The Runaway Jury (10 page)

FITCH HAD TOYED with the idea of entering Easter’s apartment before, but now it was necessary. And it was easy. He sent José and an operative named Doyle to the apartment building where Easter lived. Easter, of course, was at the time confined to the jury box and suffering along with Jacob Wood. He was being watched closely by two of Fitch’s men, just in case court was suddenly adjourned.

José stayed in the car, near the phone, and watched the front entryway as Doyle disappeared inside. Doyle walked up one flight of stairs and found Apartment 312 at the end of a semi-lit hallway. There was not a sound from the neighboring apartments. Everyone was at work.

He shook the loose-fitting doorknob, then held it firmly as he slid an eight-inch plastic strip down the facing. The lock clicked, the knob turned. He gently pushed the door open two inches, and waited for the alarm to either beep or sound. Nothing. The apartment building was old and low-rent, and the fact
that Easter had no alarm system didn’t surprise Doyle.

He was inside in an instant. Using a small camera with a flash attachment, he quickly photographed the kitchen, den, bathroom, and bedroom. He took close-ups of the magazines on the cheap coffee table, the books stacked on the floor, the CD’s on top of the stereo, and the software littered around the rather fancy PC. Being careful what he touched, he found a gray pullover golf shirt with red trim hanging in the closet, and took a photo of it. He opened the refrigerator and took a photo of the contents, then the cabinets and under the sink.

The apartment was small and cheaply furnished, but an effort was being made to keep it clean. The air conditioning was either turned off or out of order. Doyle photographed the thermostat. He was in the apartment less than ten minutes, long enough to shoot two rolls of film and determine that Easter in fact lived alone. There was clearly no trace of another person, especially a female.

He carefully locked the door and silently left the apartment. Ten minutes later, he was in Fitch’s office.

Nicholas left the courthouse on foot, and stopped, coincidentally, at O’Reilly’s Deli on the Vieux Marche, where he purchased a half-pound of smoked turkey and a container of pasta salad. He took his time walking home, no doubt enjoying the sunshine after a day inside. He bought a bottle of cold mineral water at a corner grocery and drank it as he walked. He watched some black kids play a fierce game of basketball in a church parking lot. He ducked through a small park, and for a moment almost lost his shadow. But he exited on the other
side, still sipping the water and now certain he was being followed. One of Fitch’s goons, Pang, a small Asian with a baseball cap, had nearly panicked in the park. Nicholas had seen him through a row of elevated boxwoods.

At his apartment door, he removed a small keypad and punched in the four-digit code. The tiny red light turned green, and he unlocked the door.

The surveillance camera was hidden in an air vent directly above the refrigerator, and from its silent perch had a complete view of the kitchen, den, and door to the bedroom. Nicholas went straight to his computer, and within seconds determined that, first, no one had attempted to turn it on, and, second, that an UAEA—unauthorized entry/apartment—had occurred at exactly 4:52 P.M.

He took a deep breath, glanced around, and decided to inspect the place. He expected to find no evidence of entry. The door appeared no different, the knob loose and easy to force open. The kitchen and den were precisely as he’d left them. His only assets—the stereo and CDs, the TV, the computer—appeared untouched. In the bedroom, he found no evidence of either a burglar or a crime. Back at the computer, he held his breath and waited for the show. He went through a series of files, found the correct program, then stopped the surveillance video. He punched two keys to rewind it, then sent it to four fifty-two.
Voilà!
In black and white, on the sixteen-inch monitor, the apartment door opened, and the camera turned directly to it. A narrow crack, as his visitor waited for the alarm to shriek. No alarm, then the door opened and a man entered. Nicholas stopped the video and stared
at the face on his monitor. He’d never seen him before.

The video continued as the man rapidly pulled a camera from his pocket and began flashing away. He nosed around the apartment, disappeared for a moment in the bedroom, where he continued to take photos. He studied the computer for a moment, but didn’t touch it. Nicholas smiled at this. His computer was impossible to enter. This thug couldn’t find the power switch.

He was in the apartment for nine minutes and thirteen seconds, and Nicholas could only speculate on why he came today. His best guess was that Fitch knew the apartment would be empty until court adjourned.

The visit was not frightening, but rather expected. Nicholas watched the video again, chuckled to himself, then saved it for future use.

Seven

F
itch himself was sitting in the back of the surveillance van at eight the next morning when Nicholas Easter walked into the sunshine and looked around the parking lot. The van had a plumber’s logo on the door and a fake phone number stenciled in green. “There he is,” Doyle announced and they all jumped. Fitch grabbed the scope, focused it quickly through a blackened porthole, and said, “Damn.”

“What is it?” asked Pang, the Korean technician who had pursued Nicholas yesterday.

Fitch leaned toward the round window, his mouth open, top lip curled upward. “I’ll be damned. Gray pullover, khakis, white socks, brown leather shoes.”

“Same shirt in the photo?” Doyle asked.

“Yep.”

Pang pressed a button on a portable radio and alerted another shadow two blocks away. Easter
was on foot, probably headed in the general direction of the courthouse.

He bought a large cup of black coffee and a newspaper at the same corner grocery, and sat in the same park for twenty minutes scanning the news. He wore dark sunglasses and noticed anyone who walked nearby.

Fitch went straight to his office down the street from the courthouse and huddled with Doyle, Pang, and an ex-FBI agent named Swanson. “We have to find the girl,” Fitch said over and over. A plan was devised to keep one person in the back row of the courtroom, one outside near the top of the stairs, one near the soft-drink machines on the first floor, and one outside with a radio. They would change posts with every recess. The flimsy description of her was passed around. Fitch decided to sit exactly where he’d sat yesterday, and go through the same motions.

Swanson, an expert on surveillance, was unsure of all the fuss. “It won’t work,” he said.

“Why not?” Fitch demanded.

“Because she’ll find you. She has something she wants to talk about, so she’ll make the next move.”

“Maybe. But I wanna know who she is.”

“Relax. She’ll find you.”

Fitch argued with him until almost nine o’clock, then walked briskly back to the courthouse. Doyle talked to the deputy, and persuaded him to point out the girl if she happened to appear again.

NICHOLAS had selected Rikki Coleman to chat with over coffee and croissants Friday morning. She was thirty and cute, married with two young children, and worked as a records administrator in a
private hospital in Gulfport. She was a health nut who avoided caffeine, alcohol, and, of course, nicotine. Her flaxen hair was short, cut like a boy’s, and her pretty blue eyes looked even cuter behind designer frames. She was sitting in a corner, sipping an orange juice and reading
USA Today
, when Nicholas zeroed in and said, “Good morning. I don’t think we officially met yesterday.”

She smiled, something she did easily, and offered a hand. “Rikki Coleman.”

“Nicholas Easter. Nice to meet you.”

“Thanks for lunch yesterday,” she said with a quick laugh.

“Don’t mention it. Can I sit down?” he asked, nodding at a folding chair next to her.

“Sure.” She laid the paper in her lap.

All twelve jurors were accounted for, and most were engaged in quiet pockets of early morning chatter. Herman Grimes sat alone at the table, in his beloved head chair, holding his coffee with both hands and no doubt listening for wayward words about the trial. Lonnie Shaver also sat alone at the table, his eyes poring over computer printouts from his supermarket. Jerry Fernandez had gone down the hall for a quick smoke with the Poodle.

“So how’s jury service?” Nicholas asked.

“Overrated.”

“Did anyone attempt to bribe you last night?”

“No. You?”

“No. It’s too bad, because Judge Harkin will be terribly disappointed if no one tries to bribe us.”

“Why does he go on about this unauthorized contact?”

Nicholas leaned forward a bit, though not too close. She leaned too and cast a wary eye at the
Foreman as if he could see them. They enjoyed the closeness and privacy of their little chat, the way two physically attractive people are sometimes drawn to one another. Just a little harmless flirting. “It’s happened before. Several times,” he said, almost in a whisper. Laughter erupted by the coffeepots as Mrs. Gladys Card and Mrs. Stella Hulic found something funny in the local paper.

“What’s happened before?” Rikki asked.

“Contaminated juries in tobacco cases. In fact, it almost always happens, usually at the hands of the defense.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, believing all and wanting much more information from the guy with two years of law school under his belt.

“There have been several of these cases around the country, and the tobacco industry has yet to get hit with a verdict. They pay millions for defense because they can’t afford to lose the first time. One big plaintiff’s verdict, and the floodgates open.” He paused, looked around, and sipped his coffee. “So, they use all sorts of dirty tricks.”

“Such as?”

“Such as offering money to family members of jurors. Such as spreading rumors in the community that the deceased, whoever he was, had four girlfriends, beat his wife, stole from his friends, went to church only for funerals, and had a homosexual son.”

She frowned in disbelief, so he continued. “It’s true, and it’s well known in legal circles. Judge Harkin knows it, I’m sure, that’s why we’re getting the warnings.”

“Can’t they be stopped?”

“Not yet. They’re very smart, and shrewd, and
crooked, and they leave no trail. Plus, they have millions.” He paused as she studied him. “They watched you before jury selection.”

“No!”

“Of course they did. It’s standard procedure in big trials. The law forbids them to directly contact any prospective juror before selection, so they do everything else. They probably photographed your house, car, kids, husband, place of employment. They might have talked to co-workers, or eavesdropped on conversations at the office or wherever you eat lunch. You never know.”

She set her orange juice on a windowsill. “That sounds illegal, or unethical, or something.”

“Something. But they got by with it because you had no idea they were doing it.”

“But you knew?”

“Yep. I saw a photographer in a car outside my apartment. And they sent a woman into the store where I work to pick a fight over our no-smoking policy. I knew exactly what they were doing.”

“But you said direct contact was prohibited.”

“Yes, but I didn’t say they played fair. Just the opposite. They’ll break any rule to win.”

“Why didn’t you tell the Judge?”

“Because it was harmless, and because I knew what they were doing. Now that I’m on the jury, I’m watching every move.”

With her curiosity piqued, Nicholas thought it best to save more dirt for later. He glanced at his watch and abruptly stood. “I think I’ll run to the boys’ room before we get back in the box.”

Lou Dell burst into the room, rattling the door on its hinges. “Time to go,” she said firmly, not unlike a
counselor at camp with much less authority than she assumed.

The crowd had thinned to about half of yesterday’s number. Nicholas scanned the spectators as the jurors sat and adjusted themselves on the worn cushions. Fitch, predictably, was sitting in the same spot, now with his head partially behind a newspaper as if he couldn’t care less about the jury; couldn’t give a damn what Easter was wearing. He’d stare later. The reporters had all but vanished, though they’d trickle in during the day. The Wall Street types looked to be thoroughly bored already; all were young, fresh college grads sent South because they were rookies and their bosses had better things to do. Mrs. Herman Grimes held her same position, and Nicholas wondered if she’d be there every day, hearing everything and ever ready to help her husband cast his lot.

Nicholas fully expected to see the man who’d entered his apartment, maybe not today, but at some point during the trial. The man was not in the courtroom at the moment.

“Good morning,” Judge Harkin said warmly to the jury when everyone was still. Smiles everywhere: from the Judge, the clerks—even the lawyers, who had stopped their huddling and whispering long enough to look at the jury with phony grins. “I trust everyone is well today.” He paused and waited for fifteen faces to nod awkwardly. “Good. Madam Clerk has informed me that everyone is ready for a full day.” It was hard to picture Lou Dell as Madam anything.

His Honor then lifted a sheet of paper which contained a list of questions the jurors would learn to hate. He cleared his voice and stopped smiling.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. I’m about to ask you a series of questions, very important questions, and I want you to respond if you feel the slightest need to. Also, I’d like to remind you that your failure to respond, if a response is in order, could be deemed by me as an act of contempt, punishable by a jail term.”

He allowed this grievous warning to float around the courtroom; the jurors felt guilty just for receiving it. Convinced he’d found his mark, he then started the questions: Did anyone attempt to discuss this trial with you? Did you receive any unusual phone calls since we adjourned yesterday? Did you see any strangers watching you or any members of your family? Did you hear any rumors or gossip about any of the parties in the trial? Any of the lawyers? Any of the witnesses? Did any person contact any of your friends or family members in an effort to discuss this trial? Did any friend or family member attempt to discuss this trial with you since yesterday’s adjournment? Did you see or receive any piece of written material which in any way mentioned anything to do with this trial?