.
Nicholas bummed a Camel from Jerry, and lit it with a match. "Well, how was Miami?" he asked Stella.
She jerked her head toward him, startled, and said, "It rained." She bit her filter and inhaled fiercely. She didn't want to talk. The conversation lagged as they concentrated on their cigarettes. It was ten minutes before nine, time for the last hit of nicotine.
"I think I was followed this weekend," Nicholas said after a minute of silence.
The smoking continued without interruption, but the minds were working. "Say what?" Jerry asked.
"They followed me," he repeated and looked at Stella, whose eyes were wide and filled with fear. "Who?" asked Poodle.
"I don't know. It happened Saturday when I left my apartment and went to work. I saw a guy lurking near my car, and I saw him later at the mall. Probably some agent hired by the tobacco boys."
Stella's mouth dropped open and her jaw quivered. Gray smoke leaked from her nostrils. "Are you gonna tell the Judge?" she asked, holding her breath. It was a question she and Cal had fought over.
"No."
"Why not?" asked Poodle, only mildly curious.
"I don't know for certain, okay. I mean, I'm sure I was followed, but I don't know for sure who it was. What am I supposed to tell the Judge?"
"Tell him you were followed," said Jerry.
"Why would they follow you?" asked Angel.
"Same reason they're following all of us."
"I don't believe that," Poodle said.
Stella certainly believed it, but if Nicholas, the ex-law student, planned to keep it from the Judge, then so did she.
"Why are they following us?" Angel asked again, nervously.
"Because it's just what they do. The tobacco companies spent millions selecting us, and now they're spending even more to watch us."
"What are they looking for?"
"Ways to get to us. Friends we might talk to. Places we might go. They typically start gossip in the various communities where we live, little rumors about the deceased, bad things he did while he was alive. They're always looking for a weak spot. That's why they've never lost a jury trial."
"How do you know it's the tobacco company?" asked Poodle, lighting another one.
"I don't. But they have more money than the plaintiff. In fact, they have unlimited funds to fight these cases with."
Jerry Fernandez, always ready to help with a joke or assist in a gag, said, "You know, come to think of it, I remember seeing this strange little dude peeking around a corner at me this weekend. Saw him more than once." He glanced at Nicholas for approval, but Nicholas was watching Stella. Jerry winked at Poodle, but she didn't see.
Lou Dell knocked on the door.
NO PLEDGES or anthems Monday morning. Judge Harkin and the lawyers waited, ready to spring forward with unabashed patriotism at the slightest hint the jurors might be in the mood, but nothing happened. The jurors took their seats, already a bit tired it seemed and resigned to another long week of testimony. Harkin flashed them a warm welcoming smile, then proceeded with his patented monologue about unauthorized contact. Stella looked at the floor without a word. Cal was watching from the third row, present to give her support.
Scotty Mangrum rose and informed the court that the plaintiff would like to resume with the testimony of Dr. Hilo Kilvan, who was fetched from the rear somewhere and placed on the witness stand. He nodded politely at the jury. No one nodded back.
For Wendall Rohr and the plaintiff's team of lawyers, the weekend had brought no break in their labors. The trial itself presented enough challenges, but the distraction of the fax from MM on Friday had wrecked all pretense of order. They had traced its origin to a truck stop near Hattiesburg, and after accepting some cash, a clerk had given a weak description of a young woman, late twenties maybe early thirties, with dark hair tucked under a brown fishing cap and a face half-hidden behind large dark sunshades. She was short, but then maybe she was average. Maybe she was about five six or five seven. She was slender, that was for sure, but after all it had been before nine on a Friday morning, one of their busiest periods. She'd paid five bucks for a one-page fax to a number in Biloxi, a law office, which in itself seemed odd and thus remembered by the clerk. Most of their faxes dealt with fuel permits and special loads.
No sign of her vehicle, but then again the place was packed.
It was the collective opinion of the eight principal plaintiff's lawyers, a group with a combined total of 150 years of trial experience, that this was something new. Not a one could recall a single trial in which a person on the outside contacted the lawyers involved with hints of what the jury might do. They were unanimous in their belief that she, MM, would be back. And though they at first denied it, through the weekend they grudgingly arrived at the belief that she would probably ask for money. A deal. Money for a verdict.
They could not, however, muster the courage to plot a strategy to deal with her when she wanted to negotiate. Maybe later, but not now.
Fitch, on the other hand, thought of little else. The Fund currently had a balance of six and a half million dollars, with two of that budgeted for the remaining trial expenses. The money was quite liquid and very movable. He'd spent the weekend monitoring jurors and meeting with lawyers and listening to summaries from his jury people, and he'd spent time on the phone with D. Martin Jankle at Pynex. He'd been pleased with the results of the Ken and Ben show in Charlotte, and had been assured by George Teaker that Lonnie Shaver was a man they could trust. He'd even watched a secret video of the last meeting in which Taunton and Teaker had all but convinced Shaver to sign a pledge.
Fitch slept four hours Saturday and five Sunday, about average for him though sleep was difficult. He dreamed of the girl Marlee and of what she might bring him. This could be the easiest verdict yet.
He watched the opening ceremonies Monday from the viewing room with a jury consultant. The hidden camera had been working so well they had decided to try a better one, one with a larger lens and clearer picture. It was locked in the same briefcase and placed under the same table, and no one in the busy courtroom had a clue.
No Pledge of Allegiance, nothing out of the ordinary, but then Fitch had expected this. Surely Marlee would've called if something special was planned.
He listened as Dr. Hilo Kilvan resumed his testimony, and almost smiled to himself as the jurors seemed to dread it. His consultants and his lawyers were unanimous in the belief that the plaintiff's witnesses had yet to capture the jury. The experts were impressive with credentials and visual aids, but the tobacco defense had seen it all before.
The defense would be simple and subtle. Their doctors would argue strenuously that smoking does not cause lung cancer. Other impressive experts would argue people make informed choices about smoking. Their lawyers would argue that if cigarettes are allegedly so dangerous, then you smoke at your own risk.
Fitch had been through it many times before. He'd memorized the testimony. He'd suffered through the arguments of the lawyers. He'd sweated while the juries deliberated. He'd quietly celebrated the verdicts, but he'd never had the chance to purchase one.
CIGARETTES kill four hundred thousand Americans each year, according to Dr. Kilvan, and he had four large charts to prove it. It is the single deadliest product on the market, nothing else comes close. Except for guns, and they, of course, are not designed to be aimed and fired at people. Cigarettes are designed to be lit and puffed; thus they are used properly. They are deadly if used exactly as intended.
This point hit home with the jury, and it would not be forgotten. But by ten-thirty they were ready for the morning coffee and potty break. Judge Harkin recessed for fifteen minutes. Nicholas slipped a note to Lou Dell, who gave it to Willis, who happened to be awake for the moment. He took the note to the Judge. Easter wanted a private conference at noon, if possible. It was urgent.
NICHOLAS EXCUSED HIMSELF from lunch with the explanation that his stomach was queasy and he'd lost his appetite. He needed to visit the boys' room, he said, and he'd be back in a moment. No one cared. Most were leaving the table anyway to avoid being near Stella Hulic.
He cut through the narrow back hallways and entered the chambers where the Judge was waiting, alone with a cold sandwich. They greeted each other tensely. Nicholas carried a small brown leather handbag. "We need to talk," he said, sitting.
"Do the others know you're here?" Harkin asked. "No. But I need to be quick."
"Go." Harkin ate a corn chip and pushed his plate away.
"Three things. Stella Hulic, number four, front row, went to Miami this weekend, and she was followed by unknown persons believed to be working for the tobacco company."
His Honor stopped chewing. "How do you know?"
"I overheard a conversation this morning. She was trying to whisper this to another juror. Don't ask me how she knew she was being followed-I didn't hear all of it. But the poor woman is a wreck. Frankly, I think she had a coupla drinks before court this morning. Vodka, I'd say. Probably bloody marys."
"Keep going."
"Secondly, Frank Herrera, number seven, we talked about him last time, well his mind is made up and I'm afraid he's trying to influence other people."
"I'm listening."
"He came into this trial with a fixed opinion. I think he wanted to serve; he's retired military or something, probably bored to death, but he is very pro-defense and, well, he just worries me. I don't know what you do with jurors like that."
"Is he discussing the case?"
"Once, with me. Herman is very proud of his title of foreman, and he won't tolerate any talk about the trial."
"Good for him."
"But he can't monitor everything. And as you know, well, it's just human nature to gossip. Anyway, Herrera is poison."
"Okay. And third?"
Nicholas opened his leather bag and removed a videocassette. "Does this thing work?" he asked, nodding to a small-screened TV/VCR on a roller stand in the corner. "I think so. It did last week."
"May I?"
"Please."
Nicholas punched the ON button and inserted the tape. "You remember the guy I saw in court last week? The one who was following me?"
"Yes." Harkin stood and walked to within two feet of the TV screen. "I remember."
"Well, here he is." In black and white, a little fuzzy but certainly clear enough to distinguish, the door opened and the man entered Easter's apartment. He looked around anxiously, and for one very long second seemed to look in the precise direction of the camera, hidden in an air vent above the refrigerator. Nicholas stopped the video in full frontal shot of the man's face, and said, "That's him."
Judge Harkin repeated without breathing, "Yeah, that's him."
The tape continued with the man (Doyle) coming and going from view, taking pictures, leaning close to the computer, then leaving in less than ten minutes. The screen went black. "When did-" Harkin asked slowly, still staring.
"Saturday afternoon. I worked an eight-hour shift, and this guy broke in while I was on the job." Not entirely true, but Harkin would never know the difference. Nicholas had reprogrammed the video to reflect last Saturday's time and date in the lower right corner.
"Why do you-"
"I was robbed and beaten five years ago when I lived in Mobile, almost died. Happened during a break-in of my apartment. I'm careful about security, that's all."
And this made it all perfectly plausible; the existence of sophisticated surveillance equipment in a run-down apartment; the computers and cameras on a minimum wage salary. The man was terrified of violence. Everybody could understand that. "You want to see it again?"
"No. That's him."
Nicholas removed the tape and handed it to the Judge. "Keep it. I have another copy."
FITCH'S ROAST BEEF SANDWICH was interrupted when Konrad pecked on the door and uttered the words Fitch longed to hear: "The girl's on the phone."
He wiped his mouth and his goatee with the back of a hand, and grabbed the phone. "Hello."
"Fitch baby," she said. "It's me, Marlee."
"Yes dear."
"Don't know the guy's name, but he's the goon you sent into Easter's apartment on Thursday, the nineteenth, eleven days ago, at 4:52 P.M. to be exact." Fitch gasped for breath and coughed up specks of sandwich. He cursed silently and stood up straight. She continued, "It was just after I gave you the note about Nicholas wearing a gray golf shirt and starched khakis, you remember?"
"Yes," he said hoarsely.
"Anyway, you later sent the goon into the courtroom, probably to look for me. It was last Wednesday, the twenty-fifth. Pretty stupid move because Easter recognized the man and he sent a note to the Judge, who also got an eyeful. Are you listening, Fitch?"
Listening, but not breathing. "Yes!" he snapped.
"Well, now the Judge knows the guy broke into Easter's apartment, and he's signed a warrant for the guy's arrest. So, get him out of town immediately or you're about to be embarrassed. Maybe arrested yourself."
A hundred questions raced wildly through Fitch's brain, but he knew they wouldn't be answered. If Doyle somehow got recognized and taken in, and if he said too much, then, well, it was unthinkable. Breaking and entering was a felony anywhere on the planet, and Fitch had to move fast. "Anything else?" he said.
"No. That's all for now."
Doyle was supposed to be eating at a window table in a dinky Vietnamese restaurant four blocks from the courthouse, but was in fact playing two-dollar blackjack at the Lucy Luck when the beeper erupted on his belt. It was Fitch, at the office. Three minutes later, Doyle was headed east on Highway 90, east because the Alabama state line was closer than Louisiana. Two hours later he was flying to Chicago.
It took Fitch an hour to dig and determine that no arrest warrant had been issued for Doyle Dunlap, nor for any unnamed person resembling him. This was of no comfort. The fact remained that Marlee knew they'd entered Easter's apartment.
But how did she know? That was the great and troubling question. Fitch yelled at Konrad and Pang behind locked doors. It would be three hours before they found the answer.
AT THREE-THIRTY, Monday, Judge Harkin called a halt to Dr. Kilvan's testimony and sent him home for the day. He announced to the surprised lawyers that there were a couple of serious matters involving the jury that had to be dealt with immediately. He sent the jurors back to their room and ordered all spectators out of the courtroom. Jip and Rasco herded them away, then locked the door.
Oliver McAdoo gently slid the briefcase under the table with his long left foot until the camera was aimed at the bench. Next to it were four other assorted satchels and cases, along with two large cardboard boxes filled with bulky depositions and other legal refuse. McAdoo was not sure what was about to happen, but he assumed, correctly, that Fitch would want to see it.
Judge Harkin cleared his throat and addressed the horde of lawyers watching him intently. "Gentlemen, it has come to my attention that some if not all of our jurors feel as if they're being watched and followed. I have clear proof that at least one of our jurors has been the victim of a break-in." He allowed this to sink in, and sink in it did. The lawyers were stunned, each side knowing full well it was innocent of any wrongdoing and immediately placing guilt where it belonged-at the other table.
"Now, I have two choices. I can declare a mistrial, or I can sequester the jury. I'm inclined to pursue the latter, as distasteful as it will be. Mr. Rohr?"
Rohr was slow to rise, and for a rare moment could think of little to say. "Uh, gee, Judge, we'd sure hate to see a mistrial. I mean, I'm certain that we've done nothing wrong." He glanced at the defense table as he said this. "Someone broke in on a juror?" he asked.
"That's what I said. I'll show you the proof in a moment. Mr. Cable?"
Sir Durr stood and buttoned his jacket right properly. "This is quite shocking, Your Honor."
"Certainly is."
"I'm really in no position to respond until I hear more," he said, returning the look of utter suspicion to the lawyers who were obviously guilty, the plaintiff's.
"Very well. Bring in juror number four, Stella Hulic," His Honor instructed Willis. Stella was stiff with fear and already pale by the time she reentered the courtroom.
"Please take a seat in the witness stand, Mrs. Hulic. This won't take but a minute." The Judge smiled with great assurance and waved at the chair in the witness box. Stella shot wild looks in all directions as she sat down.
"Thank you. Now, Mrs. Hulic, I want to ask you just a few questions."
The courtroom was still and silent as the lawyers held their pens and ignored their sacred legal pads and waited for a great secret to be revealed. After four years of pretrial warfare, they knew virtually everything that every witness would say beforehand. The prospect of unrehearsed statements coming from the witness stand was fascinating.
Surely she was about to reveal some heinous sin committed by the other side. She looked up pitifully at the Judge. Someone had smelled her breath and squealed on her.
"Did you go to Miami over the weekend?"
"Yes sir," she answered slowly.
"With your husband?"
"Yes." Cal had left the courtroom before lunch. He had deals to attend to.
"And what was the purpose of this visit?"
"To shop."
"Did anything unusual happen while you were there?"
She took a deep breath and looked at the eager lawyers packed around the long tables. Then she turned to Judge Harkin and said, "Yes sir."
"Please tell us what happened."
Her eyes watered, and the poor woman was about to lose control. Judge Harkin seized the moment, and said, "It's okay, Mrs. Hulic. You've done nothing wrong. Just tell us what happened."
She bit her lip and clenched her teeth. "We got in Friday night, to the hotel, and after we'd been there for two maybe three hours the phone rang, and it was some woman who told us that these men from the tobacco companies were following us. She said they had followed us from Biloxi, and they knew our flight numbers and everything. Said they'd follow us all weekend, might even try to bug our phones."
Rohr and his squad breathed in relief. One or two shot nasty looks at the other table, where Cable et al. were frozen.
"Did you see anybody following you?"
"Well, frankly, I never left the room. It upset me so. My husband Cal ventured out a few times, and he did see this one guy, some Cuban-looking man with a camera on the beach, then he saw the same guy on Sunday as we were checking out." It suddenly hit Stella that this was her exit, her one moment to appear so overcome she just couldn't continue. With little effort, the tears began to flow.
"Anything else, Mrs. Hulic?"
"No," she said, sobbing. "It's just awful. I can't keep . . ." and the words were lost in anguish.
His Honor looked at the lawyers. "I'm going to excuse Mrs. Hulic, and replace her with alternate number one." A small wail went up from Stella, and with the poor woman in such misery it was impossible to argue that she should be kept. Sequestration was looming, and there was no way she could keep pace.
"You may return to the jury room, get your things, and go home. Thank you for your service, and I'm sorry this has happened."
"I'm so sorry," she managed to whisper, then rose from the witness chair and left the courtroom. Her departure was a blow for the defense. She'd been rated highly during selection, and after two weeks of nonstop observation the jury experts on both sides were of the near-unanimous opinion that she was not sympathetic to the plaintiff. She had smoked for twenty-four years, without once trying to stop.
Her replacement was a wild card, feared by both sides but especially by the defense.
"Bring in juror number two, Nicholas Easter," Harkin said to Willis, who was standing with the door open. As Easter was being called for, Gloria Lane and an assistant rolled a large TV/VCR to the center of the courtroom. The lawyers began chewing their pens, especially the defense.
Durwood Cable pretended to be preoccupied with other matters on the table, but the only question on his mind was, What has Fitch done now? Before the trial, Fitch directed everything; the composition of the defense team, the selection of expert witnesses, the hiring of jury consultants, the actual investigation of all prospective jurors. He handled the delicate communications with the client, Pynex, and he watched the plaintiff's lawyers like a hawk. But most of what Fitch did after the trial began was quite secretive. Cable didn't want to know. He took the high road and tried the case. Let Fitch play in the gutter and try to win it.
Easter sat in the witness chair and crossed his legs. If he was scared or nervous, he didn't show it. The Judge asked him about the mysterious man who'd been following him, and Easter gave specific times and places where he'd seen the man. And he explained in perfect detail what happened last Wednesday when he glanced across the courtroom and saw the same man sitting out there, on the third row.
He then described the security measures he'd taken in his apartment, and he took the videotape from Judge Harkin. He inserted it in the VCR, and the lawyers sat on the edge of their seats. He ran the tape, all nine and a half minutes of it, and when it stopped he sat again in the witness chair and confirmed the identity of the intruder-it was the same man who'd been following him, the same guy who'd shown up in court last Wednesday.
Fitch couldn't see the damned monitor through his hidden camera because bigfoot McAdoo or some other klutz had kicked the briefcase under the table. But Fitch heard every word Easter said, and he could close his eyes and see precisely what was happening in the courtroom. A severe headache was forming at the base of his skull. He gulped aspirin and washed it down with mineral water. He'd love to ask Easter a simple question: For one concerned enough about security to install hidden cameras, why didn't you install an alarm system on your door? But the question occurred to no one but himself.
His Honor said, "I can also verify that the man in the video was in this courtroom last Wednesday." But the man in the video was now long gone. Doyle was safely tucked away in Chicago when the courtroom saw him enter the apartment and slink around as if he'd never get caught.
"You may return to the jury room, Mr. Easter."
AN HOUR PASSED as the lawyers made their rather feeble and unprepared arguments for and against sequestration. Once things warmed up, allegations of wrongdoing began to fly back and forth, with the defense catching the most flak. Both sides knew things they couldn't prove and thus couldn't say, so the accusations were left somewhat broad.
The jurors got a full report from Nicholas, an embellished account of everything that happened both in court and in the video. In his haste, Judge Harkin had failed to prohibit Nicholas from discussing the matter with his colleagues. It was an omission Nicholas had immediately caught, and he couldn't wait to structure the story to suit himself. He also took the liberty of explaining Stella's rapid departure. She'd left them in tears.
Fitch narrowly averted two minor strokes as he stomped around his office, rubbing his neck and his temples and tugging at his goatee and demanding impossible answers from Konrad, Swanson, and Pang. In addition to those three, he had young Holly, and Joe Boy, a local private eye with incredibly soft feet, and Dante, a black ex-cop from D.C., and Dubaz, another Coast boy with a lengthy record. And he had four people in the office with Konrad, another dozen he could summon to Biloxi within three hours, and loads of lawyers and jury consultants. Fitch had lots of people, and they cost lots of money, but he damned sure didn't send anyone to Miami over the weekend to watch Stella and Cal shop.
A Cuban? With a camera? Fitch actually threw a phonebook against a wall as he repeated this.
"What if it's the girl?" asked Pang, raising his head slowly after lowering it to miss the phonebook.
"What girl?"
"Marlee. Hulic said the phone call came from a girl." Pang's composure was a sharp contrast to his boss's explosiveness. Fitch froze in mid-step, then sat for a moment in his chair. He took another aspirin and drank more mineral water, and finally said, "I think you're right."
And he was. The Cuban was a two-bit "security consultant" Marlee found in the Yellow Pages. She'd paid him two hundred dollars to look suspicious, not a difficult task, and to get caught with a camera as the Hulics left the hotel.
THE ELEVEN JURORS and three alternates were reassembled in the courtroom. Stella's empty chair on the first row was filled by Phillip Savelle, a forty-eight-year-old misfit neither side had been able to read. He described himself as a self-employed tree surgeon, but no record of this profession had been found on the Gulf Coast for the past five years. He was also an avant-garde glassblower whose forte was brightly colored, shapeless creations to which he gave obscure aquatic and marine names and occasionally exhibited at tiny, neglected galleries in Greenwich Village. He boasted of being an expert sailor, and had in fact once built his own ketch, which he sailed to Honduras where it sank in calm waters. At times he fancied himself an archaeologist, and after the boat dropped he spent eleven months in a Honduran prison for illegal excavations.
He was single, agnostic, a graduate of Grinnell, a nonsmoker. Savelle scared the hell out of every lawyer in the courtroom.
Judge Harkin apologized for what he was about to do. Sequestration of a jury was a rare, radical event, made necessary by extraordinary circumstances, and almost always used in sensational murder cases. But he had no choice in this case. There had been unauthorized contact. There was no reason to believe it would cease, regardless of his warnings. He didn't like it one bit, and he was very sorry for the hardship it would cause, but his job at this point was to guarantee a fair trial.
He explained that months earlier he had developed a contingency plan for this very moment. The county had reserved a block of rooms at a nearby, unnamed motel. Security would be increased. He had a list of rules which he would cover with them. The trial was now entering its second full week of testimony, and he would push the lawyers hard to finish as soon as possible.
The fourteen jurors were to leave, go home, pack, get their affairs in order, and report to court the next morning prepared to spend the next two weeks sequestered.
There were no immediate reactions from the panel; they were too stunned. Only Nicholas Easter thought it was funny.