John - The Runaway Jury

There was Willis, leaning against the wall near the flag, and it appeared he had already lapsed into his usual state of semi-slumber with his mouth open partially at the right corner and saliva dripping. Down the aisle, directly in front of Harkin but at least a hundred feet away, Jip and Rasco guarded the main door. Jip, at the moment, was sitting on the back bench, near the door, with his reading glasses perched on the end of his beefy nose, scanning the local paper. He'd had hip surgery two months earlier, found it difficult to stand for long periods, and had received permission to sit during the proceedings. Rasco was in his late fifties, the youngest of the crew, and was not known for his quick movements. A younger deputy was usually assigned to the main door, but at the moment he was on the atrium side manning the metal detector.

During voir dire, Harkin had requested uniforms everywhere, but after a week of testimony the initial excitement had disappeared. It was now just another tedious civil trial, though one with enormous stakes.

Harkin took the measure of the available troops, and decided against approaching the target. He quickly scribbled a note, held it for a moment while ignoring the man, then slid it to Gloria Lane, the Circuit Clerk, who was at her small desk below the bench, opposite the witness stand. The note indicated the man, instructed Gloria to get a good look at him without being obvious, then to ease away through a side door and go fetch the Sheriff. There were other instructions to the Sheriff, but, unfortunately, they were never needed.

After more than an hour of watching the merciless cross-examination of Dr. Bronsky, Doyle was ready to move. The girl was nowhere in sight; not that he'd expected to find her. He was just following orders. Plus, he didn't like the note-passing around the bench. He quietly gathered his newspaper, and slipped unchallenged from the courtroom. Harkin watched in disbelief. He even grabbed his mounted microphone with his right hand as if he might yell at the man to stop, sit down, and answer some questions. But he kept his cool. Chances were the man would return.

Nicholas looked at His Honor and both men were frustrated. Cable paused between questions, and the Judge suddenly rapped his gavel. “Ten-minute recess. I think the jurors need a short break.”

WILLIS RELAYED THE MESSAGE to Lou Dell, who stuck her head through a crack in the door and said, “Mr. Easter, could I see you for a minute?”

Nicholas followed Willis through a maze of narrow hallways until they came to the side door of Harkin's chambers. The Judge was alone, robe off, coffee in hand. He excused Willis and locked the door. “Please sit down, Mr. Easter,” he said, waving at a chair across from his cluttered desk. The room was not his permanent office, in fact he shared it with two other judges who used the courtroom. “Coffee?”

“No thanks.”

Harkin dropped into his chair and leaned forward on his elbows. “Now, tell me, where did you see this man?”

Nicholas would save the video for a more crucial moment. He'd already carefully planned the next tale. “Yesterday, after we adjourned, I was walking back to my apartment when I stopped to get an ice cream at Mike's, around the corner. I walked in the place, then looked out, back on to the sidewalk, and I saw this guy peeking in. He didn't see me, but I realized I'd seen him somewhere before. I got the ice cream, and began walking home. I thought the guy was following me, so I doubled back and took odd turns, and sure enough, I caught him tracking me.”

“And you've seen him before?”

“Yes sir. I work at a computer store in the mall, and one night this guy, same guy I'm sure, kept walking by the door and looking in. Later, I took a break and he showed up at the other end of the mall where I was drinking a Coke.”

The Judge relaxed a bit and adjusted his hair. “Be honest with me, Mr. Easter, have any of your colleagues mentioned anything like this?”

“No sir.”

“Will you tell me if they do?”

“Certainly.”

“There's nothing wrong with this little chat we're having, and if something happens in there, I need to know it.”

“How do I contact you?”

“Just send a note through Lou Dell. Just say we need to talk without giving specifics because God knows she'll read it.”

“Okay.”

“Is it a deal?”

“Sure.”

Harkin took a deep breath and began fishing through an open briefcase. He found a newspaper and slid it across the desk. “Have you seen this? It's today's Wall Street Journal.”

“No. I don't read it.”

“Good. There's a big story about this trial and the potential impact a plaintiff's verdict might have on the tobacco industry.”

Nicholas couldn't allow the opportunity to pass. “There's only one person who reads the Journal.”

“Who's that?”

“Frank Herrera. He reads it every morning, cover to cover.”

“This morning?”

“Yes. While we were waiting, he read every word twice.”

“Did he comment on anything?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Damn.”

“Doesn't matter, though,” Nicholas said, looking at a wall.

“Why not?”

“His mind's made up.”

Harkin leaned forward again and squinted hard. “What do you mean?”

“He should never have been picked for jury service, in my opinion. I don't know how he answered the written questions, but he didn't tell the truth or else he wouldn't be here. And I distinctly remember questions during voir dire that he should've responded to.”

“I'm listening.”

“Okay, Your Honor, but don't get mad. I had a conversation with him early yesterday morning. We were the only ones in the jury room, and, I swear, we weren't discussing this case in particular. But somehow we got around to cigarettes, and Frank quit smoking years ago and he has no sympathy for anybody who can't quit. He's retired military, you know, rather stiff and hard about-“

“I'm an ex-Marine.”

“Sorry. Shall I shut up?”

“No. Keep going.”

“Okay, but I'm nervous about this and I'll be happy to stop at any time.”

“I'll tell you when to stop.”

“Sure, well anyway, Frank's of the opinion that anyone who smokes three packs a day for almost thirty years deserves what he gets. No sympathy whatsoever. I argued with him a little, just for the sake of it, and he accused me of wanting to give the plaintiff a huge punitive award.”

His Honor took it hard, sinking in his chair a bit, closing then rubbing his eyes as his shoulders sagged. “This is just great,” he mumbled.

“Sorry, Judge.”

“No, no, I asked for it.” He sat straight again, made another adjustment to his hair with his fingers, forced a smile, said, “Look, Mr. Easter. I'm not asking you to become a snitch. But I'm concerned about this jury because of pressures from the outside. This type of litigation has a sordid history. If you see or hear anything even remotely related to unauthorized contact, please let me know. We'll deal with it then.”

“Sure, Judge.”

THE STORY, on the front page of the Journal, had been written by Agner Layson, a senior reporter who'd sat through most of jury selection and all of the testimony. Layson had practiced law for ten years and had been in many courtrooms. His story, the first of a series, gave the basics of the issues and the specifics on the players. There was no opinion of how the trial was progressing, no guess as to who was winning or losing, just a fair summary of the rather convincing medical proof offered so far by the plaintiff.

In response to the story, Pynex's stock dipped a dollar at the opening bell, but by noon had found itself sufficiently corrected and adjusted and was deemed to be weathering the brief storm.