The Runaway Jury Part 11

"Oh, I know that," Teaker said. "You're one of the good guys. It's those greedy ambulance chasers I hate."

"Do you know what we paid last year for liability insurance coverage?" Taunton asked Lonnie, as if he might be able to provide an intelligent guess. He just shook his head.

"Listing paid over twenty million."

"Just to keep the sharks away," Teaker added.

There was a dramatic pause in the conversation, or at least a pause aimed at drama as Taunton and Teaker bit their lips and showed their disgust and seemed to appear to contemplate the money wasted for protection against lawsuits. Then Taunton looked at something on his legal pad, glanced at Teaker, and asked, "I don't suppose you've discussed the trial, have you?"

Teaker looked surprised. "I don't think it's necessary. Lonnie's on board. He's one of us."

Taunton appeared to ignore this. "This tobacco trial in Biloxi has serious implications throughout the economy, especially for companies like ours," he said to Lonnie, who nodded gently and tried to understand how the trial might affect anyone other than Pynex.

Teaker said to Taunton, "I'm not sure you're supposed to discuss it."

Taunton continued, "It's okay. I know trial procedure. You don't mind, do you, Lonnie? I mean, we can trust you on this, can't we?"

"Sure. I won't say a word."

"If the plaintiff wins this case and there's a big verdict, it will open the floodgates of tobacco litigation. Trial lawyers will go crazy. They'll bankrupt the tobacco companies."

"We make a lot of money off tobacco sales, Lonnie," Teaker said with perfect timing.

"Then they'll probably sue dairy companies claiming cholesterol kills people." Taunton's voice was rising and he was leaning forward across the table. The issue had struck a nerve. "There has to be an end to these trials. The tobacco industry has never lost one of them. I think their record is something like fifty-five wins, no losses. Folks on juries have always understood that you smoke at your own risk."

"Lonnie understands this," Teaker said, almost defensively.

Taunton took a deep breath. "Sure. Sorry if I said too much. It's just that this Biloxi trial has a lot at stake."

"No problem," Lonnie said. And he really wasn't bothered by the talk. Taunton was, after all, a lawyer, and he certainly knew the law, and perhaps it was okay if he spoke of the trial in broad terms without going into specifics. Lonnie was satisfied. He was on board. No problem out of him.

Taunton was suddenly all smiles as he packed away his notes and promised to give Lonnie a call midweek. The meeting was over and Lonnie was a free man. Ken drove him to the airport where the same Lear with the same pleasant pilots sat idling and ready.

THE WEATHERMAN promised a chance of afternoon showers, and that was all Stella wanted to hear. Cal insisted there wasn't a cloud to be seen, but she wouldn't take a look. She pulled the shades and watched movies until noon. She ordered a grilled cheese and two b.l.o.o.d.y marys, then slept for a while with the door chained and a chair propped against it. Cal was off to the beach, specifically a topless one he'd heard about but never got the chance to visit on account of his wife. With her safely boarded up inside their room on the tenth floor, he was free to roam the sands and admire young flesh. He sipped a beer at a thatched-roof bar and thought how wonderful the trip had become. She was afraid to be seen, thus the credit cards were safe for the weekend.

They caught an early flight Sunday morning and returned to Biloxi. Stella was hungover and weary from a weekend of being watched. She was apprehensive about Monday and the courtroom.

Thirteen.

The h.e.l.los and howdies were m.u.f.fled Monday morning. The routine of gathering by the coffeepot and inspecting the doughnuts and rolls was growing tiresome, not so much from repet.i.tion 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 p.r.o.ne 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 b.u.mmed 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 a.s.sist 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 fis.h.i.+ng 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 princ.i.p.al 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 a.s.sured 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 appet.i.te. 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 t.i.tle 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 videoca.s.sette. "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 ON b.u.t.ton and inserted the tape. "You remember the guy I saw in court last week? The one who was following me?" b.u.t.ton 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.

"Sat.u.r.day afternoon. I worked an eight-hour s.h.i.+ft, 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 Sat.u.r.day'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."