The Runaway Jury
Chapter Thirty-Eight
It was a shame the juror who'd been the most diligent, listened more carefully than the others, remembered more of what had been said, and obeyed every one of Judge Harkin's rules would be the last one bumped and thus prevented from affecting the verdict.
As reliable as the clock itself, Mrs. Herman Grimes arrived in the dining room at exactly seven-fifteen, took a tray, and began gathering the same breakfast items she had been gathering for almost two weeks. Bran cereal, skim milk, and a banana for Herman. Cornflakes, two percent milk, a strip of bacon, and apple juice for herself. As he often did, Nicholas met her at the buffet and offered to help. He still prepared Herman's coffee throughout the day in the jury room, and he felt obligated to help in the morning. Two sugars and one cream for Herman. Black for Mrs. Grimes. They chatted about whether or not they were packed and ready to go. She seemed genuinely excited at the prospect of eating dinner at home Monday night.
The mood had been downright festive throughout the morning as Nicholas and Henry Vu held court at the dining table and greeted the early stragglers. They were going home!
Mrs. Grimes reached for the silverware, and Nicholas quickly dropped four small tablets into Herman's coffee while saying something about the lawyers. It wouldn't kill him. It was Methergine, an obscure prescription drug used primarily in emergency rooms to revive bodies which were all but dead. Herman would be a sick man for four hours, then recover completely.
As he often did, Nicholas followed her down the hall to their room, carrying the tray and chatting on about this and that. She thanked him generously; such a nice young man.
The commotion hit thirty minutes later, and Nicholas was in the middle of it. Mrs. Grimes stepped into the hallway and yelled at Chuck, who was sitting at his post, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. Nicholas heard her call, and rushed from his room. Something was wrong with Herman!
Lou Dell and Willis arrived amid panicked voices, and soon most of the jurors were outside the Grimeses' room, where the door was open and people were swarming. Herman was on the bathroom floor, bent double at the waist, clutching his stomach and in terrible pain. Mrs. Grimes and Chuck crouched over him. Lou Dell ran to the phone and called 911. Nicholas said gravely to Rikki Coleman that it was chest pains, maybe a heart attack. Herman had already had one, six years earlier.
Within minutes, everyone knew Herman was suffering from cardiac arrest.
The paramedics arrived with a stretcher, and Chuck pushed the other jurors farther down the hall. Herman was stabilized and given oxygen. His blood pressure was only slightly above normal. Mrs. Grimes said repeatedly it reminded her of his first heart attack.
They rolled him out and pushed him rapidly down the hall. In the confusion, Nicholas managed to knock over Herman's coffee cup.
The sirens wailed as Herman was sped away. The jurors retreated to their rooms to try and settle their frazzled nerves. Lou Dell called Judge Harkin to tell him Herman had fallen violently ill. The consensus was he'd had another heart attack.
"They're dropping like flies," she said, then went on to recollect how she'd never lost so many jurors in her eighteen years as the jury madam. Harkin cut her off.
HE REALLY didn't expect her to arrive promptly at seven for coffee and the cash. Just a few hours earlier she'd been smashed and gave no indication of relenting, so how could he expect her to keep this appointment. He ate a long breakfast and read the first of many newspapers. Eight o'clock came and went. He moved to a better table near the window so he could watch the people on the sidewalk hustle by.
At nine, Swanson called her apartment and managed to pick another fight with the same roommate. No, she was not there, had not been there all night, and maybe she'd moved anyway.
This is someone's daughter, he told himself, living from loft to loft, day to day, scrounging for food and enough money to stay alive and buy the next round of chemicals. Did her parents know what she was doing?
He had plenty of time to consider these matters. At ten, he ordered dry toast because the waiter was staring now, obviously irritated that Swanson had evidently camped out for the day.
FUELED BY RUMORS that were apparently well founded, Pynex's common opened strong. After closing Friday at seventy-three, it jumped to seventy-six at the opening bell and was at seventy-eight within minutes. There was good news out of Biloxi, though no one seemed to know the source. All tobacco stocks rose quickly in early, heavy trading.
JUDGE HARKIN didn't appear until almost nine-thirty, and when he stepped to the bench he noted, without surprise, that his courtroom was packed. He'd just finished a heated argument with Rohr and Cable, the latter of whom wanted a mistrial because another juror had been removed. There were insufficient grounds for a mistrial. Harkin had done his homework. He'd even found an old case allowing eleven jurors to decide a civil case. Nine votes had been required, but the jury's verdict had been upheld by the Supreme Court.
As expected, news of Herman's cardiac arrest spread quickly among the many watching the trial. The jury consultants hired by the defense quietly declared it a major victory for their side because Herman was obviously pro-plaintiff. The jury consultants hired by the plaintiff assured Rohr and company that Herman's removal was a major blow to the defense because Herman was obviously pro-tobacco. All jury experts claimed to welcome the addition of Shine Royce, though most had difficulty with their reasoning.
Fitch just sat in stunned amazement. How in hell do you give someone a heart attack? Was Marlee cold-blooded enough to poison a blind man? Thank God she was on his side.
The door opened. The jurors filed in. Everyone watched to make sure Herman was in fact not among them. His seat was empty.
Judge Harkin had talked to a doctor at the hospital, and he began by telling the jurors that Herman appeared to be responding well, that perhaps it was not as serious as initially thought. The jurors, especially Nicholas, were mightily relieved. Shine Royce became juror number five, and took Herman's old seat on the front row between Phillip Savelle and Angel Weese.
Shine was right proud of himself.
When all was settled and still, His Honor instructed Wendall Rohr to begin his final summation. Keep it under an hour, he warned. Rohr, wearing his favorite gaudy jacket but with a starched shirt and clean bow tie, began softly by apologizing for the length of the trial, and thanking them for being such a wonderful jury. With the friendly remarks behind him, he launched into a vicious description of ". . . the deadliest consumer product ever manufactured. The cigarette. It kills four hundred thousand Americans each year, ten times more than illegal drugs. No other product comes close."
He hit the high points of the testimony of Drs. Fricke, Bronsky, and Kilvan, and he did so without belaboring what they'd said. He reminded them of Lawrence Krigler, a man who'd worked in the industry and knew its dirty secrets. He spent ten minutes talking casually about Leon Robilio, the voiceless one who'd worked for twenty years promoting tobacco, then realized how corrupt the industry was.
Rohr hit his stride when he got around to the kids. For Big Tobacco to survive, it must hook teenagers and ensure the next generation will buy its products. As if he'd been listening in the jury room, Rohr asked the jurors to ask themselves how old they'd been when they started smoking.
Three thousand kids a day pick up the habit. A third of these will eventually die from it. What else had to be said? Wasn't it time to force these rich corporations to stand behind their products? Time to get their attention? Time to make them leave our children alone? Time to make them pay for the damages caused by their products?
He turned nasty when he dwelt on nicotine and Big Tobacco's stubborn insistence that it is not addictive. Former drug addicts had testified that it was easier to quit marijuana and cocaine than cigarettes. He got even meaner when he mentioned Jankle and his abuse theory.
Then he blinked once and was a different person. He talked about his client, Mrs. Celeste Wood, a fine wife, mother, friend, a real victim of the tobacco industry. He talked about her husband, the deceased Mr. Jacob Wood, who'd gotten hooked on Bristols, the star of the Pynex product line, and tried to kick the habit for twenty years. He left behind children and grandchildren. Dead at the age of fifty-one because he'd used a legally manufactured product precisely in the manner in which it was supposed to be used.
He stepped to a white marker board on a tripod and did some quick math. The monetary value of Jacob Wood's life was, say, a million dollars. He added in some other damages and the total became two million. These were the actual damages, monetary amounts the family was entitled to because of Jacob's death.
But the case wasn't about actual damages. Rohr delivered a mini-lecture on punitive damages and their role in keeping corporate America in line. How do you punish a company that has eight hundred million dollars in cash?
You get the company's attention.
Rohr was careful not to suggest a figure, though legally he could have. He simply left $800,000,000 CASH in bold print on the board as he returned to the lectern and finished his remarks. He thanked the jury again, and sat down. Forty-eight minutes.
His Honor declared a ten-minute recess.
SHE WAS FOUR HOURS LATE, but Swanson could've hugged her nonetheless. He didn't, though, because he feared infectious diseases, and because she was escorted by a grimy young man in black leather from toe to cap, jet black hair and goatee, dyed. The word JADE was tattooed impressively in the center of his forehead, and he wore a handsome collection of earrings on both sides of his head.
Jade said nothing as he pulled a chair close and perched on guard like a Doberman.
Beverly appeared to have been beaten. Her lower lip was cut and puffy. She'd tried to cover a bruise on her cheek with makeup. The corner of her right eye was swollen. She smelled of rancid pot smoke and cheap bourbon, and she was on something, probably speed.
With little provocation, Swanson could've slapped Jade across his tattoo and slowly ripped out the earrings.
"Have you got the money?" she asked, glancing at Jade, who stared blankly at Swanson. No doubt where the money was going.
"Yes. Tell me about Claire."
"Lemme see the money."
Swanson removed a small envelope, opened it slightly to reveal the bills, then tucked it under both hands on the table. "Four thousand bucks. Now talk quickly," he said, glaring at Jade.
Beverly looked at Jade, who nodded like a bad actor and said, "Go ahead."
"Her real name is Gabrielle Brant. She's from Columbia, Missouri. She went to college at the university there, where her mother taught medieval studies. That's all I know."
"What about her father?"
"I think he's dead."
"Anything else?"
"No. Gimme the money."
Swanson slid it across the table, and immediately jumped to his feet. "Thanks," he said, and disappeared.
IT TOOK DURWOOD CABLE slightly more than half an hour to skillfully discount the ridiculous notion of giving millions to the family of a man who'd voluntarily smoked for thirty-five years. The trial was hardly more than a naked grab for money.
What he resented most about the plaintiff's case was that they had attempted to shift the issues away from Jacob Wood and his habits, and turn the trial into an emotional debate on teenage smoking. What did Jacob Wood have to do with current cigarette advertising? There wasn't an ounce of proof that the late Mr. Wood had been influenced by an ad campaign. He had started smoking because he chose to start.
Why bring the kids into this fight? Emotion, that's why. We respond angrily when we think children are being hurt or manipulated. And before the plaintiff's lawyers can convince you, the jurors, to hand them a fortune, they must first make you angry.
Cable deftly appealed to their sense of fairness. Decide the case on its facts, not on emotions. When he finished, he had their complete attention.
As he took his seat, Judge Harkin thanked him and said to the jury, "Ladies and gentlemen, the case now belongs to you. I suggest you select a new foreman to take the place of Mr. Grimes, who I'm told is doing much better. I talked to his wife during the last recess, and he is still quite ill but expected to recover fully. If for any reason you need to speak to me, please notify madam clerk. The rest of your instructions will be handed to you in the jury room. Good luck."
As Harkin bid them farewell, Nicholas turned slightly to the audience and locked eyes with Rankin Fitch, just a brief acknowledgment of where matters were at the moment. Fitch nodded, and Nicholas stood with his colleagues.
It was almost noon. Court was in recess subject to the call of the bench, which meant that those who wanted to were free to loiter about until the jury reached a verdict. The horde from Wall Street sprinted out to call their offices. The Big Four CEO's mingled with underlings for a moment, then made their way out of the courtroom.
Fitch left immediately and went to his office. Konrad was hovering over a bank of phones. "It's her," he said anxiously. "She's calling from a pay phone." Fitch walked even faster to his office, where he grabbed his phone. "Hello."
"Fitch, look. New wiring instructions. Put me on hold and go to your fax." Fitch looked at his private fax, which was transmitting.
"It's right here," he said. "Why new instructions?"
"Shut up, Fitch. Just do as I say, and do it immediately."
Fitch yanked the fax from his machine and skimmed the handwritten message. The money was now headed to Panama. Banco Atlantico, in Panama City. She had routing instructions and account numbers.
"You have twenty minutes, Fitch. The jury is eating lunch. If I don't have a confirmation by twelve-thirty, then the deal is off and Nicholas changes directions. He has a cellphone in his pocket, and he's waiting for me to call."
"Call back at twelve-thirty," Fitch said, hanging up. He told Konrad to hold all calls. No exceptions. He immediately faxed her message to his wiring expert in D.C., who in turn faxed the necessary authorization to Hanwa Bank in the Netherlands Antilles. Hanwa had been on standby all morning, and within ten minutes the money left Fitch's account and bounced across the Caribbean to the bank in Panama City, where it had been expected. A confirmation from Hanwa was faxed to Fitch, who, at the moment, would've loved to fax it to Marlee, but he didn't have her number.
At twelve-twenty, Marlee called her banker in Panama, who confirmed the receipt of ten million dollars.
Marlee was in a motel room five miles away, working with a portable fax. She waited five minutes, then sent instructions to the same banker to wire the money to a bank in the Cayman Islands. All of it, and once it's gone, close the account in Banco Atlantico.
Nicholas called at exactly twelve-thirty. He was hiding in the men's room. Lunch was over, and it was time to start the deliberations. Marlee said the money was safe, and that she was leaving.
Fitch waited until almost one. She called from another pay phone. "The money has arrived, Fitch," she said.
"Great. How about lunch?"
"Maybe later."
"So when can we expect a verdict?"
"Late afternoon. I hope you're not worried, Fitch."
"Me. Never."
"Just relax. It'll be your finest hour. Twelve to zip, Fitch. How does that sound?"
"Like music. Why'd you bump poor old Herman?"
"Don't know what you're talking about."
"Yeah right. When can we celebrate?"
"I'll call you later."
She sped away in a rented car, watching every movement behind her. Her leased car was sitting in front of her condo, abandoned for all she cared. In the backseat she had two bags stuffed with clothing, the only personal items she could pack, along with the portable fax. The furniture in the condo would belong to whoever bought it at a sidewalk sale.
She looped through a subdivision, a run she'd practiced yesterday in case anyone wanted to follow. Fitch's boys weren't behind her. She zigzagged through side streets until she came to the Gulfport Municipal Airport, where the small Learjet was waiting. She grabbed her two bags and locked the keys in the car.
SWANSON CALLED ONCE, but couldn't get through. He called the supervisor in Kansas City, and three agents were immediately dispatched to Columbia, an hour away. Two more worked the phones, making rapid calls to the University of Missouri, to the medieval studies department, in a desperate attempt to locate someone who knew something and was willing to talk. Six Brants were listed in the Columbia phone book. All were called more than once and none claimed to know Gabrielle Brant.
He finally got Fitch on the phone just after one. Fitch had been barricaded in his office for an hour, taking no calls. Swanson was on his way to Missouri.
As reliable as the clock itself, Mrs. Herman Grimes arrived in the dining room at exactly seven-fifteen, took a tray, and began gathering the same breakfast items she had been gathering for almost two weeks. Bran cereal, skim milk, and a banana for Herman. Cornflakes, two percent milk, a strip of bacon, and apple juice for herself. As he often did, Nicholas met her at the buffet and offered to help. He still prepared Herman's coffee throughout the day in the jury room, and he felt obligated to help in the morning. Two sugars and one cream for Herman. Black for Mrs. Grimes. They chatted about whether or not they were packed and ready to go. She seemed genuinely excited at the prospect of eating dinner at home Monday night.
The mood had been downright festive throughout the morning as Nicholas and Henry Vu held court at the dining table and greeted the early stragglers. They were going home!
Mrs. Grimes reached for the silverware, and Nicholas quickly dropped four small tablets into Herman's coffee while saying something about the lawyers. It wouldn't kill him. It was Methergine, an obscure prescription drug used primarily in emergency rooms to revive bodies which were all but dead. Herman would be a sick man for four hours, then recover completely.
As he often did, Nicholas followed her down the hall to their room, carrying the tray and chatting on about this and that. She thanked him generously; such a nice young man.
The commotion hit thirty minutes later, and Nicholas was in the middle of it. Mrs. Grimes stepped into the hallway and yelled at Chuck, who was sitting at his post, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. Nicholas heard her call, and rushed from his room. Something was wrong with Herman!
Lou Dell and Willis arrived amid panicked voices, and soon most of the jurors were outside the Grimeses' room, where the door was open and people were swarming. Herman was on the bathroom floor, bent double at the waist, clutching his stomach and in terrible pain. Mrs. Grimes and Chuck crouched over him. Lou Dell ran to the phone and called 911. Nicholas said gravely to Rikki Coleman that it was chest pains, maybe a heart attack. Herman had already had one, six years earlier.
Within minutes, everyone knew Herman was suffering from cardiac arrest.
The paramedics arrived with a stretcher, and Chuck pushed the other jurors farther down the hall. Herman was stabilized and given oxygen. His blood pressure was only slightly above normal. Mrs. Grimes said repeatedly it reminded her of his first heart attack.
They rolled him out and pushed him rapidly down the hall. In the confusion, Nicholas managed to knock over Herman's coffee cup.
The sirens wailed as Herman was sped away. The jurors retreated to their rooms to try and settle their frazzled nerves. Lou Dell called Judge Harkin to tell him Herman had fallen violently ill. The consensus was he'd had another heart attack.
"They're dropping like flies," she said, then went on to recollect how she'd never lost so many jurors in her eighteen years as the jury madam. Harkin cut her off.
HE REALLY didn't expect her to arrive promptly at seven for coffee and the cash. Just a few hours earlier she'd been smashed and gave no indication of relenting, so how could he expect her to keep this appointment. He ate a long breakfast and read the first of many newspapers. Eight o'clock came and went. He moved to a better table near the window so he could watch the people on the sidewalk hustle by.
At nine, Swanson called her apartment and managed to pick another fight with the same roommate. No, she was not there, had not been there all night, and maybe she'd moved anyway.
This is someone's daughter, he told himself, living from loft to loft, day to day, scrounging for food and enough money to stay alive and buy the next round of chemicals. Did her parents know what she was doing?
He had plenty of time to consider these matters. At ten, he ordered dry toast because the waiter was staring now, obviously irritated that Swanson had evidently camped out for the day.
FUELED BY RUMORS that were apparently well founded, Pynex's common opened strong. After closing Friday at seventy-three, it jumped to seventy-six at the opening bell and was at seventy-eight within minutes. There was good news out of Biloxi, though no one seemed to know the source. All tobacco stocks rose quickly in early, heavy trading.
JUDGE HARKIN didn't appear until almost nine-thirty, and when he stepped to the bench he noted, without surprise, that his courtroom was packed. He'd just finished a heated argument with Rohr and Cable, the latter of whom wanted a mistrial because another juror had been removed. There were insufficient grounds for a mistrial. Harkin had done his homework. He'd even found an old case allowing eleven jurors to decide a civil case. Nine votes had been required, but the jury's verdict had been upheld by the Supreme Court.
As expected, news of Herman's cardiac arrest spread quickly among the many watching the trial. The jury consultants hired by the defense quietly declared it a major victory for their side because Herman was obviously pro-plaintiff. The jury consultants hired by the plaintiff assured Rohr and company that Herman's removal was a major blow to the defense because Herman was obviously pro-tobacco. All jury experts claimed to welcome the addition of Shine Royce, though most had difficulty with their reasoning.
Fitch just sat in stunned amazement. How in hell do you give someone a heart attack? Was Marlee cold-blooded enough to poison a blind man? Thank God she was on his side.
The door opened. The jurors filed in. Everyone watched to make sure Herman was in fact not among them. His seat was empty.
Judge Harkin had talked to a doctor at the hospital, and he began by telling the jurors that Herman appeared to be responding well, that perhaps it was not as serious as initially thought. The jurors, especially Nicholas, were mightily relieved. Shine Royce became juror number five, and took Herman's old seat on the front row between Phillip Savelle and Angel Weese.
Shine was right proud of himself.
When all was settled and still, His Honor instructed Wendall Rohr to begin his final summation. Keep it under an hour, he warned. Rohr, wearing his favorite gaudy jacket but with a starched shirt and clean bow tie, began softly by apologizing for the length of the trial, and thanking them for being such a wonderful jury. With the friendly remarks behind him, he launched into a vicious description of ". . . the deadliest consumer product ever manufactured. The cigarette. It kills four hundred thousand Americans each year, ten times more than illegal drugs. No other product comes close."
He hit the high points of the testimony of Drs. Fricke, Bronsky, and Kilvan, and he did so without belaboring what they'd said. He reminded them of Lawrence Krigler, a man who'd worked in the industry and knew its dirty secrets. He spent ten minutes talking casually about Leon Robilio, the voiceless one who'd worked for twenty years promoting tobacco, then realized how corrupt the industry was.
Rohr hit his stride when he got around to the kids. For Big Tobacco to survive, it must hook teenagers and ensure the next generation will buy its products. As if he'd been listening in the jury room, Rohr asked the jurors to ask themselves how old they'd been when they started smoking.
Three thousand kids a day pick up the habit. A third of these will eventually die from it. What else had to be said? Wasn't it time to force these rich corporations to stand behind their products? Time to get their attention? Time to make them leave our children alone? Time to make them pay for the damages caused by their products?
He turned nasty when he dwelt on nicotine and Big Tobacco's stubborn insistence that it is not addictive. Former drug addicts had testified that it was easier to quit marijuana and cocaine than cigarettes. He got even meaner when he mentioned Jankle and his abuse theory.
Then he blinked once and was a different person. He talked about his client, Mrs. Celeste Wood, a fine wife, mother, friend, a real victim of the tobacco industry. He talked about her husband, the deceased Mr. Jacob Wood, who'd gotten hooked on Bristols, the star of the Pynex product line, and tried to kick the habit for twenty years. He left behind children and grandchildren. Dead at the age of fifty-one because he'd used a legally manufactured product precisely in the manner in which it was supposed to be used.
He stepped to a white marker board on a tripod and did some quick math. The monetary value of Jacob Wood's life was, say, a million dollars. He added in some other damages and the total became two million. These were the actual damages, monetary amounts the family was entitled to because of Jacob's death.
But the case wasn't about actual damages. Rohr delivered a mini-lecture on punitive damages and their role in keeping corporate America in line. How do you punish a company that has eight hundred million dollars in cash?
You get the company's attention.
Rohr was careful not to suggest a figure, though legally he could have. He simply left $800,000,000 CASH in bold print on the board as he returned to the lectern and finished his remarks. He thanked the jury again, and sat down. Forty-eight minutes.
His Honor declared a ten-minute recess.
SHE WAS FOUR HOURS LATE, but Swanson could've hugged her nonetheless. He didn't, though, because he feared infectious diseases, and because she was escorted by a grimy young man in black leather from toe to cap, jet black hair and goatee, dyed. The word JADE was tattooed impressively in the center of his forehead, and he wore a handsome collection of earrings on both sides of his head.
Jade said nothing as he pulled a chair close and perched on guard like a Doberman.
Beverly appeared to have been beaten. Her lower lip was cut and puffy. She'd tried to cover a bruise on her cheek with makeup. The corner of her right eye was swollen. She smelled of rancid pot smoke and cheap bourbon, and she was on something, probably speed.
With little provocation, Swanson could've slapped Jade across his tattoo and slowly ripped out the earrings.
"Have you got the money?" she asked, glancing at Jade, who stared blankly at Swanson. No doubt where the money was going.
"Yes. Tell me about Claire."
"Lemme see the money."
Swanson removed a small envelope, opened it slightly to reveal the bills, then tucked it under both hands on the table. "Four thousand bucks. Now talk quickly," he said, glaring at Jade.
Beverly looked at Jade, who nodded like a bad actor and said, "Go ahead."
"Her real name is Gabrielle Brant. She's from Columbia, Missouri. She went to college at the university there, where her mother taught medieval studies. That's all I know."
"What about her father?"
"I think he's dead."
"Anything else?"
"No. Gimme the money."
Swanson slid it across the table, and immediately jumped to his feet. "Thanks," he said, and disappeared.
IT TOOK DURWOOD CABLE slightly more than half an hour to skillfully discount the ridiculous notion of giving millions to the family of a man who'd voluntarily smoked for thirty-five years. The trial was hardly more than a naked grab for money.
What he resented most about the plaintiff's case was that they had attempted to shift the issues away from Jacob Wood and his habits, and turn the trial into an emotional debate on teenage smoking. What did Jacob Wood have to do with current cigarette advertising? There wasn't an ounce of proof that the late Mr. Wood had been influenced by an ad campaign. He had started smoking because he chose to start.
Why bring the kids into this fight? Emotion, that's why. We respond angrily when we think children are being hurt or manipulated. And before the plaintiff's lawyers can convince you, the jurors, to hand them a fortune, they must first make you angry.
Cable deftly appealed to their sense of fairness. Decide the case on its facts, not on emotions. When he finished, he had their complete attention.
As he took his seat, Judge Harkin thanked him and said to the jury, "Ladies and gentlemen, the case now belongs to you. I suggest you select a new foreman to take the place of Mr. Grimes, who I'm told is doing much better. I talked to his wife during the last recess, and he is still quite ill but expected to recover fully. If for any reason you need to speak to me, please notify madam clerk. The rest of your instructions will be handed to you in the jury room. Good luck."
As Harkin bid them farewell, Nicholas turned slightly to the audience and locked eyes with Rankin Fitch, just a brief acknowledgment of where matters were at the moment. Fitch nodded, and Nicholas stood with his colleagues.
It was almost noon. Court was in recess subject to the call of the bench, which meant that those who wanted to were free to loiter about until the jury reached a verdict. The horde from Wall Street sprinted out to call their offices. The Big Four CEO's mingled with underlings for a moment, then made their way out of the courtroom.
Fitch left immediately and went to his office. Konrad was hovering over a bank of phones. "It's her," he said anxiously. "She's calling from a pay phone." Fitch walked even faster to his office, where he grabbed his phone. "Hello."
"Fitch, look. New wiring instructions. Put me on hold and go to your fax." Fitch looked at his private fax, which was transmitting.
"It's right here," he said. "Why new instructions?"
"Shut up, Fitch. Just do as I say, and do it immediately."
Fitch yanked the fax from his machine and skimmed the handwritten message. The money was now headed to Panama. Banco Atlantico, in Panama City. She had routing instructions and account numbers.
"You have twenty minutes, Fitch. The jury is eating lunch. If I don't have a confirmation by twelve-thirty, then the deal is off and Nicholas changes directions. He has a cellphone in his pocket, and he's waiting for me to call."
"Call back at twelve-thirty," Fitch said, hanging up. He told Konrad to hold all calls. No exceptions. He immediately faxed her message to his wiring expert in D.C., who in turn faxed the necessary authorization to Hanwa Bank in the Netherlands Antilles. Hanwa had been on standby all morning, and within ten minutes the money left Fitch's account and bounced across the Caribbean to the bank in Panama City, where it had been expected. A confirmation from Hanwa was faxed to Fitch, who, at the moment, would've loved to fax it to Marlee, but he didn't have her number.
At twelve-twenty, Marlee called her banker in Panama, who confirmed the receipt of ten million dollars.
Marlee was in a motel room five miles away, working with a portable fax. She waited five minutes, then sent instructions to the same banker to wire the money to a bank in the Cayman Islands. All of it, and once it's gone, close the account in Banco Atlantico.
Nicholas called at exactly twelve-thirty. He was hiding in the men's room. Lunch was over, and it was time to start the deliberations. Marlee said the money was safe, and that she was leaving.
Fitch waited until almost one. She called from another pay phone. "The money has arrived, Fitch," she said.
"Great. How about lunch?"
"Maybe later."
"So when can we expect a verdict?"
"Late afternoon. I hope you're not worried, Fitch."
"Me. Never."
"Just relax. It'll be your finest hour. Twelve to zip, Fitch. How does that sound?"
"Like music. Why'd you bump poor old Herman?"
"Don't know what you're talking about."
"Yeah right. When can we celebrate?"
"I'll call you later."
She sped away in a rented car, watching every movement behind her. Her leased car was sitting in front of her condo, abandoned for all she cared. In the backseat she had two bags stuffed with clothing, the only personal items she could pack, along with the portable fax. The furniture in the condo would belong to whoever bought it at a sidewalk sale.
She looped through a subdivision, a run she'd practiced yesterday in case anyone wanted to follow. Fitch's boys weren't behind her. She zigzagged through side streets until she came to the Gulfport Municipal Airport, where the small Learjet was waiting. She grabbed her two bags and locked the keys in the car.
SWANSON CALLED ONCE, but couldn't get through. He called the supervisor in Kansas City, and three agents were immediately dispatched to Columbia, an hour away. Two more worked the phones, making rapid calls to the University of Missouri, to the medieval studies department, in a desperate attempt to locate someone who knew something and was willing to talk. Six Brants were listed in the Columbia phone book. All were called more than once and none claimed to know Gabrielle Brant.
He finally got Fitch on the phone just after one. Fitch had been barricaded in his office for an hour, taking no calls. Swanson was on his way to Missouri.
