The Runaway Jury Part 3

"Thank you, Mrs. Millwood." Her husband was once an accountant for a small county hospital that was forced to close after being nailed in a medical malpractice case. Large verdicts were something she secretly loathed, and for good reason. Jonathan Kotlack, the plaintiff's lawyer in charge of final jury selection, had long since removed her name from consideration.

However, around the table not ten feet from Kotlack, the defense lawyers regarded her highly. JoAnn Millwood would be a prize catch.

Rohr asked the same questions of the other veterans of jury service, and things quickly became monotonous. He then tackled the th.o.r.n.y issue of tort reform, and asked a string of rambling questions about the rights of victims, and frivolous lawsuits, and the price of insurance. A few of his questions were wrapped around mini-arguments, but he stayed out of trouble. It was almost lunchtime, and the panel had lost interest for a while. Judge Harkin recessed for an hour, and the deputies cleared the courtroom.

The lawyers remained though. Box lunches containing soggy little sandwiches and red apples were pa.s.sed out by Gloria Lane and her staff. This was to be a working lunch. Pending motions of a dozen varieties needed resolution, and His Honor was ready for argument. Coffee and iced tea were poured.

THE USE of questionnaires greatly facilitated the selection of the jury. While Rohr asked questions inside the courtroom, dozens of people elsewhere examined the written answers and marked names off their lists. One man's sister had died of lung cancer. Seven others had close friends or family members with serious health problems, all of which they attributed to smoking. At least half the panel either smoked now or had been regular smokers in the past. Most of those smoking admitted their desire to quit.

The data were a.n.a.lyzed, then put in computers, and by mid-afternoon of the second day the printouts were being pa.s.sed around and edited. After Judge Harkin recessed at four-thirty on Tuesday, he again cleared the courtroom and conducted proceedings on the record. For almost three hours, the written answers were discussed and debated, and in the end thirty-one additional names were removed from consideration. Gloria Lane was instructed to immediately phone these newest deletions and tell them the good news.

Harkin was determined to complete jury selection on Wednesday. Opening statements were scheduled for Thursday morning. He had even hinted at some Sat.u.r.day work.

At eight o'clock Tuesday night he heard one last motion, a quickie, and sent the lawyers home. The lawyers for Pynex met Fitch at the offices of Whitney & Cable & White, where another delicious feast of cold sandwiches and greasy chips awaited them. Fitch wanted to work, and while the weary lawyers slowly filled their paper plates, two paralegals distributed copies of the latest handwriting a.n.a.lyses. Eat quickly, Fitch demanded, as if the food could be savored. The panel was down to 111, and the picking would start tomorrow.

THE MORNING belonged to Durwood Cable, or Durr as he was known up and down the Coast, a place he'd never really left in his sixty-one years. As the senior partner for Whitney & Cable & White, Sir Durr had been carefully selected by Fitch to handle the bulk of the courtroom work for Pynex. As a lawyer, then a judge, and now a lawyer again, Durr had spent most of the past thirty years looking at and speaking to juries. He found courtrooms to be relaxing places because they were stages-no phones, no foot traffic, no secretaries scurrying about-everyone with a role, everyone following a script with the lawyers as the stars. He moved and talked with great deliberation, but between steps and sentences his gray eyes missed nothing. Where his adversary, Wendall Rohr, was loud and gregarious and gaudy, Durr was b.u.t.toned up and quite starched. The obligatory dark suit, a rather bold gold tie, the standard issue white s.h.i.+rt, which contrasted nicely with his deeply tanned face. Durr had a pa.s.sion for salt.w.a.ter fis.h.i.+ng, and spent many hours on his boat, in the sun. The top of his head was bald, and very bronzed.

He once went six years without losing a case, then Rohr, his foe and sometime friend, popped him for two million in a three-wheeler case.

He stepped to the railing and looked seriously into the faces of 111 people. He knew where each lived and the number of children and grandchildren, if any. He crossed his arms, pinched his chin like a pensive professor, and said in a pleasantly rich voice, "My name is Durwood Cable, and I represent Pynex, an old company that's been making cigarettes for ninety years." There, he was not ashamed of it! He talked about Pynex for ten minutes, and did a masterful job of softening up the company, of making his client warm and fuzzy, almost likable.

Finished with that, he plunged fearlessly into the issue of choice. Whereas Rohr had dwelt on addiction, Cable spent his time on the freedom to choose. "Can we all agree that cigarettes are potentially dangerous if abused?" he asked, then watched most of the heads shake in agreement. Who could argue with this? "There, fine. Now since this is common knowledge, can we all agree that a person who smokes should know the dangers?" More nodding, no hands, yet. He studied the faces, especially the blank one belonging to Nicholas Easter, now seated on row three, eighth from the aisle. Because of the dismissals, Easter was no longer juror number fifty-six. He was now number thirty-two, and advancing with each session. His face revealed nothing but rapt attention.

"This is a very important question," Cable said slowly, his words echoing in the stillness. With a pointed finger, he delicately jabbed at them and said, "Is there a single person on this panel who doesn't believe that a person who chooses to smoke should know the dangers?"

He waited, watching and tugging at the line a bit, and finally caught one. A hand was slowly raised from the fourth row. Cable smiled, took a step closer, said, "Yes, I believe you're Mrs. Tutwiler. Please stand." If he was truly eager to have a volunteer, his joy was short-lived. Mrs. Tutwiler was a fragile little lady of sixty, with an angry face. She stood straight, lifted her chin, and said, "I got a question for you, Mr. Cable."

"Certainly."

"If everybody knows cigarettes are dangerous, then why does your client keep making them?"

There were a few grins from her colleagues in the pool. All eyes were on Durwood Cable as he kept smiling, never flinching in the least. "Excellent question," he said loudly. He was not about to answer it. "Do you think the making of all cigarettes should be banned, Mrs. Tutwiler?"

"I do."

"Even if people want to exercise their right to choose to smoke?"

"Cigarettes are addictive, Mr. Cable, you know that."

"Thank you, Mrs. Tutwiler."

"The manufacturers load up the nicotine, get folks hooked, then advertise like crazy to keep selling."

"Thank you, Mrs. Tutwiler."

"I'm not finished," she said loudly, clutching the pew in front of her and standing ever taller. "The manufacturers have always denied that smoking is addictive. That's a lie, and you know it. Why don't they say so on their labels?"

Durr's face never changed expression. He waited patiently, then asked quite warmly, "Are you finished, Mrs. Tutwiler?" There were other things she wanted to say, but it dawned on her that perhaps this was not the place. "Yes," she said, almost in a whisper.

"Thank you. Responses such as yours are vital to the jury selection process. Thank you very much. You may now sit down."

She glanced around as if some of the others should stand and fight with her, but left alone, she dropped to her seat. She might as well have left the courtroom.

Cable quickly pursued less sensitive matters. He asked a lot of questions, provoked a few responses, and gave his body language experts much to chew on. He finished at noon, just in time for a quick lunch. Harkin asked the panel to return at three, but told the lawyers to eat fast and return in forty-five minutes.

At one o'clock, with the courtroom empty and locked and the lawyers crowded tightly in bunches around their tables, Jonathan Kotlack stood and informed the court that "The plaintiff will accept juror number one." No one seemed surprised. Everyone wrote something on a printout, including His Honor, who, after a slight pause, asked, "The defense?"

"The defense will accept number one." Not much of a surprise. Number one was Rikki Coleman, a young wife and mother of two who'd never smoked and worked as a records administrator in a hospital. Kotlack and crew rated her as a 7 out of 10 based on her written answers, her background in health care, her college degree, and her keen interest in everything that had been said so far. The defense rated her as a 6, and would've pa.s.sed on her but for a string of serious undesirables forthcoming further down row one.

"That was easy," Harkin mumbled under his breath. "Moving right along. Juror number two, Raymond C. LaMonette." Mr. LaMonette was the first strategical skirmish of jury selection. Neither side wanted him-both rated him 4.5. He smoked heavily but was desperate to quit. His written answers were thoroughly indecipherable and utterly useless. The body linguists on both sides reported that Mr. LaMonette hated all lawyers and all things related to them. He'd nearly been killed years earlier by a drunk driver. His lawsuit netted him nothing.

Under the rules of jury selection, each side was granted a number of peremptory challenges, or strikes as they were called, which could be used to ax potential jurors for no reason whatsoever. Because of the importance of this case, Judge Harkin had granted each side ten strikes, up from the customary four. Both wanted to cut LaMonette, but both needed to save their strikes for more objectionable faces.

The plaintiff was required to go first, and after a brief delay, Kotlack said, "The plaintiff will strike number two."

"That's peremptory challenge number one for the plaintiff," Harkin said, making a note. A small victory for the defense. Based on a last-second decision, Durr Cable had been prepared to strike him as well.

The plaintiff used a strike on number three, the wife of a corporate executive, and also on number four. The strategic strikes continued, and practically decimated row one. Only two jurors survived. The carnage lessened with row two, with five of the twelve surviving various challenges, two by the court itself. Seven jurors had been chosen when the selection moved to row three. Eight spots down sat the great unknown, Nicholas Easter, juror number thirty-two, who'd so far paid good attention and seemed to be somewhat palatable, though he gave both sides the jitters.

Wendall Rohr, now speaking for the plaintiff because Kotlack was deep in a hushed conference with an expert about two of the faces on row four, used a peremptory strike on number twenty-five. It was the plaintiff's ninth strike. The last one was reserved for a much-feared and notorious Republican on the fourth row, if they got that far. The defense struck number twenty-six, burning its eighth peremptory. Jurors number twenty-seven, twenty-eight, and twenty-nine were accepted. Juror number thirty was challenged by the defense for cause, a plea for the court to excuse the juror for mutual reasons without requiring either side to exhaust a strike. Durr Cable asked the court to go off the record because he had something he wished to discuss in private. Rohr was a bit perplexed, but did not object. The court reporter stopped recording. Cable handed a thin brief to Rohr and the same to His Honor. He lowered his voice, and said, "Your Honor, we have learned, through certain sources, that juror number thirty, Bonnie Tyus, is addicted to the prescription drug Ativan. She has never been treated, never been arrested, never admitted her problem. She certainly didn't disclose it on the questionnaires or during our little Q and A. She manages to live quietly, keep a job and a husband, though he's her third."

"How'd you learn this?" Harkin asked.

"Through our rather extensive investigation of all potential jurors. I a.s.sure you, Your Honor, that there has been no unauthorized contact with Mrs. Tyus."

Fitch had found it. Her second husband had been located in Nashville, where he washed tractor-trailer rigs at an all-night truck stop. For one hundred dollars cash, he'd happily told all he could remember about his ex.

"What about it, Mr. Rohr?" asked His Honor.

Without a second's hesitation, Rohr said, lying, "We have the same information, Your Honor." He cast a pleasant glance at Jonathan Kotlack, who in turn glared at another lawyer who'd been in charge of the group which included Bonnie Tyus. They'd spent over a million bucks so far on jury selection, and they'd missed this crucial fact!

"Fine. Juror number thirty is excused for cause. Back on the record. Juror number thirty-one?"

"Could we have a few minutes, Your Honor?" Rohr asked.

"Yes. But be brief."

After thirty names, ten had been selected; nine had been struck by the plaintiff, eight by the defense, and three had been excused by the court. It was unlikely the selection would reach the fourth row, so Rohr, with one strike remaining, looked at jurors thirty-one through thirty-six, and whispered to his huddled group, "Which one stinks the most?" The fingers pointed unanimously to number thirty-four, a large, mean white woman who had scared them from day one. Wilda Haney was her name, and for a month now they had all vowed to avoid Wide Wilda. They studied their master sheet a few minutes longer, and agreed to take numbers thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, and thirty-five, not all of whom were terribly attractive, but far more so than Wide Wilda.

In a denser huddle just a few feet away, Cable and his troops agreed to strike thirty-one, take thirty-two, challenge thirty-three because thirty-three was Mr. Herman Grimes, the blind man, then take thirty-four, Wilda Haney, and strike, if necessary, number thirty-five.

NICHOLAS EASTER thus became the eleventh juror selected to hear Wood Wood v. v. Pynex Pynex. When the courtroom was opened at three and the panel was seated, Judge Harkin began calling out the names of the chosen twelve. They walked through the gate in the railing and took their a.s.signed seats in the jury box. Nicholas had chair number two on the front row. At twenty-seven, he was the second youngest juror. There were nine whites, three blacks, seven women, five men, one blind. Three alternates were seated in padded folding chairs wedged tightly together in one corner of the jury box. At four-thirty, the fifteen stood and repeated their oaths as jurors. They then listened for half an hour as Judge Harkin issued a series of stern warnings to them, and to the lawyers and parties involved. Contact with the jurors of any type or manner would result in stiff sanctions, monetary penalties, maybe a mistrial, perhaps disbarment and death.

He forbade the jurors from discussing the case with anyone, even their spouses and mates, and with a cheery smile bid them farewell, a pleasant night, see you at nine sharp tomorrow morning.

The lawyers watched and wished they could leave too. But there was work to do. When the courtroom was cleared of everyone but lawyers and clerks, His Honor said, "Gentlemen, you filed these motions. Now we must argue them."

Five.

Partially out of a mixture of eagerness and boredom, and partially on a hunch that someone would be waiting, Nicholas Easter slipped through the unlocked rear door of the courthouse at eight-thirty, up the seldom-used back stairs, and into the narrow hallway behind the courtroom. Most of the county offices opened at eight, so there was movement and noise to be heard on the first floor. But little on the second. He peeked into the courtroom, and found it empty of people. The briefcases had arrived and been parked haphazardly on the tables. The lawyers were probably in the back, near the coffee machine, telling jokes and preparing for battle.

He knew the turf well. Three weeks earlier, the day after he'd received his precious summons for jury duty, he had come poking around the courtroom. Finding it unused and vacant for the moment, he had explored the alleys and s.p.a.ces around it; the Judge's cramped chambers; the coffee room where the lawyers gossiped while sitting on ancient tables strewn with old magazines and current newspapers; the makes.h.i.+ft witness rooms with folding chairs and no windows; the holding room where the handcuffed and dangerous waited for their punishment; and, of course, the jury room.

This morning, his hunch was correct. Her name was Lou Dell, a squatty woman of sixty in polyester pants and old sneakers and gray bangs in her eyes. She was sitting in the hallway by the door to the jury room, reading a battered romance and waiting for someone to enter her domain. She jumped to her feet, whipped out a sheet of paper from under her, and said, "Good morning. Can I help you?" Her entire face was one ma.s.sive smile. Her eyes glowed with mischief.

"Nicholas Easter," he said, as he reached for her outstretched hand. She squeezed tightly, shook with a vengeance, and found his name on her paperwork. Another, larger smile, then, "Welcome to the jury room. This your first trial?"

"Yes."

"Come on," she said, virtually shoving him through the door and into the room. "Coffee and doughnuts are over here," she said, tugging at his arm, pointing to a corner. "I made these myself," she said proudly, lifting a basket of oily black m.u.f.fins. "Sort of a tradition. I always bring these on the first day, call 'em my jury m.u.f.fins. Take one."

The table was covered with several varieties of doughnuts arranged neatly on trays. Two coffeepots were filled and steaming. Plates and cups, spoons and forks, sugar, cream, sweeteners of several varieties. And in the center of the table were the jury m.u.f.fins. Nicholas took one because he had no choice.

"Been making them for eighteen years," she said. "Used to put raisins in them, but had to quit." She rolled her eyes up at him as if the rest of the story was just too scandalous.

"Why?" he asked, because he felt compelled.

"Gave 'em gas. Sometimes every sound can be heard in the courtroom. Know what I mean?"

I guess.

"Coffee?"

"I can get my own."

"Fine then." She whirled around and pointed to a stack of papers in the center of the long table. "There's a list of instructions from Judge Harkin. He wants every juror to take one, read it carefully, and sign at the bottom. I'll collect them later."

"Thanks."

"I'll be in the hall by the door if you need me. That's where I stay. They're gonna put a d.a.m.ned deputy with me for this one, can you believe it? Just makes me sick. Probably some clod who can't hit a barn with a shotgun. But anyway, I guess this is about the biggest one we've ever had. Civil, that is. You wouldn't believe some of the criminal ones we've had." She took the doork.n.o.b and yanked it toward her. "I'm out here, dear, if you need me."

The door closed, and Nicholas gazed at the m.u.f.fin. Slowly, he took a small bite. It was mostly bran and sugar, and he thought for a second about the sounds in the courtroom. He tossed it in the wastebasket and poured black coffee into a plastic cup. The plastic cups would have to go. If they planned for him to camp here for four to six weeks, then they'd have to provide real cups. And if the county could afford pretty doughnuts, then it could certainly afford bagels and croissants.

There was no decaf coffee. He made a note of this. And no hot water for tea, just in case some of his new friends weren't coffee drinkers. Lunch had better be good. He would not eat tuna salad for the next six weeks.

Twelve chairs were arranged neatly around the table, which was in the center of the room. The thick layer of dust he had noticed three weeks ago had been removed; the place was much tidier, and ready for use. On one wall was a large blackboard, with erasers and fresh chalk. Across the table, on the opposite wall, three large windows, from floor to ceiling, looked upon the courthouse lawn, still green and fresh though summer had ended over a month ago. Nicholas looked through a window and watched the foot traffic on the sidewalks.

The latest from Judge Harkin was a list of a few things to do, and many to avoid: Get organized. Elect a foreman, and if you are unable to do so, notify His Honor and he will be happy to select one. Wear the red-and-white Juror b.u.t.tons at all times. Lou Dell would dispense these. Bring something to read during downtimes. Do not hesitate to ask for anything. Do not discuss the case among yourselves until you are instructed to do so by His Honor. Do not discuss the case with anyone, period. Do not leave the courthouse without permission. Do not use the telephones without permission. Lunch will be catered and eaten in the jury room. A daily menu will be provided each day before the trial resumes at nine. Notify the court immediately if you or anyone you know is in any way contacted with regard to your involvement in this trial. Notify the court immediately if you see or hear or notice anything suspicious which may or may not be related to your service as a juror in this case.

Odd directions, these last two. But Nicholas knew the details of a tobacco trial in east Texas, a trial which blew up after only one week when it was discovered that mysterious agents were slinking through the small town and offering huge sums of money to relatives of jurors. The agents disappeared before they were caught, and it was never learned which side they worked for, though both made heated accusations. Cooler heads laid heavy odds that it was the work of the tobacco boys. The jury appeared to have a strong sympathy bent to it, and the defense was delighted when the mistrial was declared.

Though there was no way to prove it, Nicholas was certain Rankin Fitch was the phantom behind the payoffs. And he knew Fitch would quickly go to work on his new set of friends.

He signed the bottom of the sheet and left it on the table. There were voices in the hallway, and Lou Dell was meeting another juror. The door opened with a kick and a thud, and Mr. Herman Grimes entered first with his walking stick tapping along in front of him. His wife was close behind, not touching him but instantly inspecting the room and describing it under her breath. "Long room, twenty-five by fifteen, length in front of you, width from left to right, long table running lengthwise in center with chairs around it, nearest chair to you is eight feet." He froze as he gathered this in, his head moving in whatever direction she was describing. Behind her, Lou Dell stood in the doorway with hands on hips and just dying to feed the blind man a m.u.f.fin.

Nicholas took a few steps and introduced himself. He grabbed Herman's outstretched hand and they exchanged pleasantries. He said h.e.l.lo to Mrs. Grimes, then led Herman to the food and coffee where he poured him a cup and stirred in sugar and cream. He described the doughnuts and the m.u.f.fins, a preemptive strike against Lou Dell, who lingered near the door. Herman was not hungry.

"My favorite uncle is blind," Nicholas said for the benefit of all three. "I'd consider it an honor if you'd allow me to a.s.sist you during the trial."

"I'm perfectly capable of handling myself," Herman said with a trace of indignation, but his wife couldn't conceal a warm smile. Then she winked and nodded.

"I'm sure you are," Nicholas said. "But I know there are lots of little things. I just want to help."

"Thank you," he said after a brief pause.

"Thank you, sir," his wife said.

"I'll be outside in the hallway if you need anything," Lou Dell said.

"What time should I come get him?" Mrs. Grimes asked.

"Five. If sooner, I'll call." Lou Dell was closing the door as she rattled off instructions.

Herman's eyes were covered with dark gla.s.ses. His hair was brown, thick, well greased, and barely yielding to gray.

"There's a bit of paperwork," Nicholas said when they were alone. "Take a seat there in front of you and I'll go over it." Herman felt the table, set down his coffee, then groped for a chair. He outlined it with his fingertips, got his bearings, and sat down. Nicholas took an instruction sheet and began reading.

AFTER SPENDING FORTUNES on the selection, the opinions came cheap. Everybody had one. The experts for the defense congratulated themselves on picking such a fine jury, though most of the puffing and posturing was done for the benefit of the legion of lawyers working round the clock. Durr Cable had seen worse juries, but he'd seen much friendlier ones too. He'd also learned many years ago that it was virtually impossible to predict what any jury would do. Fitch was happy, or as happy as he could allow himself, though that didn't stop his b.i.t.c.hing and snarling about everything. Four smokers were on the jury. Fitch clung to the unspoken belief that the Gulf Coast, with its topless joints and casinos and proximity to New Orleans, was not a bad place to be right now because of its tolerance for vice.

On the other side of the street, Wendall Rohr and his trial counsel declared themselves satisfied with the composition of the jury. They were especially delighted with the unexpected addition of Mr. Herman Grimes, the first blind juror in the history of anyone's memory. Mr. Grimes had insisted on being evaluated just the same as those "with sight," and had threatened legal action if treated differently. His hair-trigger reliance on lawsuits greatly warmed the hearts of Rohr and company, and his handicap was a plaintiff's lawyer's dream. The defense had objected on all imaginable grounds, including the inability to see the forthcoming exhibits. Judge Harkin had allowed the lawyers to quietly quiz Mr. Grimes about this, and he a.s.sured them he could see the exhibits if the exhibits could be sufficiently described in writing. His Honor then decided that a separate court reporter would be used to type descriptions of the exhibits. A disc could then be fed into Mr. Grimes' braille computer, and he could read at night. This made Mr. Grimes very happy, and he quit talking about discrimination suits. The defense softened a bit, especially when it learned that he had once smoked for many years and had no problems being around people who continued the habit.

So, both sides were cautiously pleased with their jury. No radicals had been seated. No bad att.i.tudes had been detected. All twelve had high school diplomas, two had college degrees, and another three had acc.u.mulated credits. Easter's written answers admitted completion of high school, but his college studies were still a mystery.

And as both sides prepared for the first full day of real trial activities, they quietly pondered the great question, the one they loved to guess about. As they looked at the seating charts and studied the faces for the millionth time, they asked over and over, "Who will be the leader?"

Every jury has a leader, and that's where you find your verdict. Will he emerge quickly? Or will she lie back and take charge during deliberations? Not even the jurors knew at this point.

AT TEN SHARP, Judge Harkin studied the packed courtroom and decided everyone was in place. He pecked his gavel lightly and the whispers ceased. Everyone was ready. He nodded at Pete, his ancient bailiff in a faded brown uniform, and said simply, "Bring in the jury." All eyes watched the door beside the jury box. Lou Dell appeared first, leading her flock like a mother hen, then the chosen twelve filed in and went to their a.s.signed seats. The three alternates took their positions in folding chairs. After a moment of settling in-adjusting seat cus.h.i.+ons and hem lengths and placing purses and paperbacks on the floor-the jurors grew still and of course noticed that they were being gawked at.

"Good morning," His Honor said with a loud voice and a large smile. Most of them nodded back.

"I trust you've found the jury room and gotten yourselves organized." A pause, as he lifted for some reason the fifteen signed forms Lou Dell had dispensed then collected. "Do we have a foreman?" he asked.

The twelve nodded in unison.

"Good. Who is it?"

"It's me, Your Honor," Herman Grimes said from the first row, and for a quick second the defense, all its lawyers and jury consultants and corporate representatives, suffered a collective chest pain. Then they breathed, slowly, but never allowing the slightest indication that they had anything but the greatest love and affection for the blind juror who was now the foreman. Perhaps the other eleven just felt sorry for the old boy.

"Very well," His Honor said, relieved that his jury was able to reach this routine selection without apparent acrimony. He'd seen much worse. One jury, half white and half black, had been unable to elect a foreman. They later brawled over the lunch menu.

"I trust you've read my written instructions," he continued, then launched into a detailed lecture in which he repeated twice everything he'd already put in print.