The Runaway Jury (33 page)

Harkin would have loved to know if there was any hanky-panky among the jurors, not that it would carry any legal significance. He just had a dirty mind. “Good. Let me know if there’s a problem. And let’s keep this quiet.”

“Sure,” Nicholas said. They shook hands and he left.

Harkin greeted the jurors warmly and welcomed them back for another week. They seemed eager to get to work and finish this ordeal.

Rohr rose and called Leon Robilio as the next witness, and the players settled down to business. Leon was led from a side door into the courtroom. He shuffled gingerly in front of the bench to the witness stand, where the deputy assisted him in having a seat. He was old and pale, dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, no tie. He had a hole in his throat, an opening covered by a thin white dressing and camouflaged with a white linen neckerchief. When he swore to tell the truth, he did so by holding a pencillike mike to his neck. The words were the flat, pitchless monotone of a throat cancer victim without a larynx.

But the words were audible and understandable. Mr. Robilio held the microphone close to his throat
and his voice rattled around the courtroom. This was how he talked, dammit, and he did so every day of his life. He meant to be understood.

Rohr got quickly to the point. Mr. Robilio was sixty-four years old, a cancer survivor who’d lost his voice box eight years earlier and had learned to talk through his esophagus. He had smoked heavily for nearly forty years, and his habits had almost killed him. Now, in addition to the aftereffects of the cancer, he suffered from heart disease and emphysema. All because of the cigarettes.

His listeners quickly adjusted to his amplified, robotlike voice. He grabbed their attention for good when he told them he’d made his living for two decades as a lobbyist for the tobacco industry. He quit the job when he got cancer and realized that even with the disease he couldn’t stop smoking. He was addicted, physically and psychologically addicted to the nicotine in cigarettes. For two years after his larynx was removed and the chemotherapy ravaged his body, he continued to smoke. He finally quit after a near-fatal heart attack.

Though obviously in bad health, he still worked full-time in Washington, but now he was on the other side of the fence. He had the reputation of a fiercely committed antismoking activist. A guerrilla, some called him.

In a prior life, he had been employed at the Tobacco Focus Council. “Which was nothing more than a slick lobbying outfit funded entirely by the industry,” he said with disdain. “Our mission was to advise the tobacco companies on current legislation and attempts to regulate them. We had a fat budget with unlimited resources to wine and dine influential politicians. We played hardball, and we taught
other tobacco apologists the ins and outs of political fistfighting.”

At the Council, Robilio had access to countless studies of cigarettes and the tobacco industry. In fact, part of the mission of the Council was the meticulous assimilation of all known studies, projects, experiments. Yes, Robilio had seen the infamous nicotine memo Krigler had described. He’d seen it many times, though he did not keep a copy. It was well known at the Council that all tobacco companies kept nicotine at high levels to ensure addiction.

Addiction was a word Robilio used over and over. He’d seen studies paid for by the companies in which all sorts of animals had been quickly addicted to cigarettes through nicotine. He’d seen and helped hide studies proving beyond any doubt that once young teenagers were hooked on cigarettes the rates of kicking the habit were much lower. They became customers for life.

Rohr produced a box of thick reports for Robilio to identify. The studies were admitted into evidence, as if the jurors would find the time to plow through ten thousand pages of documents before making their decision.

Robilio regretted many things he’d done as a lobbyist, but his greatest sin, one he struggled with daily, had been the artfully worded denials he’d issued claiming the industry did not target teenagers through advertising. “Nicotine is addictive. Addiction means profits. The survival of tobacco depends upon each new generation picking up the habit. Kids receive mixed messages through advertising. The industry spends billions portraying cigarettes as cool and glamorous, even harmless. Kids get hooked easier, and stay hooked longer. So it’s imperative to
seduce the young.” Robilio managed to convey bitterness through his man-made voice box. And he managed to sneer at the defense table while looking warmly at the jurors.

“We spent millions studying kids. We knew that they could name the three most heavily advertised brands of cigarettes. We knew that almost ninety percent of the kids under eighteen who smoked preferred the top three advertised brands. So what did the companies do? They increased the advertising.”

“Did you know how much money the tobacco companies were making off cigarette sales to children?” Rohr asked, certain of the answer.

“About two hundred million a year. And that’s in sales to kids eighteen or under. Of course we knew. We studied it annually, kept our computers filled with the data. We knew everything.” He paused and waved his right hand at the defense table, sneering as if it were surrounded by lepers. “They still know. They know that three thousand kids start smoking every day, and they can give you an accurate breakdown of the brands they’re buying. They know that virtually all adult smokers began as teenagers. Again, they have to hook the next generation. They know that one third of the three thousand kids who start smoking today will eventually die from their addiction.”

The jury was captivated with Robilio. Rohr flipped pages for a second so the drama wouldn’t be rushed. He took a few steps back and forth behind the lectern as if his legs needed limbering. He scratched his chin, looked at the ceiling, then asked, “When you were with the Tobacco Focus Council, how did you counter the arguments that nicotine is addictive?”

“The tobacco companies have a party line; I helped formulate it. It goes something like this: Smokers choose the habit. So it’s a matter of choice. Cigarettes are not addictive, but, hey, even if they are, no one forces anybody to smoke. It’s all a matter of choice.

“I could make this sound real good, back in those days. And they make it sound good today. Trouble is, it’s not true.”

“Why isn’t it true?”

“Because the issue is addiction, and the addict cannot make choices. And kids become addicted much quicker than adults.”

Rohr for once avoided the natural lawyerly compulsion of overkill. Robilio was efficient with words, and the strain of being clear and being heard tired him after an hour and a half. Rohr tendered him to Cable for cross-examination, and Judge Harkin, who needed coffee, called a recess.

Hoppy Dupree made his first visit to the trial Monday morning, slipping into the courtroom midway through Robilio’s testimony. Millie caught his eye during a lull, and was thrilled he would stop by. His sudden interest in the trial was odd, though. He’d talked of nothing else for four hours last night.

After a twenty-minute coffee break, Cable stepped to the lectern and tore into Robilio. His tone was strident, almost mean, as if he viewed the witness as a traitor to the cause, a turncoat. Cable scored immediately with the revelation that Robilio was being paid to testify, and that he had sought out the plaintiff’s lawyers. He was also on retainer in two other tobacco cases.

“Yes, I’m being paid to be here, Mr. Cable, same as you,” Robilio said, delivering the typical expert’s response.
But the stain of money slightly tainted his character.

Cable got him to confess that he started smoking when he was almost twenty-five, married, with two children, hardly a teenager who could’ve been seduced by slick work from Madison Avenue. Robilio had a temper, a fact proven to all the lawyers during a two-day marathon deposition five months earlier, and Cable was determined to exploit it. His questions were sharp, rapid, and designed to provoke.

“How many children do you have?” Cable asked.

“Three.”

“Did any of them ever smoke cigarettes regularly?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Three.”

“How old were they when they started?”

“It varies.”

“On the average?”

“Late teens.”

“Which ads do you blame for getting them hooked on cigarettes?”

“I don’t recall exactly.”

“You can’t tell the jury which ads were responsible for getting your own kids hooked on cigarettes?”

“There were so many ads. Still are. It would be impossible to pinpoint one or two or five that worked.”

“So it was the ads?”

“I’m sure the ads were effective. Still are.”

“So it was somebody else’s fault?”

“I didn’t encourage their smoking.”

“Are you sure? You’re telling this jury that your own children, the children of a man whose job for
twenty years was to encourage the world to smoke, began smoking because of slick advertising?”

“I’m sure the ads helped. They were designed to.”

“Did you smoke in the home, in front of your children?”

“Yes.”

“Did your wife?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever tell a guest he couldn’t smoke in your home?”

“No. Not then.”

“Safe to say, then, that the environment of your home was smoker friendly?”

“Yes. Then.”

“But your children started smoking because of devious advertising? Is that what you’re telling this jury?”

Robilio took a deep breath, counted slowly to five, then said, “I wish I’d done a lot of things differently, Mr. Cable. I wish I’d never picked up the first cigarette.”

“Did your children stop smoking?”

“Two of them did. With great difficulty. The third has been trying to quit for ten years now.”

Cable had asked the last question on an impulse, and wished for a second he hadn’t. Time to move on. He shifted gears. “Mr. Robilio, are you aware of efforts by the tobacco industry to curb teenage smoking?”

Robilio chuckled, which sounded like a gargle when amplified through his little mike. “No serious efforts,” he said.

“Forty million dollars last year to Smoke Free Kids?”

“Sounds like something they’d do. Makes ’em seem warm and fuzzy, doesn’t it?”

“Are you aware that the industry is on record supporting legislation to restrict vending machines in areas where kids congregate?”

“I think I’ve heard of that. Sounds lovely, doesn’t it?”

“Are you aware that the industry last year gave ten million dollars to California for a statewide kindergarten program designed to warn youngsters about underage smoking?”

“No. What about overage smoking? Did they tell the little fellas that it was okay to smoke after their eighteenth birthdays? Probably did.”

Cable had a checklist, and seemed content to fire off the questions while ignoring the answers.

“Are you aware that the industry supports a bill in Texas to ban smoking in all fast-food establishments, places frequented by teenagers?”

“Yeah, and do you know why they do things like that? I’ll tell you why. So they can hire people like you to tell jurors like these about it. That’s the only reason—it sounds good in court.”

“Are you aware that the industry is on record supporting legislation which imposes criminal penalties against convenience stores which sell tobacco products to minors?”

“Yeah, I think I heard that one too. It’s window dressing. They’ll drop a few bucks here and there to preen and posture and buy respectability. They’ll do this because they know the truth, and the truth is that two billion dollars a year in advertising will guarantee addiction by the next generation. And you’re a fool if you don’t believe this.”

Judge Harkin leaned forward. “Mr. Robilio, that is
uncalled-for. Don’t do it again. I want it stricken from the record.”

“Sorry, Your Honor. And sorry to you, Mr. Cable. You’re just doing your job. It’s your client I can’t stand.”

Cable was thrown off track. He offered up a lame “Why?” and wished immediately he’d kept his mouth shut.

“Because they’re so devious. These tobacco people are bright, intelligent, educated, ruthless, and they’ll look you in the face and tell you with all sincerity that cigarettes are not addictive. And they know it’s a lie.”

“No further questions,” Cable said, halfway to his table.

GARDNER WAS A TOWN of eighteen thousand an hour from Lubbock. Pamela Blanchard lived in the old section of town, two blocks off Main Street in a house built at the turn of the century and nicely renovated. Brilliant red and gold maple trees covered the front lawn. Children roamed the street on bikes and skateboards.

By ten Monday, Fitch knew the following: She was married to the president of a local bank, a man who’d been married once before and whose wife had died ten years ago. He was not the father of Nicholas Easter or Jeff or whoever the hell he was. The bank had almost collapsed during the oil bust of the early eighties, and many locals were still afraid to use it. Pamela’s husband was a native of the town. She was not. She may have come from Lubbock, or maybe it was Amarillo. They got married in Mexico eight years ago, and the local weekly barely recorded it. No wedding picture. Just an announcement
next to the obituaries that N. Forrest Blanchard, Jr., had married Pamela Kerr. After a brief honeymoon in Cozumel, they would reside in Gardner.

The best source in town was a private investigator named Rafe who’d been a cop for twenty years and claimed to know everyone. Rafe, after being paid a sizable retainer in cash, worked without sleep Sunday night. No sleep, but plenty of bourbon, and by dawn he reeked of sour mash. Dante and Joe Boy worked beside him, in his grungy office on Main, and repeatedly declined the whiskey.

Rafe talked to every cop in Gardner, and finally found one who could talk to a lady who lived across the street from the Blanchards. Bingo. Pamela had two sons by a previous marriage; it ended in divorce. She didn’t talk much about them, but one was in Alaska and one was a lawyer, or was studying to be a lawyer. Something like that.

Since neither son grew up in Gardner, the trail soon ran cold. No one knew them. In fact, Rafe couldn’t find anyone who’d ever seen Pamela’s sons. Then Rafe called his lawyer, a sleazy divorce specialist who routinely used Rafe’s primitive surveillance services, and the lawyer knew a secretary at Mr. Blanchard’s bank. The secretary talked to Mr. Blanchard’s personal secretary, and it was discovered that Pamela was from neither Lubbock nor Amarillo, but Austin. She’d worked there for a bankers’ association, and that’s how she’d met Mr. Blanchard. The secretary knew of the prior marriage, and was of the opinion that it had ended many years ago. No, she had never seen Pamela’s sons. Mr. Blanchard never discussed them. The couple lived quietly and almost never entertained.