The Runaway Jury (19 page)

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.