The Runaway Jury (4 page)

More lawyers filed in. Then the jury consultants from both sides took their positions in the cramped seats between the railing and the counsel tables. They began the uncomfortable task of staring into the inquiring faces of 194 strangers. The consultants studied the jurors because, first, that was what they were being paid huge sums of money to do, and second, because they claimed to be able to thoroughly analyze a person through the telltale revelations of body language. They watched and waited anxiously for arms to fold across the chest, for fingers to pick nervously at teeth, for heads to cock suspiciously to one side, for a hundred other gestures that supposedly would lay a person bare and expose the most private of prejudices.

They scribbled notes and silently probed the faces. Juror number fifty-six, Nicholas Easter, received more than his share of concerned looks. He sat in the middle of the fifth row, dressed in starched khakis and a button-down, a nice-looking young man. He glanced around occasionally, but his attention was directed at a paperback he’d brought for the day. No one else had thought to bring a book.

More chairs were filled near the railing. The defense had no fewer than six jury experts examining facial twitches and hemorrhoidal clutches. The plaintiff was using only four.

For the most part, the prospective jurors didn’t enjoy being appraised in such a manner, and for fifteen awkward minutes they returned the glaring with scowls of their own. A lawyer told a private joke near the bench, and the laughter eased the tension. The lawyers gossiped and whispered, but the jurors were afraid to say anything.

The last lawyer to enter the courtroom was, of
course, Wendall Rohr, and as usual, he could be heard before he was seen. Since he didn’t own a dark suit, he wore his favorite opening-day ensemble—a gray checkered sports coat, gray slacks that didn’t match, a white vest, blue shirt with red-and-yellow paisley bow tie. He was barking at a paralegal as they strode in front of the defense lawyers, ignoring them as if they’d just finished a heated skirmish somewhere in the rear. He said something loudly to another plaintiff’s lawyer, and once he had the attention of the courtroom, he gazed upon his potential jurors. These were his people. This was his case, one he’d filed in his hometown so he could one day stand in this, his courtroom, and seek justice from his people. He nodded at a couple, winked at another. He knew these folks. Together, they would find the truth.

His entrance rattled the jury experts on the defense side, none of whom had actually met Wendall Rohr, but all of whom had been briefed extensively on his reputation. They saw the smiles on the faces of some of the jurors, people who actually knew him. They read the body language as the entire panel seemed to relax and respond to a familiar face. Rohr was a local legend. Fitch cursed him from the back row.

Finally, at ten-thirty, a deputy burst from the door behind the bench and shouted, “All rise for the court!” Three hundred people jumped to their feet as the Honorable Frederick Harkin stepped up to the bench and asked everyone to be seated.

For a judge he was quite young, fifty, a Democrat appointed by the governor to fill an unexpired term, then elected by the people. Because he’d once been a plaintiff’s lawyer, he was now rumored to be a plaintiff’s
judge, though there was no truth to this. Just gossip deliciously-spread by members of the defense bar. In reality, he’d been a decent general practitioner in a small firm not noted for its courtroom victories. He’d worked hard, but his passion had always been local politics, a game he’d played skillfully. His luck had paid off with an appointment to the bench, where he now earned eighty thousand dollars a year, more than he’d ever made as a lawyer.

The sight of a courtroom packed with so many qualified voters would warm the heart of any elected official, and His Honor couldn’t conceal a broad grin as he welcomed the panel to his lair as if they were volunteers. The smile slowly vanished as he completed a short welcoming speech, impressing upon them the importance of their presence. Harkin was not known for either his warmth or his humor, and he quickly turned serious.

And with good reason. Seated before him were more lawyers than could actually fit around the tables. The court file listed eight as counsel of record for the plaintiff, and nine for the defense. Four days earlier, in a closed courtroom, Harkin had assigned seating for both sides. Once the jury was selected and the trial started, only six lawyers per side could sit with feet under the table. The others were assigned to a row of chairs where the jury consultants now huddled and watched. He also designated seats for the parties—Celeste Wood, the widow, and the Pynex representative. The seating arrangement had been reduced to writing and included in a small booklet of rules His Honor had written just for this occasion.

The lawsuit had been filed four years ago, and actively pursued and defended since its inception. It
now filled eleven storage boxes. Each side had already spent millions to reach this point. The trial would last at least a month. Assembled at this moment in his courtroom were some of the brightest legal minds and largest egos in the country. Fred Harkin was determined to rule with a heavy hand.

Speaking into the microphone on the bench, he gave a quick synopsis of the trial, but only for informational purposes. Nice to let these folks know why they’re here. He said the trial was scheduled to last for several weeks, and that the jurors would not be sequestered. There were some specific statutory excuses from jury duty, he explained, and asked if anyone over the age of sixty-five had slipped through the computer. Six hands shot upward. He seemed surprised and looked blankly at Gloria Lane, who shrugged as if this happened all the time. The six had the option of leaving immediately, and five chose to do so. Down to 189. The jury consultants scribbled and X’ed off names. The lawyers gravely made notes.

“Now, do we have any blind people here?” the Judge asked. “I mean, legally blind?” It was a light question, and brought a few smiles. Why would a blind person show up for jury duty? It was unheard of.

Slowly, a hand was raised from the center of the pack, row seven, about halfway down. Juror number sixty-three, a Mr. Herman Grimes, age fifty-nine, computer programmer, white, married, no kids. What the hell was this? Did anybody know this man was blind? The jury experts huddled on both sides. The Herman Grimes photos had been of his house and a shot or two of him on the front porch.
He’d lived in the area about three years. His questionnaires didn’t indicate any handicap.

“Please stand, sir,” the Judge said.

Mr. Herman Grimes stood slowly, hands in pockets, casually dressed, normal-looking eyeglasses. He didn’t appear to be blind.

“Your number please,” the Judge asked. He, unlike the lawyers and their consultants, had not been required to memorize every available tidbit about every juror.

“Uh, sixty-three.”

“And your name?” He was flipping the pages of his computer printout.

“Herman Grimes.”

Harkin found the name, then gazed into the sea of faces. “And you’re legally blind?”

“Yes sir.”

“Well, Mr. Grimes, under our law, you are excused from jury duty. You’re free to go.”

Herman Grimes didn’t move, didn’t even flinch. He just looked at whatever he could see and said, “Why?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Why do I have to leave?”

“Because you’re blind.”

“I know that.”

“And, well, blind people can’t serve on juries,” Harkin said, glancing to his right and then to his left as his words trailed off. “You’re free to go, Mr. Grimes.”

Herman Grimes hesitated as he contemplated his response. The courtroom was still. Finally, “Who says blind people can’t serve on juries?”

Harkin was already reaching for a lawbook. His Honor was meticulously prepared for this trial. He’d
stopped hearing other matters a month ago, and had secluded himself in his chambers, where he pored over pleadings, discovery, the applicable law, and the latest in the rules of trial procedure. He’d picked dozens of juries during his tenure on the bench, all kinds of juries for all kinds of cases, and he thought he’d seen it all. So of course he’d get ambushed during the first ten minutes of jury selection. And of course the courtroom would be packed.

“You want to serve, Mr. Grimes?” he said, trying to force a lighthearted moment as he flipped pages and looked at the wealth of legal talent assembled nearby.

Mr. Grimes was growing hostile. “You tell me why a blind person can’t be on a jury. If it’s written in the law, then the law is discriminatory, and I’ll sue. If it ain’t written in the law, and if it’s just a matter of practice, then I’ll sue even faster.”

There was little doubt that Mr. Grimes was no stranger to litigation.

On one side of the bar were two hundred little people, those dragged into court by the power of the law. On the other side was the law itself—the Judge sitting elevated above the rest, the packs of stuffy lawyers looking down their nasty noses, the clerks, the deputies, the bailiffs. On behalf of the draftees, Mr. Herman Grimes had struck a mighty blow at the establishment, and he was rewarded with chuckles and light laughter from his colleagues. He didn’t care.

Across the railing, the lawyers smiled because the prospective jurors were smiling, and they shifted in their seats and scratched their heads because no one knew what to do. “I’ve never seen this before,” they whispered.

The law said that a blind person
may
be excused from jury service, and when the Judge saw the word
may
he quickly decided to placate Mr. Grimes and deal with him later. No sense getting sued in your own courtroom. There were other ways to exclude him from jury duty. He’d discuss it with the attorneys. “On second thought, Mr. Grimes, I think you’d make an excellent juror. Please be seated.”

Herman Grimes nodded and smiled and politely said, “Thank you, sir.”

How do you factor in a blind, juror? The experts mulled this question as they watched him slowly bend and sit. What are his prejudices? Which side will he favor? In a game with no rules, it was a widely held axiom that people with handicaps and disabilities made great plaintiff’s jurors because they better understood the meaning of suffering. But there were countless exceptions.

From the back row, Rankin Fitch strained to his right in a vain effort to make eye contact with Carl Nussman, the man who’d already been paid $1,200,000 to select the perfect jury. Nussman sat in the midst of his jury consultants, holding a legal pad and studying the faces as if he’d known perfectly well that Herman Grimes was blind. He hadn’t, and Fitch knew he hadn’t. It was a minor fact that had slipped through their vast web of intelligence. What else had they missed? Fitch asked himself. He’d peel the hide off Nussman as soon as they broke for a recess.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” the Judge continued, his voice suddenly sharper and anxious to move on now that an on-the-spot discrimination suit had been averted. “We enter into a phase of jury selection that will be somewhat time-consuming. It
deals with physical infirmities which might prevent you from serving. We are not going to embarrass you, but if you have a physical problem, we need to discuss it. We’ll start with the first row.”

As Gloria Lane stood in the aisle by row one, a man of about sixty raised his hand, then got to his feet and walked through the small swinging gate of the bar. A bailiff led him to the witness chair and shoved the microphone away. The Judge moved to the end of the bench and leaned downward so that he could whisper to the man. Two lawyers, one from each side, took their places directly in front of the witness stand and blocked the view from the spectators. The court reporter completed the tight huddle, and when everyone was in place the Judge softly asked about the man’s affliction.

It was a herniated disc, and he had a letter from his doctor. He was excused and left the courtroom in a hurry.

When Harkin broke for lunch at noon, he had dismissed thirteen people for medical reasons. The tedium had set in. They would resume at one-thirty, for much more of the same.

NICHOLAS EASTER left the courthouse alone, and walked six blocks to a Burger King, where he ordered a Whopper and a Coke. He sat in a booth near the window, watching kids swing in the small playground, scanning a
USA Today
, eating slowly because he had an hour and a half.

The same blonde who first met him at the Computer Hut in tight jeans now wore baggy Umbros, a loose T-shirt, new Nikes, and carried a small gym bag over her shoulder. She met him for the second
time as she walked by his booth carrying her tray and stopped when she seemed to recognize him.

“Nicholas,” she said, feigning uncertainty.

He looked at her, and for an awkward second knew they’d met somewhere before. The name escaped him.

“You don’t remember me,” she said with a pleasant smile. “I was in your Computer Hut two weeks ago looking for—”

“Yeah, I remember,” he said with a quick glance at her nicely tanned legs. “You bought a digital radio.”

“Right. The name is Amanda. If I remember correctly, I left you my phone number. I guess you lost it.”

“Would you like to sit down?”

“Thank you.” She sat quickly and took a french fry.

“I still have the number,” he said. “In fact—”

“Don’t bother. I’m sure you’ve called several times. My answering machine is broken.”

“No. I haven’t called, yet. But I was thinking about it.”

“Sure,” she said, almost giggling. She had perfect teeth, which she delighted in showing him. Her hair was in a ponytail. She was too cute and too put together to be a jogger. And there was no evidence of sweat on her face.

“So what are you doing here?” he asked.

“On my way to aerobics.”

“You’re eating french fries before you do aerobics?”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem right.”

“I need the carbohydrates.”

“I see. Do you smoke before aerobics?”

“Sometimes. Is that why you haven’t called? Because I smoke?”

“Not really.”