The Runaway Jury Part 40

Most of them had already heard this little pep talk. The legal reasons behind his quest for a unanimous verdict were not clear, but they believed him nonetheless.

"Now, let's finish these reports. Is someone ready?"

Loreen Duke's was a glossy publication prepared by Dr. Myra Sprawling-Goode. She'd read the introduction, which declared the study to be a thorough review of advertising practices by tobacco companies, especially how said practices related to children under the age of eighteen, and she'd read the conclusion, which absolved the industry of targeting underage smokers. Most of the two hundred pages in between had gone untouched.

She summarized the summary. "Just says here they couldn't find any evidence of tobacco companies advertising to attract kids."

"Do you believe that?" asked Millie.

"No. I thought we'd already decided that most folks start smoking before they're eighteen. Didn't we take a poll in here one day?"

"We did," Rikki answered. "And all the smokers here started when they were young teenagers."

"And most of them quit, as I recall," Lonnie said, with no small amount of bitterness.

"Let's move along," Nicholas said. "Anybody else?"

Jerry offered a lame effort at describing the tedious findings of Dr. Hilo Kilvan, the statistical genius who'd proven the increased risks of lung cancer among smokers. Jerry's summation sparked no interest, no questions, no debate, and he left the room for a quick smoke.

Then there was silence as they continued to plow through the printed material. They came and went at will-to smoke, to stretch, to use the rest rooms. Lou Dell and Willis and Chuck guarded the door.

MRS. GLADYS CARD had once taught biology to ninth-graders. She had a grasp of science. She did a superb job of dissecting Dr. Robert Bronsky's report on the composition of cigarette smoke-the more than four thousand compounds, the sixteen known carcinogens, the fourteen alkalis, the irritants, and all that other stuff. She used her best cla.s.sroom diction and looked from face to face.

Most faces cringed as she droned on and on.

When she finished, Nicholas, still awake, thanked her warmly and stood to get more coffee.

"So what do you think about all that?" Lonnie asked. He was standing in front of the window, his back to the room, eating peanuts and holding a soft drink.

"To me, it proves cigarette smoke is pretty harmful," she answered.

Lonnie turned around and looked at her. "Right. I thought we'd already decided that." He then looked at Nicholas. "I say we get on with the voting. We've been reading now for almost three hours, and if the Judge asks me if I've looked at all that stuff, I'm gonna say, 'h.e.l.l yeah. Read every word.' "

"Do what you wanna do, Lonnie," Nicholas shot back.

"All right. Let's vote."

"Vote on what?" Nicholas asked. The two were now standing on opposites sides of the table, with the seated jurors between them.

"Let's see who's standing where. I'll go first."

"Go. Let's hear it."

Lonnie took a deep breath and everyone turned to watch him.

"My position is real easy. I believe cigarettes are dangerous products. They're addictive. They're deadly. That's why I leave them alone. Everybody knows this, in fact we've already decided it. I believe every person has a right to choose. n.o.body can force you to smoke, but if you do, then you suffer the consequences. Don't puff like h.e.l.l for thirty years, then expect me to make you rich. These crazy lawsuits need to be stopped."

His voice was loud and every word got absorbed.

"You finished?" Nicholas asked.

"Yeah."

"Who's next?"

"I have a question," said Mrs. Gladys Card. "How much money does the plaintiff expect us to award? Mr. Rohr sort of left it hanging."

"He wants two million in actual damages. The punitive is left to our discretion," Nicholas explained.

"Then why'd he leave eight hundred million on the board?"

"Because he'd take eight hundred million," Lonnie replied. "Are you gonna give it to him?"

"I don't think so," she said. "I didn't know there was that much money in the world. Would Celeste Wood get all of it?"

"You see all those lawyers out there?" Lonnie asked sardonically. "She'll be lucky to get anything. This trial ain't about her or her dead husband. This trial is about a bunch of lawyers getting rich suing tobacco companies. We're stupid if we fall for it."

"Do you know when I started smoking?" Angel Weese asked Lonnie, who was still standing.

"No. I don't."

"I remember the exact day. I was thirteen, and I saw this big billboard on Decatur Street, not far from my house, had this big, lean black guy, really good-looking, with his jeans rolled up, splas.h.i.+ng water on a beach, cigarette in one hand and a slinky black chick on his back. All smiles. All perfect teeth. Salem menthols. What great fun. I thought to myself, Now there's the good life. I'd like to have some of that. So I went home, went to my drawer, got my money, walked down the street, and bought a pack of Salem menthols. My friends thought I was so cool, so I've been smoking them ever since." She paused and glanced at Loreen Duke, then back to Lonnie. "Don't try to tell me anyone can kick the habit. I'm addicted, okay. It ain't that easy. I'm twenty years old, two packs a day, and if I don't quit I won't see fifty. And don't tell me they don't target kids. They target blacks, women, kids, cowboys, rednecks, they target everybody, and you know it."

For one who'd shown no emotion in the four weeks they'd been together, the anger in Angel's voice was a surprise. Lonnie glared down at her, but said nothing.

Loreen came to her aid. "One of my girls, the fifteen-year-old, told me last week she'd started smoking at school because all of her friends are now smoking. These kids are too young to know about addiction, and by the time they realize, they'll be hooked. I asked her where she gets her cigarettes. You know what she told me?"

Lonnie said nothing.

"Vending machines. There's one next to the arcade at the mall where the kids hang out. And there's one in the lobby of the cinema where the kids hang out. A couple of the fast-food places have machines. And you're gonna tell me they don't target kids. It makes me sick. I can't wait to get home and straighten her out."

"So what're you gonna do when she starts drinking beer?" Jerry asked. "You gonna sue Budweiser for ten million because all the other kids are sneaking beer?"

"There's no proof that beer is physically addictive," Rikki responded.

"Oh, so it doesn't kill?"

"There's a difference."

"Please explain it," Jerry said. The debate now covered two of his favorite vices. Could gambling and philandering be next?

Rikki arranged her thoughts for a second, then launched into an unpleasant defense of alcohol. "Cigarettes are the only products that are deadly if used exactly as intended. Alcohol is supposed to be consumed, of course, but in reasonable amounts. And if it's taken in moderation, then it's not a dangerous product. Sure, people get drunk and kill themselves in all sorts of ways, but a strong argument can be made that the product is not being used properly in those instances."

"So if a person drinks for fifty years he's not killing himself?"

"Not if he drinks in moderation."

"Boy, that's good to hear."

"And there's something else. Alcohol has a natural warning. You get an immediate feedback when you use the product. Not so with tobacco. It takes years of smoking before you realize the damage to your body. By then, you're hooked and can't quit."

"Most people can quit," Lonnie said from the window, without looking at Angel.

"And why do you think everyone's trying to quit?" Rikki asked calmly. "Is it because they're enjoying their cigarettes? Is it because they feel young and glamorous? No, they're trying to quit to avoid lung cancer and heart disease."

"So how are you voting?" Lonnie asked.

"I guess it's pretty obvious," she answered. "I started this trial with an open mind, but I've come to realize that the only way to hold the tobacco companies responsible is for us to do it."

"What about you?" Lonnie asked Jerry, hoping to find a friend.

"I'm undecided right now. I think I'll listen to everybody else."

"And you?" he asked Sylvia Taylor-Tatum.

"I'm having a hard time understanding why we're supposed to make this woman a multimillionaire."

Lonnie walked around the table, looking at faces, most of which tried to avoid him. There was no doubt he was enjoying his role as a rebel leader. "What about you, Mr. Savelle? You don't seem to say much."

This would be interesting. No one on the panel had a clue about what Savelle was thinking.

"I believe in choice," he said. "Absolute choice. I deplore what these corporations do to the environment. I hate their products. But each person has the power to choose."

"Mr. Vu?" Lonnie said.

Henry cleared his throat, pondered things for a minute, then said, "I'm still thinking." Henry would follow Nicholas, who for the moment was incredibly quiet.

"What about you, Mr. Foreman?" Lonnie asked.

"We can finish these reports in thirty minutes. Let's do it, then we'll start voting."

After the first serious skirmish, they were relieved to read for a few more minutes. The shootout was clearly not far away.

AT FIRST he felt like roaming the streets in his Suburban with Jose at the wheel, up and down Highway 90 to no place in particular, no chance of catching her. At least he'd be out there doing something, trying to find her, hoping maybe to stumble upon her.

He knew she was gone.

So he stayed instead in his office, alone by the phone praying she'd call one more time and tell him a deal was a deal. Throughout the afternoon Konrad came and went, bearing the news that Fitch expected to hear: Her car was outside the condo, and it hadn't been moved in eight hours. No activity in or out of the condo. No sign of her whatsoever. She was gone.

Oddly, the longer the jury stayed out, the more hope Fitch managed to create for himself. If she planned to take the money and run, and screw Fitch with a plaintiff's verdict, then where was the verdict? Maybe it wouldn't be that easy. Nicholas could be having a hard time in there getting his votes.

Fitch had never lost one of these, and he kept reminding himself he'd been here before, sweating blood while the jury fought.

AT PRECISELY FIVE, Judge Harkin reconvened his courtroom, and sent for the jury. The lawyers scurried to get in place. Most of the spectators returned.

The jurors took their seats. They looked tired, but then all jurors did at this point.

"Just a few quick questions," His Honor said. "Have you elected a new foreman?"

They nodded, and then Nicholas raised his hand. "I have the honor," he said softly, without the slightest trace of pride.

"Good. Just so you'll know, I talked with Herman Grimes about an hour ago, and he's doing fine. Seems to be something other than a heart attack, and he's expected to be released tomorrow. He sent his best wishes."

Most of them managed a pleasant expression.

"Now, you've had the case for five hours, and I'd like to know if you're making progress."

Nicholas stood awkwardly, and stuffed his hands in his khakis. "I think so, Your Honor."

"Good. Without indicating anything that's been discussed, do you think the jury will reach a verdict, one way or the other?"

Nicholas glanced around at his peers, then said, "I think we will, Your Honor. Yes, I'm confident we'll have a verdict."

"When might you have a verdict? Mind you, I'm not rus.h.i.+ng. You can take as much time as you wish. I just need to make plans for this courtroom if we're gonna be here into the night."

"We want to go home, Your Honor. We're determined to wrap this up and have a verdict sometime tonight."

"Wonderful. Thank you. Dinner is on the way. I'll be in my chambers if you need me."

Forty-one.

Mr. O'Reilly was back for the last time, serving his final meal and saying good-bye to people he now considered friends. He and three employees fed and served them as if they were royalty.

Dinner was over at six-thirty, and the jury was ready to go home. They agreed to vote first on the issue of liability. Nicholas couched the question in layman's terms: "Are you willing to hold Pynex liable for the death of Jacob Wood?"

Rikki Coleman, Millie Dupree, Loreen Duke, and Angel Weese said yes, unequivocally. Lonnie, Phillip Savelle, and Mrs. Gladys Card said no, without question. The rest fell somewhere in between. Poodle was uncertain, but leaning toward no. Jerry was suddenly vacillating, but probably leaning toward no. s.h.i.+ne Royce, the newest member of the panel, hadn't said three words all day and was simply drifting in the breeze. He'd jump on the nearest bandwagon, as soon as he could identify one. Henry Vu declared himself to be undecided, but he was really waiting for Nicholas, who was waiting until everybody had finished. He was disappointed that the jury was so divided.

"I think it's time for you to declare," Lonnie said to Nicholas, itching for a fight.

"Yeah, let's hear it," Rikki said, also ready to argue. All eyes were glued to the foreman.

"Okay," he said, and the room went perfectly still. After years of planning, it all came down to this. He chose his words carefully, but in his mind he'd made the speech a thousand times. "I'm convinced cigarettes are dangerous and deadly; they kill four hundred thousand people a year; they're loaded with nicotine by their makers, who've known for a long time that the stuff is addictive; they could be a lot safer if the companies wanted, but the nicotine would be reduced and thus sales would suffer. I think cigarettes killed Jacob Wood, and none of you will argue this. I'm convinced the tobacco companies lie and cheat and cover up, and do everything in their power to get kids to smoke. They're a ruthless bunch of sonofab.i.t.c.hes, and I say we stick it to them."

"I agree," said Henry Vu.

Rikki and Millie felt like clapping.

"You want punitives?" Jerry asked, in disbelief.

"The verdict means nothing if it's not significant, Jerry. It has to be huge. A verdict for actual damages only means we don't have the guts to punish the tobacco industry for its corporate sins."

"We have to make it hurt," s.h.i.+ne Royce said, but only because he wanted to sound intelligent. He'd found his bandwagon.