John - The Runaway Jury

The telephones had been removed, as had the mini-bars. A room at the end of the hall had been stripped of the beds and furnished with two round tables, phones, comfortable chairs, a large-screen TV, and a bar fully equipped with every possible nonalcoholic beverage. Someone dubbed it the Party Room, and it stuck. Each phone call had to be approved by one of their guardians, and no incoming calls were permitted. Emergencies would be handled through the front desk. In Room 40, directly across the hall from the Party Room, the beds had also been removed and a makeshift dining table had been set up.

No juror could leave the wing without prior approval from Judge Harkin, or on-the-spot approval from Lou Dell or one of the deputies. There was no curfew because there was no place to go, but the Party Room closed at ten.

Dinner was from six to seven, breakfast from six to eight-thirty, and they were not expected to eat en masse. They could come and go. They could fix a plate and go back to their rooms. Judge Harkin was deeply concerned about the quality of the food, and wanted to be told each morning if there were complaints.

Tuesday's smorgasbord was either fried chicken or broiled snapper, with salads and plenty of vegetables. They were amazed at their appetites. For people who'd done nothing all day but remain seated and listen, most were weak with starvation by the time the food arrived at six. Nicholas fixed the first plate and sat at the end of the table where he engaged everyone in conversation and insisted they eat as a group. He was hyper and chipper and acted as if sequestration were nothing but an adventure. His enthusiasm was slightly contagious.

Only Herman Grimes ate in his room. Mrs. Grimes prepared two plates and left in a rush. Judge Harkin had strict written instructions prohibiting her from eating with the jury. Same for Lou Dell and Willis and Chuck. So when Lou Dell entered the room with dinner in mind and found Nicholas in the middle of a tale, the conversation suddenly ceased. She flung a few green beans alongside a chicken breast and a dinner roll, and left.

They were a group now, isolated and exiled, cut off from reality and banished against their wishes to a Siesta Inn. They had no one but themselves. Easter was determined to keep them happy. They would be a fraternity, if not a family. He would work to avoid divisions and cliques. They watched two movies in the Party Room. By ten, they were all asleep.

“I'M READY for my conjugal visit,” Jerry Fernandez announced over breakfast, in the general direction of Mrs. Gladys Card, who blushed.

“Really,” she said, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. Jerry smiled at her as if she might be the object of his longing. Breakfast was a veritable feast of everything from fried ham to cornflakes.

Nicholas arrived mid-meal with a soft hello to the group and a troubled countenance. “I don't understand why we can't have telephones,” were the first words from his mouth, and the pleasant morning mood suddenly turned sour. He sat across from Jerry, who read his face and caught on immediately.

“Why can't we have a cold beer?” Jerry asked. “I have a cold beer every night when I'm home, maybe two. Who has the right to dictate what we can drink here?”

“Judge Harkin,” said Millie Dupree, a woman who avoided alcohol.

“I'll be damned.”

“And what about television?” Nicholas asked. “Why can't we watch television? I've been watching television since the trial started, and I don't recall much excitement.” He turned to Loreen Duke, a large woman with a plate full of scrambled eggs. “Have you seen any sudden newsbreaks with the latest from the trial?”

“Nope.”

He looked at Rikki Coleman, who was sitting behind a tiny bowl of harmless flakes. “And what about a gym, someplace to go sweat after eight hours in the courtroom? Surely they could've found a motel with a gym.” Rikki nodded her complete agreement.

Loreen swallowed her eggs and said, “What I don't understand is, why can't we be trusted with a telephone? My kids might need to call me. It's not like some goon's gonna call my room and threaten me.”

“I'd just like a cold beer, or two,” Jerry said. “And maybe a few more conjugal visits,” he added, again looking at Mrs. Gladys Card.

The grumbling gathered speed around the table, and within ten minutes of Easter's arrival, the jurors were on the verge of revolt. The random irritations were now a full-fledged list of abuses. Even Herrera, the Retired Colonel who'd camped in jungles, was not pleased with the selection of beverages offered in the Party Room. Millie Dupree objected to the absence of newspapers. Lonnie Shaver had pressing business, and deeply resented the notion of sequestration in the first place. “I can think for myself,” he said. “No one can influence me.” At the least, he needed an unrestricted telephone. Phillip Savelle did yoga in the woods each morning at dawn, alone, just himself communing with nature, and there wasn't a tree within two hundred yards of the motel. And what about church? Mrs. Card was a devout Baptist who never missed prayer meeting on Wednesday nights and visitation on Tuesdays and WMU on Fridays and of course the Sabbath was crammed full of meetings.

“We'd better get things straight now,” Nicholas said solemnly. “We're gonna be here for two weeks, maybe three. I say we get Judge Harkin's attention.”

Judge Harkin had nine lawyers packed into his chambers haggling over the daily issues to be kept away from the jury. He required the lawyers to appear each morning at eight for the warm-up bouts, and he often made them stay an hour or two after the jury left. A heavy knock interrupted a heated debate between Rohr and Cable. Gloria Lane pushed the door open until it hit a chair occupied by Oliver McAdoo.

“We have a problem with the jury,” she said gravely. Harkin jumped to his feet. “What!”

“They want to talk to you. That's all I know.”

Harkin looked at his watch. “Where are they?”

“At the motel.”

“Can't we get them over here?”

“No. We've tried. They're not coming until they talk to you.”

His shoulders sagged and his mouth hung open. “This is getting ridiculous,” Wendall Rohr offered to no one in particular. The lawyers watched the Judge, who looked absently at the pile of papers on his desk and collected his thoughts. Then he rubbed his hands together and gave them all a huge phony smile. “Let's go see them.”

KONRAD TOOK THE FIRST CALL at 8:02. She didn't want to talk to Fitch, just wanted to give him the message that the jury was once again perturbed and not coming out until Harkin hauled himself over to the Siesta Inn and unruffled their feathers. Konrad ran to Fitch's room and delivered the message.

At 8:09, she called again and gave Konrad the information that Easter would be wearing a dark denim shirt over a tan T-shirt, with red socks and the usual starched khakis. Red socks, she repeated.

At 8:12, she called for the third time and asked to speak to Fitch, who was pacing around his desk and pulling on his goatee. He clenched the receiver. “Hello.”

“Good morning, Fitch,” she said.

“Good morning, Marlee.”

“You ever been to the St. Regis Hotel in New Orleans?”

“No.”

“It's on Canal Street in the French Quarter. There's an open-air bar on the roof. It's called the Terrace Grill. Get a table overlooking the Quarter. Be there at seven tonight. I'll be there later. Are you with me?”

“Yes.”

“And come by yourself, Fitch. I'll watch you enter the hotel, and if you bring friends the meeting's off. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“And if you attempt to trail me, then I disappear.”

“You have my word.”

“Why am I not comforted by your word, Fitch?” She hung up.