The Runaway Jury Part 37

"Why'd you pick Mr. Dupree?"

"We studied him carefully, and decided he'd be easy. Small-town realtor, barely paying his bills, lots of money changing hands with the casinos and all, lots of his friends making big bucks. He fell for it immediately."

"Have you been caught before?"

"We've had to abort scams, but we've never been caught red-handed."

"Until today."

"Not really. Hoppy and Millie might suspect it was somebody working for the tobacco company, but they don't know who. So, in that respect, there's still some doubt."

"What's the difference?"

"None."

"Relax, Fitch. I think her husband may have been exaggerating her effectiveness. Nicholas and Millie are quite close, and she hasn't become an advocate for your client."

"Our client."

"Right. Our client. Nicholas hasn't seen the memo."

"You think Hoppy was lying?"

"Would you blame him? Your boys had him convinced he was about to be indicted."

Fitch breathed a little easier and almost smiled. He said, "It's imperative Nicholas talk to Millie tonight. Hoppy will go over in a couple of hours and tell her all about it. Can Nicholas get to her quickly?"

"Fitch, Millie will vote the way he wants. Relax."

Fitch relaxed. He removed his elbows from the table and tried to smile again. "Just out of curiosity, how many votes do we have right now?"

"Nine."

"Who are the other three?"

"Herman, Rikki, and Lonnie."

"He hasn't discussed Rikki's past with her?"

"Not yet."

"That'll make ten," Fitch said, his eyes dancing, his fingers suddenly twitching. "We can get eleven if we can b.u.mp somebody and pick up s.h.i.+ne Royce, right?"

"Look, Fitch, you're worrying too much. You've paid your money, you've hired the best, now relax and wait on your verdict. It's in very good hands."

"Unanimous?" Fitch asked gleefully. "Nicholas is determined to bring it back unanimous."

Fitch sprang down the steps of the sagging building and bounced along the short sidewalk until he hit the street. For six blocks he whistled and almost skipped in the night air. Jose met him on foot and tried to keep up. He'd never seen his boss in such good spirits.

ON ONE SIDE of the conference room sat seven lawyers who'd each paid a million dollars for the privilege of sharing this event. No one else was in the room, no one but Wendall Rohr, who stood on the other side of the conference table and paced slowly back and forth, speaking softly with measured words, to his jury. His voice was warm and rich, filled with compa.s.sion one second and harsh words for Big Tobacco the next. He lectured and he cajoled. He was comical and he was angry. He showed them photographs, and he wrote figures on a chalkboard.

He finished in fifty-one minutes, the shortest rehearsal so far. The closing had to be an hour or less, Harkin's orders. The comments from his peers were fast and mixed, some complimentary but most probing for ways to improve. No tougher audience could be found. The seven had combined for hundreds of closing arguments, arguments which had produced close to half a billion dollars in verdicts. They knew how to extract large sums of money from juries.

They had agreed to park their egos outside the door. Rohr took another beating, something he didn't do well, and agreed to perform again. It had to be perfect. Victory was so close.

CABLE UNDERWENT similar abuse. His audience was much larger-a dozen lawyers, several jury consultants, lots of paralegals. He was videotaped so he could study himself. He was determined to do it in half an hour. The jury would be appreciative. Rohr would no doubt run longer. The contrast would be nice-Cable the technician sticking to the facts versus Rohr the flamboyant mouthpiece tugging at their emotions.

He delivered his closing, then watched the video. Again and again, throughout Sunday afternoon and deep into the night.

BY THE TIME Fitch arrived at the beach house, he had managed to work himself back into his usual state of cautious pessimism. The four CEO's were waiting, having just finished a fine meal. Jankle was drunk and kept to himself by the fireplace. Fitch took some coffee and a.n.a.lyzed the last-minute efforts of the defense. The questions quickly got around to the wire transfers he'd demanded on Friday; two million from each of the four.

Prior to Friday, The Fund had a balance of six and a half million, certainly more than enough to complete the trial. What was the additional eight million for? And how much was in The Fund now?

Fitch explained that the defense had had a sudden, unplanned expenditure of the grandest proportions.

"Stop the games, Fitch," said Luther Vandemeer of Trellco. "Have you managed to finally purchase a verdict?"

Fitch tried not to lie to these four. They were, after all, his employers. He never told them the complete truth, and they didn't expect him to. But in response to a direct question, especially one of this magnitude, he felt compelled to make some effort at honesty. "Something like that," he said.

"Do you have the votes, Fitch?" asked another CEO.

Fitch paused and looked carefully at each of the four, including Jankle, who was suddenly attentive. "I believe I do," he said.

Jankle jumped to his feet, unsteady but quite focused, and stepped into the center of the room. "Say it again, Fitch," he demanded.

"You heard me," Fitch said. "The verdict has been purchased." His voice couldn't resist a touch of pride.

The other three stood too. All four eased toward Fitch, forming a loose semicircle. "How?" one of them asked.

"I'll never tell," Fitch said coolly. "The details are not important."

"I demand to know," Jankle said.

"Forget it. Part of my job is to do the dirty work while protecting you and your companies. If you want to terminate me, fine. But you'll never know the details."

They stared at him during a long pause. The circle grew tighter. They slowly sipped their drinks and admired their hero. Eight times they'd been to the brink of disaster, and eight times Rankin Fitch had worked his dirty tricks and saved them. Now he'd done it for the ninth time. He was invincible.

And he'd never promised victory before, not like this. Just the opposite. He'd always anguished before each verdict, always predicting defeat and taking pleasure in making them miserable. This was so uncharacteristic.

"How much?" Jankle demanded.

It was something Fitch couldn't hide. For obvious reasons, these four had the right to know where the money went. They had installed a primitive accounting format for The Fund. Each company contributed equal amounts when Fitch said so, and each CEO was ent.i.tled to a monthly list of all expenses.

"Ten million," Fitch said.

The drunk barked first. "You've paid ten million dollars to a juror!" The other three were equally shocked.

"No. Not to a juror. Let's put it this way. I've purchased the verdict for ten million dollars, okay? That's all I will say. The Fund now has a balance of four-point-five million. And I'm not going to answer any questions about how the money changed hands."

Maybe a sack of cash under the table might make sense. Five, ten thousand bucks maybe. But it was impossible to picture any of these small-town hicks on the jury possessing brains big enough to dream of ten million dollars. Surely it wasn't all going to one person.

They hung together near Fitch in stunned silence, each having the same thoughts. Surely Fitch had worked his wizardry on ten of them. That would make sense. He'd gotten ten and offered them a million each. That made a h.e.l.luva lot more sense. Ten fresh new millionaires on the Gulf Coast. But how do you hide that kind of money?

Fitch savored the moment. "Of course, nothing is guaranteed," he said. "You never know until the jury comes back."

Well, it d.a.m.ned sure better be guaranteed, at the rate of ten million bucks. But they said nothing. Luther Vandemeer backed away first. He poured a stiffer brandy and sat on the piano bench near the baby grand. Fitch would tell him later. He'd wait a month or two, get Fitch up to New York on business, and pick the story out of him.

Fitch said he had things to do. He wanted each of the four in the courtroom tomorrow for closing arguments. Don't sit together, he instructed.

Thirty-seven.

There was a general feeling among the jurors that Sunday night would be their last in sequestration. They whispered that perhaps if they got the case by noon Monday, then certainly they could reach a verdict by Monday night and go home. This wasn't discussed openly because it necessarily involved speculation about the verdict, something Herman was quick to stifle.

The mood was light, though, and many of the jurors quietly packed and tidied up their rooms. They wanted their last visit to the Siesta Inn to be quick-a dash in from court to gather packed bags and grab toothbrushes.

Sunday was the third consecutive night of personal visits, and collectively they'd had enough of their mates. Especially the married ones. Three straight nights of coziness in a small room was trying for most marriages. Even the singles needed a night off. Savelle's woman friend stayed away. Derrick told Angel he might stop by later, but had some important business first. Loreen didn't have a boyfriend, but she'd had enough of her teenaged daughters for one weekend. Jerry and Poodle were having their first little spat.

The motel was quiet Sunday night; no football and beer in the Party Room, no checkers tournaments. Marlee and Nicholas ate pizza in his room. They covered their checklists and made final plans. Both were nervous and tense, and managed only slight humor at her recounting of Fitch's sad story about Hoppy.

Marlee left at nine. She drove her leased car to her rented condo, where she finished packing her own things.

Nicholas walked across the hall where Hoppy and Millie were waiting like a couple of honeymooners. They couldn't thank him enough. He had exposed this horrible fraud and set them free again. It was shocking to think of the extreme measures the tobacco industry would go to just to pressure a juror.

Millie expressed her concern about remaining on the jury. She and Hoppy had already discussed it, and she didn't feel she could be fair and impartial in light of what they'd done to her husband. Nicholas had antic.i.p.ated this. It was his opinion that he needed Millie.

And there was a more compelling reason. If Millie told Judge Harkin about the Hoppy scam, then he'd probably declare a mistrial. And that would be a tragedy. A mistrial would mean that in a year or two another jury would be picked to hear the same case. Each side would spend another fortune doing what they were doing right now. "It's up to us, Millie. We've been chosen to decide this case, and it's our responsibility to reach a verdict. The next jury will be no smarter than us."

"I agree," Hoppy said. "This trial will be over tomorrow. It'd be a shame to have a mistrial declared here at the last minute."

So Millie bit her lip and found new resolve. Her friend Nicholas made everything easier.

CLEVE MET DERRICK in the sports bar of the Nugget Casino Sunday night. They drank a beer, watched a football game, said little because Derrick was pouting and trying to appear angry at the s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g he claimed to be receiving. The fifteen thousand in cash was in a small brown packet that Cleve slid across the table and which Derrick took and stuffed in a pocket, without saying thanks or anything. Pursuant to their latest deal, the other ten thousand would be paid after the verdict, a.s.suming of course that Angel voted with the plaintiff.

"Why don't you leave now?" Derrick said a few minutes after the money landed near his heart.

"Great idea," Cleve said. "Go see your girlfriend. Explain things carefully."

"I can handle her."

Cleve took his longneck with him, and disappeared.

Derrick drained his beer and rushed to the men's room, where he locked himself in a stall and counted the money, a hundred and fifty fresh, new, neatly packed hundred-dollar bills. He pressed the stack together and was amazed at its size-less than an inch thick. He divided it in quarters, and placed a folded wad in each pocket of his jeans.

The casino was bustling. He'd learned to shoot c.r.a.ps from an older brother who'd served in the Army, and for some reason, as if drawn by a magnet, he wandered near the c.r.a.p tables. He watched for a minute, then decided to resist the temptation and go see Angel. He stopped for a quick beer at a small bar overlooking the roulette pit. Everywhere below him fortunes were being won and lost. It takes money to make money. It was his lucky night.

He bought a thousand dollars' worth of chips at a c.r.a.p table, and enjoyed the attention that all big spenders command. The pit boss examined the unused bills, then smiled at Derrick. A blond waitress appeared from nowhere and he ordered another beer.

Derrick bet heavily, heavier than any white person at the table. The first batch of chips disappeared in fifteen minutes, and he never hesitated before cas.h.i.+ng in for a thousand more.

Another thousand soon followed, then the dice got hot and Derrick won eighteen hundred dollars in five minutes. He bought more chips. The beers kept coming. The blond started flirting. The pit boss asked if he wanted to become a gold member of the Nugget.

He lost track of the money. He pulled it from all four pockets, then he replaced some of it. He bought more chips. After an hour, he was down six thousand dollars and wanted desperately to quit. But his luck had to change. The dice had been hot earlier; they'd get hot again. He decided to keep betting heavily, and when his luck turned he'd get it all back. Another beer, and he switched to scotch.

After a bad run, he pulled himself away from the table and returned to the men's room, same stall. He locked it and pulled loose bills from all four pockets. Down to seven thousand dollars, and he felt like crying. But he had to get it back. He decided to go out there and reclaim his money. He'd try a different table. He'd alter his betting. And, regardless of what happened, he would throw up his hands and bolt from the floor if, G.o.d help him, his pot dwindled down to five thousand. There was no way he'd lose the last five thousand.

He walked past a roulette table with no players, and on a whim placed five hundred-dollar chips on red. The dealer spun, red played, Derrick made five hundred dollars. He left the chips on red, and won again. With no hesitation, he left the twenty hundred-dollar chips on red, and won for the third straight time. Four thousand dollars in less than five minutes. He got a beer in the sports bar and watched a boxing match. Wild shouting from the c.r.a.p pit told him to stay away. He felt fortunate to have almost eleven thousand dollars in his pocket.

It was past time for visiting Angel, but he had to see her. He purposely walked through the rows of slot machines, as far away from the c.r.a.p tables as he could get. He walked fast, hoping to reach the front door before changing his mind and racing toward the dice. He made it.

He'd driven for only a minute, it seemed, when he saw blue lights behind him. It was a City of Biloxi police car, fast on his b.u.mper, headlights flickering. Derrick had no mints or gum. He stopped, got out of the car, and waited for orders from the cop, who got up close and immediately smelled alcohol.

"Been drinking?" he asked.

"Oh, you know, couple of beers at the casino."

The cop checked Derrick's eyes with a blinding flashlight, then made him walk a straight line and touch his nose with his fingers. Derrick was obviously drunk. He was handcuffed and taken to jail. He consented to a breath test and registered .18.

There were lots of questions about the cash stuffed in his pockets. The explanation made sense-he'd had a good night at the casino. But he had no job. He lived with a brother. No criminal record. The jailer listed his cash and other pocket items and locked it all away in a vault.

Derrick sat on a top bunk in the drunk tank, with two winos moaning on the floor. A phone would not help because he couldn't call Angel direct. A five-hour stay was mandatory for drunk drivers. He had to reach Angel before she left for court.

THE PHONE woke Swanson at three-thirty Monday morning. The voice on the other end was thick and groggy, the words slurred but obviously belonging to Beverly Monk. "Welcome to the Big Apple," she said loudly, then laughed crazily, bombed out of her mind.

"Where are you?" Swanson demanded. "I've got the money."

"Later," she said, then he heard two angry male voices in the background. "We'll do it later." Someone turned up the music.

"I need the information fast."

"And I need the money."

"Great. Tell me when and where."

"Oh, I don't know," she said, then yelled an obscenity at someone in the room.

Swanson gripped the receiver tighter. "Look, Beverly, listen to me. You remember that little coffee shop where we met last time?"

"Yeah, I think."

"On Eighth, near Balducci's."

"Oh yeah."