John - The Runaway Jury

A pause, then, “Yes. Who is this?”

“This is Jeff Kerr, Beverly. It's been a long time.” Swanson and Fitch were gambling that after Claire and Jeff left Lawrence they had not kept in touch with Beverly.

“Who?” she asked, and Swanson was relieved.

“Jeff Kerr. You know, I went with Claire. I was a law student.”

“Oh yeah,” she said as if maybe she remembered him and maybe she didn't.

“Look, I'm in the city, and I was wondering if you've heard from Claire recently.”

“I don't understand,” she said slowly, obviously trying to place the name with the face and figure out who was who and why was he here.

“Yeah, it's a long story, but Claire and I split six months ago. I'm sorta looking for her.”

“I haven't talked to Claire in four years.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Look, I'm real busy. Maybe some other time.”

“Sure.” Swanson hung up and called Fitch. They decided it was worth the risk to approach Beverly Monk, with cash, and ask about Claire. If she hadn't talked to her in four years, it would be impossible for her to quickly find Marlee and report the contact. Swanson would follow her, and wait until tomorrow.

EACH JURY CONSULTANT was required by Fitch to prepare a one-page report at the close of trial each day. One page, double-spaced, straightforward, with no words beyond four syllables and setting forth in clear language that expert's impressions of the day's witnesses and how their testimony was received by the jury. Fitch demanded honest opinions, and had berated his experts before when the language was too sugary. He insisted on pessimism. The reports were due on his desk precisely one hour after Judge Harkin recessed for the day.

Wednesday's reports on Jankle were mixed to bad, but Thursday's summaries of Dr. Denise McQuade and Dr. Myra Sprawling-Goode were nothing short of magnificent. Aside from brightening up a drab courtroom packed with boring men in dull suits, both women had performed well on the stand. The jurors paid attention, and seemed to believe what they heard. Especially the men.

Still, Fitch was not consoled. He had never felt worse at this point in a trial. The defense had lost one of its most sympathetic jurors with the exit of Herrera. The New York financial press had suddenly declared the defense to be on the ropes and was openly concerned about a plaintiff's verdict. Barker's column in Mogul was the week's hottest topic. Jankle had been a disaster. Luther Vandemeer of Trellco, the smartest and most influential of the Big Four CEO's, had called with harsh words during lunch. The jury was sequestered, and the longer the trial dragged on, the more blame the jurors would heap upon the party now calling the witnesses.

THE TENTH NIGHT of sequestration passed without incident. No wayward lovers. No unauthorized trips to casinos. No spontaneous yoga at full volume. Herrera was missed by no one. He had packed in minutes and left, telling the Sheriff repeatedly he was being framed and vowing to get to the bottom of it.

An impromptu checkers tournament began in the dining room after dinner. Herman had a braille board with numbered spaces, and the night before, he'd whipped Jerry eleven straight games. Challenges were issued, and Herman's wife brought his board to the room and a crowd gathered. In less than an hour, he took three straight from Nicholas, three more from Jerry, three from Henry Vu, who'd never played the game, three straight from Willis, and was about to play Jerry again, this time for a small wager, when Loreen Duke entered the room in search of another dessert. She'd played the game as a child with her father. When she beat Herman in the first game, there was not the slightest trace of sympathy for the blind man. They played until curfew.

Phillip Savelle stayed in his room, as usual. He spoke occasionally during meals at the motel and during coffee breaks in the jury room, but he was perfectly content to keep his nose in a book and ignore everyone.

Nicholas had tried twice to reach him, to no avail. He would not suffer small talk, and wanted no one to know anything about him.

After almost twenty years of shrimping, Henry Vu seldom slept past four-thirty. He got his hot tea early on Friday, and with the Colonel gone he sat alone at the table and scanned a newspaper. Nicholas soon joined him. As he often did, Nicholas hurried through the pleasantries and asked about Vu's daughter at Harvard. She was the source of immense pride, and Henry's eyes danced when he told of her last letter.

Others came and went. The conversation turned to Vietnam and the war. Nicholas confided in Henry for the first time that his father had been killed there in 1972. It wasn't true, but Henry was deeply touched by the story. Then, when they were alone, Nicholas asked, “So what do you think about this trial?”

Henry took a long drink of heavily creamed tea, and licked his lips. “Is it okay to talk about it?”

“Sure. It's just me and you. Everybody's talking, Henry. That's the nature of a jury. Everybody but Herman.”

“What does everybody else think?”

“I think most of us have an open mind. The most important thing is that we stick together. It's crucial that this jury reach a verdict, preferably unanimous, but at least a vote of nine to three one way or the other. A hung jury would be disastrous.”

Henry took another drink and pondered this. He understood English perfectly, could speak it well though with an accent, but like most laymen, natives and immigrants alike, had little grasp of the law. “Why?” he asked. He trusted Nicholas, as did virtually all the jurors, because Nicholas had studied the law and seemed incredibly adept at comprehending facts and issues the rest of them missed.

“Very simple. This is the mother of all tobacco trials-Gettysburg, Iwo Jima, Armageddon. This is where the two sides have met to unload their heaviest ammo. There's gotta be a winner, and there's gotta be a loser. Clear and decisive. The issue of whether tobacco companies are to be held liable for cigarettes has to be settled right here. By us. We've been chosen, and it's up to us to reach a verdict.”

“I see,” Henry said, nodding, still confused.

“The worst thing we can do is hang ourselves, split down the middle and have a mistrial declared.”

“Why would that be so bad?”

“Because it's a cop-out. We'd simply be passing the buck to the next jury. If we get hung up and go home, it'll cost each side millions of dollars because they'll have to come back in two years and replay the whole thing. Same judge, same lawyers, same witnesses, everything will be the same but the jury. We will, in effect, be saying that we didn't have enough sense to reach a decision, but the next jury from Harrison County will be smarter.”

Henry leaned to his right a bit, in the direction of Nicholas. “What're you gonna do?” he asked, just as Millie Dupree and Mrs. Gladys Card entered giggling and went for the coffee. They chatted with the guys for a moment, then left to watch Katie on the “Today Show.” They just loved Katie.

“What're you gonna do?” Henry whispered again, eyes on the door.

“I don't know right now, and it's not important. The important thing is for us to stick together. All of us.”

“You're right,” Henry said.

DURING THE COURSE of the trial, Fitch had developed the habit of keeping himself busy at his desk during the hours before court while staring at the phone. His eyes seldom left it. He knew she would call Friday morning, though he had no idea what scheme or ploy or heart-stopping prank she'd be up to.

At eight sharp, Konrad interrupted on the intercom with the simple words “It's her.”

Fitch lunged for the phone. “Hello,” he said pleasantly.