The Runaway Jury Part 30

Judge Harkin explained that he had a few questions which would require responses under oath, and the lawyers suddenly produced yellow legal pads and started their scribbling. Herrera immediately felt like a criminal.

"Have you been reading any materials not expressly authorized by me?" Judge Harkin asked.

A pause as the lawyers looked at him. The law clerk and the court reporter and the Judge himself were poised to pounce on his response. Even Willis by the door was awake and paying remarkable attention.

"No. Not to my knowledge," the Colonel said, truthfully.

"Specifically, have you been reading a business weekly called Mogul?" Mogul?"

"Not since I've been sequestered."

"Do you normally read Mogul?" Mogul?"

"Once, maybe twice a month."

"In your room at the motel, do you possess any reading materials not authorized by me?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Will you consent to a search of your room?"

Frank's cheeks went red and his shoulders jerked. "What're you talking about?" he demanded.

"I have reason to believe you've been reading unauthorized materials, and that this has occurred at the motel. I think a quick search of your room might settle the matter."

"You're questioning my integrity," Herrera said, wounded and angry. His integrity was vital to him. A glance at the other faces revealed that they all thought he was guilty of some heinous transgression.

"No, Mr. Herrera. I simply believe a search will allow us to proceed with this trial."

It was just a motel room, not like a home where all sorts of private things are hidden. And, besides, Frank knew d.a.m.ned well there was nothing in his room that could incriminate him. "Then search it," he said with clenched teeth.

"Thank you."

Willis led Frank into the hallway outside chambers, and Judge Harkin called the Sheriff at the motel. The manager opened the door to Room 50. The Sheriff and two deputies conducted a delicate search of the closet and drawers and bathroom. Under the bed, they found a stack of Wall Street Journals Wall Street Journals and and Forbes Forbes magazines, and also a copy of yesterday's magazines, and also a copy of yesterday's Mogul Mogul. The Sheriff called Judge Harkin, relayed what they'd found, and was instructed to bring the unauthorized items to chambers at once.

Nine-fifteen, no jury. Fitch sat rigid on a back pew, eyes peering just barely over the top of a newspaper and staring hard at the door near the jury box, knowing full and d.a.m.ned well that when they finally emerged, juror number seven would not be Herrera but rather Henry Vu. Vu was mildly tolerable from a defense view because he was Asian, and Asians typically weren't the big spenders of other people's moneys in tort cases. But Vu was no Herrera, and Fitch's jury people had been telling him for weeks now that the Colonel was with them and would be a force during deliberations.

If Marlee and Nicholas could bounce Herrera on a whim, who might be next? If they were doing this solely to get Fitch's attention, then they were surely successful.

THE JUDGE and the lawyers stared in disbelief at the newspapers and magazines now lined neatly across Harkin's desk. The Sheriff dictated into the record a brief narrative of how and where the items were found, then left.

"Gentlemen, I have no choice but to excuse Mr. Herrera," His Honor said, and the lawyers said nothing. Herrera was brought back into the room and directed to the same chair.

"On the record," Judge Harkin said to the court reporter. "Mr. Herrera, what is your room number at the Siesta Inn?"

"50."

"These items were found under the bed in Room 50 just minutes ago." Harkin waved at the periodicals. "All are recent, most are dated after the date of sequestration."

Herrera was dumbfounded.

"All, of course, are unauthorized, some are highly prejudicial."

"They're not mine," Herrera said slowly, his anger building.

"I see."

"Somebody put them there."

"Who might have done this?"

"I don't know. Maybe the same person who gave you the tip."

A very good point, thought Harkin, but not one to be pursued right now. Both Cable and Rohr looked at the Judge as if to ask, Okay, who gave you the tip?

"We can't escape the fact that these were found in your room, Mr. Herrera. For this reason, I have no choice but to excuse you from further jury service."

Frank's mind was focusing now, and there were many questions he wanted to ask. He wanted to raise his voice and get in Harkin's face when he suddenly realized he was about to be set free. After four weeks of trial and nine nights at the Siesta Inn, he was about to walk out of this courthouse and go home. He'd be on the golf course by lunchtime.

"I don't think this is right," he said halfheartedly, trying not to push too hard.

"I'm very sorry. I'll deal with the contempt of court issue at a later date. As for now, we need to get on with the trial."

"Whatever you say, Judge," Frank said. Dinner tonight at Vrazel's, fresh seafood and a wine list. He could see his grandson tomorrow.

"I'll have a deputy take you back to the motel so you can pack. I am instructing you not to repeat any of this to anyone, especially members of the press. You are under a gag order until further notice. Do you understand this?"

"Yes sir."

The Colonel was escorted down the rear stairway and out the back door of the courthouse, where the Sheriff was waiting for Herrera's quick and final trip to the Siesta Inn.

"I hereby move for a mistrial," Cable said, in the direction of the court reporter. "On the grounds that this jury may have been improperly influenced by the story appearing in Mogul Mogul yesterday." yesterday."

"Motion denied," Judge Harkin said. "Anything else?"

The lawyers shook their heads and stood.

THE ELEVEN JURORS and two alternates took their seats at a few minutes after ten, as the courtroom watched silently. Frank's seat on the second row, far left, was empty, and this was immediately noticed by everyone. Judge Harkin greeted them with a solemn face and got quickly to the point. He held a copy of yesterday's Mogul Mogul and asked if anyone had seen or read it, or if anyone had heard anything about what was in it. No volunteers. and asked if anyone had seen or read it, or if anyone had heard anything about what was in it. No volunteers.

He then said, "For reasons that have been made clear in chambers, and placed in the record, juror number seven, Frank Herrera, has been dismissed and will now be replaced by the next alternate, Mr. Henry Vu." At this point, Willis said something to Henry, who left his padded folding chair and took four steps to seat number seven, where he became an official member of the panel and left s.h.i.+ne Royce as the sole remaining alternate.

Desperate to move things along and divert attention away from his jury, Judge Harkin said, "Mr. Cable, call your next witness."

Fitch's newspaper dropped six inches, down to his chest, and his mouth dropped too as he stared at the new composition with bewilderment. He was scared because Herrera was gone, and he was thrilled because his girl Marlee had waved her wand and delivered exactly what she'd promised. Fitch couldn't help but look at Easter, who must have felt it because he turned slightly and caught Fitch's eyes with his own. For five or six seconds, an eternity for Fitch, they stared at each other from ninety feet. Easter's face was smirking and proud, as if to say, "Look what I can do. Are you impressed?" Fitch's face said, "Yes. Now, what do you want?"

In the pretrial order, Cable had listed twenty-two possible witnesses, virtually all with the word Doctor somewhere in their names, and all with solid credentials. His stable included battle-tested veterans of other cigarette trials, and p.r.i.c.kly researchers funded by Big Tobacco, and myriad other mouthpieces a.s.sembled to counterattack what the jury had already heard.

During the past two years, all twenty-two had been deposed by Rohr and his gang. There would be no surprises.

The consensus was that the plaintiff's heaviest blows had been landed by Leon Robilio and his claims that kids were targeted by the industry. Cable thought it best to attack there first. "The defense calls Dr. Denise McQuade," he announced.

She presented herself through a side door, and the courtroom, heavily dominated by middle-aged men, seemed to stiffen a bit as she strolled in front of the bench, smiled up at His Honor, who was most definitely smiling down, and took her seat in the witness chair. Dr. McQuade was a beautiful woman, tall and thin with a short red dress just inches above her knees, and blond hair pulled severely back and tucked away behind her head. She took her oath with a comely smile, and when she crossed her legs she had an audience. She seemed much too young and much too pretty to be involved in a nasty brawl like this.

The six men on the jury, especially Jerry Fernandez, along with s.h.i.+ne Royce, the alternate, paid very close attention as she gently pulled the microphone close to her mouth. Red lipstick. Long red fingernails.

If they were expecting a bimbo they were quickly disappointed. Her husky voice detailed her education, background, training, field of expertise. She was a behavioral psychologist with her own firm in Tacoma. She'd written four books, published over three dozen articles, and Wendall Rohr had no objection when Cable moved to have Dr. McQuade declared as an expert.

She got right to the point. Advertising permeates our culture. Ads directed at one age group or one cla.s.s of people quite naturally are heard and seen by those not in the target group. This cannot be prevented. Kids see tobacco ads because kids see newspapers and magazines and billboards and flas.h.i.+ng neon lights in convenience store windows, but this doesn't mean the kids are targeted. Kids also see beer commercials on TV, commercials often made by their favorite sports heroes. Does this mean beer companies are subliminally trying to hook the next generation? Of course not. They're simply trying to sell more beer to their market. The kids just get in the way, but there's nothing that can be done about it short of banning all advertising for all offensive products. Cigarettes, beer, wine, liquor, what about coffee and tea and condoms, and b.u.t.ter? Do ads by credit card companies encourage people to spend more and save less? Dr. McQuade made the point repeatedly that in a society where free speech is a valued right, restrictions on advertising are carefully scrutinized.

Cigarette ads are no different from others. Their purpose is to reinforce a person's desire to buy and use the product. Good ads stimulate the natural response to rush out and purchase what's being advertised. Ineffective ads do not, and normally are quickly pulled. She used the example of McDonald's, a company she had studied, and she just happened to have a report handy in the event the jury wanted to peruse it. By the time a child is three, the child can hum, whistle, or sing whatever the current McDonald's jingle happens to be. The child's first trip to McDonald's is a momentous occasion. This is no accident. The corporation spends billions to hook children before its compet.i.tors do. American children consume more fat and cholesterol than the last generation. They eat more cheeseburgers, fries, and pizza, and drink more sodas and sugared fruit drinks. Do we charge McDonald's and Pizza Hut with devious advertising practices for targeting the young? Do we sue them because our kids are fatter?

No. We as consumers make informed choices about the foods we feed our children. No one can argue that we make the best choices.

And we as consumers make informed choices about smoking. We are bombarded with ads for thousands of products, and we respond to those ads which reinforce our needs and desires.

She crossed and recrossed her legs every twenty minutes or so, and each crossing was duly noted by the packs of lawyers around both tables and by the six male jurors and most of the females as well.

Dr. McQuade was pleasant to look at and easy to believe. Her testimony made perfect sense, and she connected with most of the jurors.

Rohr sparred with her politely for an hour on cross but didn't land a serious punch.

Thirty.

According to Napier and Nitchman, Mr. Cristano at Justice desperately wanted a full report on what had happened last night when Hoppy met Millie for their latest personal visit. "Everything?" Hoppy asked. The three were huddled over a rickety table in a smoky diner, sipping boiled coffee from paper cups and waiting for greasy grilled cheese sandwiches.

"Skip the personal stuff," Napier said, doubtful if there was much personal stuff to skip.

If they only knew, Hoppy thought, still quite proud of himself. "Well, I showed Millie the memo on Robilio," he said, not knowing how much of the truth he should tell.

"And?"

"And, well, she read it."

"Of course she read it. Then what did she do?" Napier asked.

"What was her response?" Nitchman asked.

Sure, he could lie and tell them she was stunned by the memo, believed every word of it, and couldn't wait to show it to her pals on the jury. That's what they wanted to hear. But Hoppy didn't know what to do. Lying could only make matters worse. "She didn't respond too well," he said, then told them the truth.

When the sandwiches arrived, Nitchman left to call Mr. Cristano. Hoppy and Napier ate without looking at each other. Hoppy felt like such a failure. Surely he was one step closer to prison.

"When do you see her again?" asked Napier.

"Not sure. The Judge hasn't said yet. There's a chance the trial could be over this weekend."

Nitchman returned and took his seat. "Mr. Cristano is on his way," he said gravely, and Hoppy's stomach began to churn. "He'll be here late tonight and wants to meet with you first thing in the morning.

"Sure."

"He is not a happy man."

"Neither am I."

ROHR SPENT his lunch hour locked in his office with Cleve, doing the dirty work that had to be kept to themselves. Most of the other lawyers used runners like Cleve to spread cash and chase cases and perform dark little deeds not taught in law school, but none of them would ever admit to such unethical activity. Trial lawyers keep their runners to themselves.

Rohr had several choices. He could tell Cleve to tell Derrick Maples to get lost. He could pay Derrick Maples $25,000 in cash, and he could promise another $25,000 for each plaintiff's vote in the final verdict, a.s.suming there would be at least nine. This would cost $225,000 at most, a sum Rohr was perfectly willing to pay. But he was extremely doubtful Angel Weese could deliver more than two votes-her own and maybe Loreen Dukes. She was not a leader. He could manipulate Derrick into approaching the lawyers for the defense, then try to catch them in bed together. This would probably result in Angel's getting removed, an event Rohr did not want.

Rohr could wire Cleve, capture incriminating statements from Derrick, then threaten the kid with criminal prosecution if he didn't lean on his girlfriend. This was risky, because the bribery plot had been hatched in Rohr's own office.

They covered each scenario with the seasoned judgment of men who'd done it before. A hybrid was developed.

"Here's what we'll do," Rohr said. "We'll give him fifteen grand now, promise the other ten after the verdict, and we'll also get him on tape now. We'll mark some of the bills, set him up for later. We'll promise him twenty-five for the other votes, and if we get our verdict, then we'll screw him when he demands the rest. We'll have him on tape, and when he makes noise we'll threaten to call the FBI."

"I like it," Cleve said. "He gets his money, we get our verdict, he gets screwed. Sounds like justice to me.

"Get yourself wired and get the cash. This needs to be done this afternoon."

BUT DERRICK had other plans. They met in a lounge at the Resort Casino, a dark bar sadly filled with losers ma.s.saging their losses with cheap drinks while outside the sun was s.h.i.+ning brightly and the temperature was inching toward seventy.

Derrick wasn't about to get a postverdict s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g. He wanted Angel's twenty-five thousand in cash, now, up front, and he also wanted a "deposit," as he called it, for each of the other jurors. A preverdict deposit. In cash too, of course, something reasonable and fair, say, five thousand per juror. Cleve did the quick math, and got it wrong. Derrick was figuring on a unanimous verdict, so the deposit of five grand times eleven other jurors worked out nicely to fifty-five thousand dollars. Add Angel's, and all Derrick wanted was eighty thousand cash now.

He knew a girl in the clerk's office, and this friend had looked at the file. "You guys are suing the tobacco company for millions," he said, every word getting captured by a body mike in Cleve's s.h.i.+rt pocket. "Eighty thousand is a drop in the bucket."

"You're crazy," Cleve said.

"And you're crooked."

"There's no way we can pay eighty thousand cash. Like I said before, when the money gets too big, then we run the risk of getting caught."

"Fine. I'll go talk to the tobacco company."

"You do that. I'll read about it in the newspapers."

They didn't finish their drinks. Cleve again left early, but this time Derrick did not chase him.

THE PARADE of beauties continued Thursday afternoon as Cable put on the stand Dr. Myra Sprawling-Goode, a black professor and researcher at Rutgers who turned every head in the depraved courtroom as she presented herself for testimony. She was almost six feet tall, as striking and slender and well dressed as the last witness. Her creamy light brown skin creased perfectly as she smiled at the jurors, a smile that lingered on Lonnie Shaver, who actually smiled back.

Cable had an unlimited budget when he began his search for experts, so he was not compelled to use people who weren't sharp and glib and able to connect with average folk. He had videotaped Dr. Sprawling-Goode twice before he hired her, then once during her deposition in Rohr's office. Like all his witnesses, she had spent two days getting grilled in a mock courtroom setting a month before the trial began. She crossed her legs and the courtroom took a collective deep breath.

She was a professor of marketing with two doctorates and impressive credentials, no surprise. She'd spent eight years in advertising on Madison Avenue after she had completed her education, then returned to academia, where she belonged. Her field of expertise was consumer advertising, a subject she taught at the graduate level and one she researched continually. Her purpose at the trial soon became clear. A cynic might have claimed she was there to look pretty, to connect with Lonnie Shaver and Loreen Duke and Angel Weese, to make them proud that a fellow African-American was perfectly capable of projecting expert opinions in this crucial trial.

She was actually there because of Fitch. Six years earlier, after a scare in New Jersey in which a jury stayed out three days before returning with a defense verdict, Fitch had hatched the plan to find an attractive female researcher, preferably at a reputable university, to take a chunk of grant money and study cigarette advertising and its effects on teenagers. The parameters of the project would be vaguely defined by the source of the money, and Fitch was hoping the study would one day be useful in a trial.