John - The Runaway Jury

“Eighty cents.”

“That's enough.”

Derrick raced into the parking lot where he caught Cleve waiting with his engine running and his window down. “I'll bet the other side'll pay more,” he said, leaning over.

“Then go try. Walk up to them tomorrow and tell them you want fifty thousand bucks for one vote.”

“And ten percent.”

“You're clueless, son.” Cleve slowly switched off the ignition and got out of the car. He lit a cigarette. “You don't understand. A defense verdict means no money changes hands. Zero for the plaintiff means zero for the defense. It means no percentages for anybody. The plaintiff's lawyers get forty percent of zero. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” Derrick said slowly, though obviously still confused.

“Look, what I'm offering you is something that's illegal as hell. Don't get greedy. If you do, then you'll get caught.”

“Ten thousand seems cheap for something this big.”

“No, don't look at it that way. Think of it like this. She's entitled to nothing, okay. Zero. She's doing her civic duty, getting fifteen bucks a day from the county for being a good citizen. The ten thousand is a bribe, a dirty little gift that has to be forgotten as soon as it's received.”

“But if you offer a percentage, then she'll be motivated to work harder in the jury room.”

Cleve drew a long puff and exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “You just don't understand. If there's a plaintiff's verdict, it will be years before the money changes hands. Look, Derrick, you're making this too complicated. Take the money. Talk to Angel. Help us out.”

“Twenty-five thousand.”

Another long puff, then the cigarette fell to the asphalt, where Cleve ground it with his boot. “I'll have to talk to my boss.”

“Twenty-five thousand, per vote.”

“Per vote?”

“Yeah. Angel can deliver more than one.”

“Who?”

“I ain't saying.”

“Lemme talk to my boss.”

IN ROOM 54, Henry Vu read letters from his daughter at Harvard while his wife Qui studied new insurance policies for their fleet of fishing boats. Because Nicholas was watching movies down the hall, 48 was empty. In 44, Lonnie and his wife cuddled under the covers for the first time in almost a month, but they had to hurry since her sister had the kids. In 58, Mrs. Grimes watched sitcoms while Herman loaded trial narratives into his computer. Room 50 was empty because the Colonel was in the Party Room, alone again because Mrs. Herrera was off in Texas visiting a cousin. And 52 was also empty because Jerry was drinking beer with the Colonel and Nicholas and waiting until later to sneak across the hall to Poodle's room. In 56, Shine Royce, alternate number two, worked on a large bag of rolls and butter he'd taken from the dining room, watched TV, and once again thanked God for his good fortune. Royce was fifty-two, unemployed, lived in a rented trailer with a younger woman and her six kids, and hadn't earned fifteen dollars a day doing anything in years. Now, he simply had to sit and listen to a trial and the county would not only pay him but feed him too. In 46, Phillip Savelle and his Pakistani mate drank herbal tea and smoked pot with the windows open.

Across the hall in Room 49, Sylvia Taylor-Tatum talked on the phone with her son. In 45, Mrs. Gladys Card played gin rummy with Mr. Nelson Card, he of the prostate history. In 51, Rikki Coleman waited for Rhea, who was running late and might not make it because the baby-sitter hadn't called. In 53, Loreen Duke sat on her bed, eating a brownie and listening with wretched envy as Angel Weese and her boyfriend rattled the walls next door in 55.

And in 47, Hoppy and Millie Dupree made love like never before. Hoppy had arrived early with a large sack of Chinese food and a bottle of cheap champagne, something he hadn't tried in years. Under normal circumstances, Millie would've fussed about the alcohol, but these days were far from normal. She sipped a little of the beverage from a plastic motel cup, and ate a generous portion of sweet and sour pork. Then Hoppy attacked her.

When they finished, they lay in the darkness and talked softly about the kids and school and the home in general. She was quite weary of this ordeal, and anxious to get back to her family. Hoppy spoke forlornly of her absence. The kids were testy. The house was a wreck. Everybody missed Millie.

He dressed and turned on the television. Millie found her bathrobe and poured another tiny bit of champagne.

“You're not gonna believe this,” Hoppy said, fishing through a coat pocket and retrieving a folded piece of paper.

“What is it?” she asked, taking the paper and unfolding it. It was a copy of Fitch's bogus memo listing the many sins of Leon Robilio. She read it slowly, then looked suspiciously at her husband. “Where did you get this?” she demanded.

“It came across the fax yesterday,” Hoppy said sincerely. He'd practiced his answer because he couldn't stand the thought of lying to Millie. He felt like a wretch, but then Napier and Nitchman were out there somewhere, just waiting.

“Who sent it?” she asked.

“Don't know. It looks like it came from Washington.”

“Why didn't you throw it away?”

“I don't know. I-“

“You know it's wrong to show me stuff like this, Hoppy.” Millie flung the paper on the bed and walked closer to her husband, hands on hips. “What are you trying to do?”

“Nothing. It just got faxed to my office, that's all.”

“What a coincidence! Somebody in Washington just happened to know your fax number, just happened to know your wife was on the jury, just happened to know Leon Robilio testified, and just happened to suspect that if they sent you this you'd be stupid enough to bring it over here and try to influence me. I want to know what's going on!”

“Nothing. I swear,” Hoppy said, on his heels.

“Why have you taken such a sudden interest in this trial?”

“It's fascinating.”

“It was fascinating for three weeks and you hardly mentioned it. What's going on, Hoppy?”

“Nothing. Relax.”

“I can tell when something's bothering you.”

“Get a grip, Millie. Look, you're edgy. I'm edgy. This thing has all of us somewhat out of whack. I'm sorry for bringing it.”

Millie finished off her champagne and sat on the edge of the bed. Hoppy sat next to her. Mr. Cristano at Justice had suggested in rather strong terms that Hoppy get Millie to show the memo to all of her friends on the jury. He dreaded telling Mr. Cristano that this probably wouldn't happen. But then, how would Mr. Cristano know for sure what happened to the damned thing?

As Hoppy pondered this Millie started crying. “I just want to go home,” she said, eyes red, lip quivering. Hoppy put his arm around her and squeezed tightly.

“I'm sorry,” he said. She cried even harder.

Hoppy felt like crying too. This meeting had proved worthless, the sex notwithstanding. According to Mr. Cristano, the trial would end in a few short days. It was imperative that Millie soon be convinced that the only verdict was one for the defense. Since their time together was scarce, Hoppy would be forced to tell her the awful truth. Not now, not tonight, but surely during the next personal visit.

The Colonel's routine never varied. Like a good soldier, he rose at precisely five-thirty every morning for fifty pushups and situps before a quick, cold shower. At six, he went to the dining room, where there'd damned well better be some fresh coffee and plenty of newspapers. He ate toast with jam and no butter, and greeted each of his colleagues with a hale and hearty good morning as they drifted in and out. They were sleepy-eyed and anxious to return to their rooms where they could sip coffee and watch the news in private. It was a helluva way to start the day, being forced to greet the Colonel and return his verbal barrage. The longer they were sequestered, the more hyper he became before sunrise. Several of the jurors waited until eight, when he was known to promptly leave and return to his room.