The Runaway Jury (12 page)

Sunday brought a pleasant surprise. At 8 A.M., he left his apartment and drove to the Biloxi small-craft harbor, where he met none other than Jerry Fernandez. They were last seen leaving the pier in a thirty-foot fishing boat with two others, presumably friends of Jerry’s. They returned eight and a half
hours later with red faces, a large cooler of some undetermined species of saltwater fish, and a boat full of empty beer cans.

The fishing was the first discernible hobby of Nicholas Easter. And Jerry was the first friend they’d been able to discover.

There was no sign of the girl, not that Fitch really expected to find her. She was proving to be quite patient, and this in itself was maddening. Her first little clue was most assuredly a setup for the second, and the third. The waiting was a torment.

However, Swanson, the ex-FBI agent, was now convinced she would reveal herself to them within the week. Her scheme, whatever it was, was predicated on more contact.

She waited only until Monday morning, thirty minutes before the trial resumed. The lawyers were already in place, plotting in small groups around the courtroom. Judge Harkin was in chambers dealing with an emergency matter in a criminal case. The jurors were gathering in the jury room. Fitch was down the street in his office, in his command bunker. An assistant, a young man named Konrad, who was a whiz with phones, wires, tapes, and high-tech surveillance gadgets, stepped through the open door and said, “There’s a phone call you might want to take.”

Fitch, as always, stared at Konrad and instantly analyzed the situation. All of his phone calls, even from his trusted secretary in Washington, were taken at the front desk and cleared to him by use of an intercom system built into the phones. It worked this way every time.

“Why?” he asked with a great deal of suspicion.

“She says she has another message for you.”

“Her name?”

“She won’t say. She’s very coy, but she insists it’s important.”

Another long pause as Fitch looked at the blinking light on one of the phones. “Any idea how she got the number?”

“No.”

“Are you tracing it?”

“Yes. Give us a minute. Keep her on the line.”

Fitch punched the button and lifted the receiver. “Yeah,” he said as nicely as possible. “Is this Mr. Fitch?” she asked, quite pleasantly.

“It is. And who is this?”

“Marlee.”

A name! He paused a second. Every phone call was automatically recorded, so he could analyze it later. “Good morning, Marlee. And do you have a last name?”

“Yeah. Juror number twelve, Fernandez, will walk into the courtroom in about twenty minutes holding a copy
of Sports Illustrated
. It’s the October 12 issue with Dan Marino on the cover.”

“I see,” he said as if he were taking notes. “Anything else?”

“Nope. Not now.”

“And when might you call again?”

“Don’t know.”

“How’d you get the phone number?”

“Easy. Remember, number twelve, Fernandez.” There was a click, and she was gone. Fitch punched another button, then a two-digit code. The entire conversation was replayed on a speaker above the phones.

Konrad raced in with a printout. “Came from a pay phone in Gulfport, a convenience store.”

“What a surprise,” Fitch said as he grabbed his jacket and began straightening his tie. “Guess I’ll run to court.”

NICHOLAS WAITED until most of his colleagues were either sitting at the table or standing nearby, and he waited until there was a lull in the chatter. He said loudly, “Well, did anyone get bribed or stalked over the weekend?” There were some grins and light laughs but no confessions.

“My vote’s not for sale, but it can certainly be rented,” said Jerry Fernandez, repeating a punchline he’d heard from Nicholas on the fishing boat yesterday. This was humorous to everyone but Herman Grimes.

“Why does he keep lecturing us like that?” asked Millie Dupree, obviously delighted someone had broken the ice and anxious to start the gossip. Others moved in closer and leaned forward to hear what the ex-law student thought about it. Rikki Coleman stayed in the corner with a newspaper. She’d already heard this.

“These cases have been tried before,” Nicholas explained reluctantly. “And there have been some shenanigans with the juries.”

“I don’t think we should discuss this,” Herman said.

“Why not? It’s harmless. We’re not discussing evidence or testimony.” Nicholas was authoritative. Herman was not sure.

“Judge said not to talk about the trial,” he protested, waiting for someone to come to his aid. There were no volunteers. Nicholas had the floor, and said, “Relax, Herman. This is not about evidence or the things we’ll eventually deliberate over.
This is about …” He hesitated a second for effect, then continued, “This is about jury tampering.”

Lonnie Shaver lowered his computer printout of grocery inventory and eased closer to the table. Rikki was now listening. Jerry Fernandez had heard it all on the boat yesterday, but it was irresistible.

“There was a tobacco trial, a very similar one in Quitman County, Mississippi, about seven years ago, up in the Delta. Some of you may remember it. It was a different tobacco company, but some of the players are the same, on both sides. And there was some pretty outrageous behavior both before the jury was picked and after the trial started. Judge Harkin, of course, has heard all the stories, and he is watching us very closely. Lots of people are watching us.”

Millie glanced around the table for a second. “Who?” she asked.

“Both sides.” Nicholas had decided to play it fair, because both sides had been guilty of misconduct in the other trials. “Both sides hire these guys called jury consultants, and they come in here from all over the country to help pick the perfect jury. The perfect jury, of course, is not one that will be fair, but one that’ll deliver the verdict they want. They study us before we’re selected. They—”

“How do they do that?” interrupted Mrs. Gladys Card.

“Well, they photograph our homes and apartments, our cars, our neighborhoods, our offices, our kids and their bikes, even ourselves. This is all legal and ethical, but they come close to crossing the line. They check public records, things such as court files and tax rolls, in an effort to get to know us. They might even talk to our friends and co-workers and
neighbors. This happens in every big trial nowadays.”

All eleven were listening and staring, inching closer and trying to remember if they’d seen any strangers lurking around corners with cameras. Nicholas took a sip of coffee, then continued: “After the jury is picked, they change gears a little. The panel has been narrowed from two hundred to fifteen, and so we’re much easier to watch. Throughout the trial each side will keep a group of jury consultants in the courtroom, watching us and trying to read our reactions. They usually sit on the first two rows, though they move around a lot.”

“You know who they are?” Millie asked in disbelief.

“I don’t know their names, but they’re fairly easy to spot. They’re well dressed, and they stare at us constantly.”

“I thought those folks were reporters,” said Retired Colonel Frank Herrera, unable to ignore the conversation.

“I hadn’t noticed,” said Herman Grimes, and everyone smiled, even Poodle.

“Watch them today,” Nicholas said. “They usually start off behind their respective counsel. In fact, I have a great idea. There’s this one woman whom I’m almost positive is a jury consultant for the defense. She’s about forty, heavyset with thick short hair. Every morning so far she’s been on the front row behind Durwood Cable. When we go out this morning, let’s stare at her. All twelve of us, just glare at her real hard and watch her unravel.”

“Even me?” Herman asked.

“Yes, Herm, even you. Just turn to ten o’clock, and stare with the rest of us.”

“Why are we playing games?” asked Sylvia “Poodle” Taylor-Tatum.

“Why not? What else have we got to do for the next eight hours?”

“I like it,” said Jerry Fernandez. “Maybe it’ll make ’em stop staring at us.”

“How long do we stare?” asked Millie.

“Let’s do it while Judge Harkin is reading us the riot act this morning. That’ll take ten minutes.” They more or less agreed with Nicholas.

Lou Dell came for them at exactly nine, and they left the jury room. Nicholas held two magazines—one of which was the October 12 issue of
Sports Illustrated
. He walked beside Jerry Fernandez until they came to the door leading into the courtroom, and as they began to file in he casually turned to his new friend and said, “Want something to read?”

The magazine was slightly pressing his stomach, so Jerry just as casually took it and said, “Sure, thanks.” They walked through the door into the courtroom.

Fitch knew Fernandez, number twelve, would have the magazine, but the sight of it was still a jolt. He watched him shuffle along the back row and take his seat. Fitch had seen the cover on a newsstand four blocks from the courthouse, and he knew it was Marino in the aquamarine jersey, number thirteen, arm cocked and ready to drill one.

The surprise quickly gave way to excitement. The girl Marlee was working the outside while someone on the jury was working the inside. Maybe there were two or three or four on the jury who were conspiring with her. Didn’t matter to Fitch. The more the better. These people were setting the table, and Fitch was ready to deal.

The jury consultant’s name was Ginger, and she worked for Carl Nussman’s firm in Chicago. She had sat through dozens of trials. She usually spent half of each day in the courtroom, changing places during recesses, removing her jacket, removing her eyeglasses. She was an old pro at studying juries, and she’d seen it all. She was on the front row behind the defense lawyers; a colleague sat a few feet down scanning a newspaper as the jury settled in.

Ginger looked at the jury and waited for His Honor to greet them, which he did. Most of the jurors nodded and smiled at the Judge, then all of them, every one of them including the blind man, turned and stared directly at her. A couple had smiles, but most seemed rather perturbed about something.

She looked away.

Judge Harkin trudged through his script—one ominous question after another—and he too quickly noticed that his jury was preoccupied with one of the spectators.

They kept staring, in perfect unison.

Nicholas struggled to keep from howling. His luck was incredible. There were about twenty people sitting on the left side of the courtroom, behind the defense lawyers, and two rows behind Ginger sat the hulking figure of Rankin Fitch. From the jury box, Fitch was in the same line of vision as Ginger, and from fifty feet away it was difficult to tell exactly who the jurors were staring at—Ginger or Fitch.

Ginger certainly thought it was her. She found some notes to study while her colleague scooted farther away.

Fitch felt naked as the twelve faces studied him from the jury box. Small beads of sweat popped
through above his eyebrows. The Judge asked more questions. A couple of the lawyers turned awkwardly to look behind them.

“Keep staring,” Nicholas said softly without moving his lips.

Wendall Rohr glanced over his shoulder to see who was sitting out there. Ginger’s shoelaces caught her attention. They kept staring.

It was unheard of for a trial judge to ask a jury to pay attention. Harkin had been tempted before, but it was usually a juror who’d become so bored with the testimony that he’d fallen asleep and was snoring. And so he raced through the rest of his tampering questions, then loudly said, “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Now we will continue with Dr. Milton Fricke.”

Ginger suddenly had to visit the ladies’ room, and she scurried from the courtroom as Dr. Fricke entered from a side door and resumed his place on the witness stand.

Cable had just a few questions on cross-examination, he said politely, with great deference to Dr. Fricke. He was not about to argue science with a scientist, but he hoped to score a few minor points with the jury. Fricke admitted that not all of the damage to Mr. Wood’s lungs could be attributed to smoking Bristols for almost thirty years. Jacob Wood worked in an office for many years with other smokers, and, yes, it’s true that some of the destruction of his lungs could have been caused by exposure to other smokers. “But it’s still cigarette smoke,” Dr. Fricke reminded Cable, who readily agreed.

And what about air pollution? Is it possible that breathing dirty air added to the condition of the
lungs? Dr. Fricke admitted that this was certainly a possibility.

Cable asked a dangerous question, and he got by with it. “Dr. Fricke, if you look at all of the possible causes—direct cigarette smoke, indirect cigarette smoke, air pollution, and any others that we’ve failed to mention—is it possible for you to say how much of the damage to the lungs was caused by smoking Bristols?”

Dr. Fricke concentrated on this for a moment, then said, “The majority of the damage.”

“How much—sixty percent, eighty percent? Is it possible for a medical scientist such as yourself to give us an approximate percentage?”

It was not possible, and Cable knew it. He had two experts ready for rebuttal in the event Fricke stepped out of bounds and speculated too much.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Fricke said.

“Thank you. One final question, Doctor. What percentage of cigarette smokers suffer from lung cancer?”

“Depends on which study you believe.”

“You don’t know?”

“I have a good idea.”

“Then answer the question.”

“About ten percent.”

“No further questions.”

“Dr. Fricke, you are excused,” said His Honor. “Mr. Rohr, please call your next witness.”

“Dr. Robert Bronsky.”

As the witnesses were passing each other in front of the bench, Ginger reentered the courtroom and took a seat on the back row, as far from the jurors as possible. Fitch took advantage of the brief break to leave. He attracted José in the atrium, and they hurried
out of the courthouse and back to the dime store.

BRONSKY TOO was a superbly educated medical researcher who had almost as many degrees and published almost as many articles as Fricke. They knew each other well because they worked together at the research center in Rochester. Rohr took great pleasure in walking Bronsky through his marvelous pedigree. Once he was qualified as an expert, they launched into a clinic on the basics: