The Runaway Jury (22 page)

Cable warmed to the task and began to press. He asked Dr. Kilvan if he was familiar with a twenty-year-old study from the University of Chicago in which researchers found a greater incidence of lung cancer for smokers who lived in metropolitan areas than for smokers who lived in rural areas. Kilvan was very familiar with the study, though he had nothing to do with it.

“Can you explain it?” Cable asked.

“No.”

“Can you venture a guess?”

“Yes. It was a controversial study when it came out because it indicated factors other than tobacco smoke might cause lung cancer.”

“Such as air pollution?”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe this?”

“It’s possible.”

“So you admit that air pollution causes lung cancer.

“It might. But I stand by my research. Rural smokers get lung cancer more than rural non-smokers, and urban smokers get cancer more than urban nonsmokers.”

Cable lifted another thick report and made an event of flipping pages. He asked Dr. Kilvan if he was familiar with a 1989 study at the University of Stockholm in which researchers determined that there was a link between heredity and smoking and lung cancer.

“I read that report,” Dr. Kilvan said.

“Do you have an opinion on it?”

“No. Heredity is not my specialty.”

“So you can’t say yes or no on the issue of whether heredity might be related to smoking and lung cancer.”

“I cannot.”

“But you don’t contest this report, do you?”

“I don’t have a position on the report.”

“Do you know the experts who conducted the research?”

“No.”

“So you can’t tell us if they’re qualified or not?”

“No. I’m sure you’ve talked to them.”

Cable walked to his table, swapped reports, and walked back to the lectern.

AFTER TWO WEEKS of severe scrutiny but little movement, Pynex stock suddenly had a reason to
stir. Other than the impromptu Pledge of Allegiance, a phenomenon that so baffled the courtroom no one could decipher its meaning, the trial had produced virtually no high drama until late Monday afternoon when the jury was shaken. One of the many defense lawyers let it slip to one of the many financial analysts that Stella Hulic was generally deemed to be a decent defense juror. This got repeated a few times, and with each telling Stella’s significance to the tobacco industry rose to new heights. By the time the calls were made to New York, the defense had lost its most prized possession—Stella Hulic, who was by then home on the sofa in a martini-induced coma.

Added to the rumor mill was the delicious bit about the break-in of juror Easter’s apartment. It was easy to assume the intruder was paid by the tobacco industry, and since they’d been caught or at least were highly suspected, things looked bad all around for the defense. They’d lost a juror. They’d got caught cheating. The sky was falling.

Pynex opened Tuesday morning at seventy-nine and a half, quickly fell to seventy-eight in trading that became heavier as the morning progressed and the rumors mushroomed. It was at seventy-six and a quarter by mid-morning when a fresh report was received from Biloxi. An analyst who was
actually in the courtroom
down there called his office with the news that the jury had refused to come out this morning, had in fact gone on strike because it was sick and tired of the boring testimony being offered by the plaintiff’s experts.

In seconds, the report was repeated a hundred times, and it became a simple fact on the Street that
the jury down there was revolting against the plaintiff. The price jumped to seventy-seven, flew past seventy-eight, hit seventy-nine, and was nearing eighty by lunch.

Fifteen

O
f the six women remaining on the jury, the one Fitch wanted most to nail was Rikki Coleman, the wholesome, pretty, thirty-year-old mother of two. She earned twenty-one thousand dollars a year as a records administrator in a local hospital. Her husband earned thirty-six thousand dollars as a private pilot. They lived in a nice suburb with a manicured lawn and a ninety-thousand-dollar mortgage, and they each drove Japanese cars, both of which were paid for. They saved frugally and invested conservatively—eight thousand dollars last year alone in mutual funds. They were very active in a neighborhood church—she taught small kids in Sunday School and he sang in the choir.

Apparently the Colemans had acquired no bad habits. Neither smoked, and there was no evidence they drank. He liked to jog and play tennis, she spent an hour a day at a health club. Because of the clean life and because of her background in health care, Fitch feared her as a juror.

The medical records obtained from her ob-gyn revealed nothing remarkable. Two pregnancies, with perfect deliveries and recoveries. The annual checkups were done on time. A mammography two years ago showed nothing unusual. She was five feet five inches, 116 pounds.

Fitch had medical records for seven of the twelve jurors. Easter’s couldn’t be found for obvious reasons. Herman Grimes was blind and had nothing to hide. Savelle was new and Fitch was digging. Lonnie Shaver hadn’t been to the doctor in at least twenty years. Sylvia Taylor-Tatum’s doctor had been killed months earlier in a boating accident, and his successor was a rookie who didn’t know how the game was played.

The game was serious hardball, and Fitch had written most of the rules. Each year, The Fund contributed a million dollars to an organization known as the Judicial Reform Alliance, a noisy presence in Washington funded primarily by insurance companies, medical associations, and manufacturing groups. And tobacco companies. The Big Four reported annual contributions of a hundred thousand each, with Fitch and The Fund sliding another million under the door. The purpose of JRA was to lobby for laws to restrict the size of awards in damage suits. Specifically, to eliminate the nuisance of punitive damages.

Luther Vandemeer, CEO of Trellco, was a vocal member of the JRA board, and with Fitch quietly calling the shots, Vandemeer often ran roughshod over the members of the organization. Fitch wasn’t seen, but he got what he wanted. Through Vandemeer and JRA, Fitch put enormous pressure on the insurance companies, which in turn put pressure
on various local doctors, who in turn leaked sensitive and thoroughly confidential records of selected patients. So when Fitch wanted Dr. Dow in Biloxi to accidentally send the medical records for Mrs. Gladys Card to a nondescript post office box in Baltimore, he told Vandemeer to lean on contacts at St. Louis Mutual, Dr. Dow’s malpractice carrier. Dr. Dow was told by St. Louis Mutual that his liability coverage might be dropped if he didn’t play the game, and he became altogether happy to comply.

Fitch had quite a collection of medical records, but nothing so far that might turn a verdict. His luck changed during lunch on Tuesday.

When Rikki Coleman was still Rikki Weld, she attended a small Bible college in Montgomery, Alabama, where she was very popular. Some of the prettier girls at the school were known to date boys from Auburn. As the routine investigation into her background progressed, Fitch’s investigator in Montgomery got a hunch that Rikki probably had plenty of dates. Fitch pursued the hunch with serious arm-twisting through JRA, and after two weeks of dead-end probing they finally found the right clinic.

It was a small, private women’s hospital in downtown Montgomery, one of only three places abortions were performed in the city at that time. During her junior year, a week after her twentieth birthday, Rikki Weld had an abortion.

And Fitch had the records. A phone call told him they were coming, and he laughed to himself as he picked the sheets off his fax machine. No name for the father, but that was fine. Rikki had met Rhea, her husband, a year after she finished college. At the
time of the abortion, Rhea was a senior at Texas A & M, and it was doubtful the two had ever met.

Fitch was willing to bet a ton of money the abortion was a dark secret, all but forgotten by Rikki and definitely never revealed to her husband.

THE MOTEL was a Siesta Inn in Pass Christian, thirty minutes west along the Coast. The trip was made by charter bus with Lou Dell and Willis riding up front with the driver and the fourteen jurors scattered throughout the seats. No two sat together. Conversation was nonexistent. They were tired and disheartened, already isolated and imprisoned, though they had yet to see their new temporary home. For the first two weeks of the trial, adjournment at five meant escape; they left hurriedly and raced back to reality, back to homes and kids and hot meals, back to errands and maybe the office. Adjournment now meant a chartered ride to another cell where they were to be watched and monitored and protected from evil shadows out there somewhere.

Only Nicholas Easter was delighted with sequestration, but he managed to look as dispirited as the rest.

Harrison County had rented for them the entire first floor of one wing, twenty rooms in all, though only nineteen would be needed. Lou Dell and Willis had separate rooms by the door leading to the main building where the reception and restaurant were located. A large young deputy named Chuck had a room at the other end of the hallway, ostensibly to guard the door leading to a parking lot.

The rooms were assigned by Judge Harkin himself. The bags had already been transported and
placed, unopened and definitely uninspected. Keys were passed out like candy by Lou Dell, whose self-importance grew by the hour. Beds were kicked and inspected—doubles in every room for some reason. TV’s were turned on, to no avail. No programs, no news during sequestration. Only movies from the motel’s station. Bathrooms were scrutinized, faucets checked, toilets flushed. Two weeks here would seem like a year.

The bus was of course followed by Fitch’s boys. It left the courthouse with a police escort, cops in front and back on motorcycles. It was easy to track the cops. Two detectives working for Rohr also followed along. No one expected the location of the motel to remain a secret.

Nicholas had Savelle on one side and Colonel Herrera on the other. The men’s rooms were next to each other; the women were across the hall as if segregation was necessary to prevent unauthorized frolicking. Five minutes after unlocking the door the walls began to close in, and ten minutes later Willis knocked loudly and inquired as to whether everything was okay. “Just beautiful,” Nicholas said without opening the door.

The telephones had been removed, as had the mini-bars. A room at the end of the hall had been stripped of the beds and furnished with two round tables, phones, comfortable chairs, a large-screen TV, and a bar fully equipped with every possible nonalcoholic beverage. Someone dubbed it the Party Room, and it stuck. Each phone call had to be approved by one of their guardians, and no incoming calls were permitted. Emergencies would be handled through the front desk. In Room 40, directly across the hall from the Party Room, the beds
had also been removed and a makeshift dining table had been set up.

No juror could leave the wing without prior approval from Judge Harkin, or on-the-spot approval from Lou Dell or one of the deputies. There was no curfew because there was no place to go, but the Party Room closed at ten.

Dinner was from six to seven, breakfast from six to eight-thirty, and they were not expected to eat en masse. They could come and go. They could fix a plate and go back to their rooms. Judge Harkin was deeply concerned about the quality of the food, and wanted to be told each morning if there were complaints.

Tuesday’s smorgasbord was either fried chicken or broiled snapper, with salads and plenty of vegetables. They were amazed at their appetites. For people who’d done nothing all day but remain seated and listen, most were weak with starvation by the time the food arrived at six. Nicholas fixed the first plate and sat at the end of the table where he engaged everyone in conversation and insisted they eat as a group. He was hyper and chipper and acted as if sequestration were nothing but an adventure. His enthusiasm was slightly contagious.

Only Herman Grimes ate in his room. Mrs. Grimes prepared two plates and left in a rush. Judge Harkin had strict written instructions prohibiting her from eating with the jury. Same for Lou Dell and Willis and Chuck. So when Lou Dell entered the room with dinner in mind and found Nicholas in the middle of a tale, the conversation suddenly ceased. She flung a few green beans alongside a chicken breast and a dinner roll, and left.

They were a group now, isolated and exiled, cut
off from reality and banished against their wishes to a Siesta Inn. They had no one but themselves. Easter was determined to keep them happy. They would be a fraternity, if not a family. He would work to avoid divisions and cliques.

They watched two movies in the Party Room. By ten, they were all asleep.

“I’M READY for my conjugal visit,” Jerry Fernandez announced over breakfast, in the general direction of Mrs. Gladys Card, who blushed.

“Really,” she said, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. Jerry smiled at her as if she might be the object of his longing. Breakfast was a veritable feast of everything from fried ham to cornflakes.

Nicholas arrived mid-meal with a soft hello to the group and a troubled countenance. “I don’t understand why we can’t have telephones,” were the first words from his mouth, and the pleasant morning mood suddenly turned sour. He sat across from Jerry, who read his face and caught on immediately.

“Why can’t we have a cold beer?” Jerry asked. “I have a cold beer every night when I’m home, maybe two. Who has the right to dictate what we can drink here?”

“Judge Harkin,” said Millie Dupree, a woman who avoided alcohol.

“I’ll be damned.”

“And what about television?” Nicholas asked. “Why can’t we watch television? I’ve been watching television since the trial started, and I don’t recall much excitement.” He turned to Loreen Duke, a large woman with a plate full of scrambled eggs. “Have you seen any sudden newsbreaks with the latest from the trial?”

“Nope.”

He looked at Rikki Coleman, who was sitting behind a tiny bowl of harmless flakes. “And what about a gym, someplace to go sweat after eight hours in the courtroom? Surely they could’ve found a motel with a gym.” Rikki nodded her complete agreement.