John - The Runaway Jury

“Hey, Fitch. Look, guess who's bothering Nicholas now?”

He stifled a groan and closed his eyes hard. “I don't know,” he said.

“I mean, this guy is really giving Nicholas a hard time. We might have to bump him.”

“Who?” Fitch pleaded.

“Lonnie Shaver.”

“Oh! Damn! No! You can't do that!”

“Gee, Fitch.”

“Don't do it, Marlee! Dammit!”

She paused to let him despair for a second. “You must be fond of Lonnie.”

“You gotta stop this, Marlee, okay? This is getting us nowhere.” Fitch was very aware of how desperate he sounded, but he was no longer in control.

“Nicholas has to have harmony on his jury. That's all. Lonnie has become a thorn.”

“Don't do it, please. Let's talk about this.”

“We're talking, Fitch, but not for long.”

Fitch took a deep breath, then another. “The game is almost over, Marlee. You've had your fun, now what do you want?”

“Got a pen?”

“Sure.”

“There's a building on Fulton Street, Number 120. White brick, two stories, an old building chopped into tiny offices. Upstairs, Number 16, belongs to me, for at least another month. It's not pretty, but that's where we'll meet.”

“When?”

“In an hour. Just the two of us. I'll watch you come and go, and if I see any of your goons then I'll never speak to you again.”

“Sure. Whatever.”

“And I'll check you for bugs and mikes.”

“There won't be any.”

EVERY LAWYER on Cable's defense team held the opinion that Rohr had spent too much time with his scientists; nine full days in all. But with the first seven, the jury had at least been free to go home at night. The mood was vastly different now. The decision was made to pick their two best researchers, get them on the stand, and get them off as quickly as possible.

They had also made the decision to ignore the issue of nicotine addiction, a radical departure from the normal defense in cigarette cases. Cable and his crew had studied each of the sixteen previous trials. They had talked to many of the jurors who had decided those cases, and they were repeatedly told that the weakest part of the defense came when the experts put forth all sorts of fancy theories to prove that nicotine was in fact not addictive. Everyone knew the opposite to be true. It was that simple.

Don't try to convince jurors otherwise.

The decision required Fitch's approval, which he grudgingly gave.

The first witness Friday morning was a shaggy-headed nerd with a thin red beard and heavy bifocals. The beauty show was apparently over. His name was Dr. Gunther, and it was his opinion that cigarette smoking really didn't cause cancer after all. Only ten percent of smokers get cancer, so what about the other ninety percent? Not surprisingly, Gunther had a stack of relevant studies and reports, and couldn't wait to stand before the jury with a tripod and a pointer and explain in breathless detail his latest findings.

Gunther was not there to prove anything. His job was to contradict Dr. Hilo Kilvan and Dr. Robert Bronsky, experts for the plaintiff, and to muddy the waters so there would be considerable doubt in the minds of the jurors about just how deadly smoking really was. He couldn't prove smoking didn't cause lung cancer, and he argued that no amount of research had proved that smoking absolutely does cause it. “More research is needed,” he said every ten minutes.

ON THE CHANCE that she might be watching, Fitch walked the last block to 120 Fulton Street, a pleasant stroll along the shaded sidewalk with leaves dropping gently from above. The building was in the old part of town, four blocks from the Gulf, in a neat line of carefully painted two-stories, most of which seemed to be offices. Jose was told to wait three streets over.

No chance of a body mike or a wire. She'd broken him of that habit at their last meeting, on the pier. Fitch was alone, wireless, mikeless, bugless, without a camera or an agent nearby. He felt liberated. He would have to survive by brains and wit, and he welcomed the challenge.

He climbed the sagging wooden stairs, stood before her unmarked office door, took notice of the other unmarked doors in the cramped hallway, and gently knocked. “Who is it?” came her voice.

“Rankin Fitch,” he answered just loud enough to be heard.

A dead bolt rattled from the inside, then Marlee appeared in a gray sweatshirt and blue jeans, no smile at all, no greeting of any sort. She closed the door behind Fitch, locked it, and walked to one side of a rented folding table. Fitch took the measure of the room, a cubbyhole with no window, one door, peeling paint, three chairs, and a table. “Nice place,” he said, looking at the brown water spots on the ceiling.

“It's clean, Fitch. No phones for you to tap, no vents for cameras, no wires in the walls. I'll check it every morning, and if I find your trail, then I'll simply walk out the door and never come back.”

“You have a low impression of me.”

“It's one you deserve.”

Fitch looked again at the ceiling, then the floor. “I like the place.”

“It'll serve its purpose.”

“Its purpose being?”

Her purse was the only item on the table. She removed the same sensor-scan from it, and aimed it at Fitch from head to toe.

“Come on, Marlee,” he protested. “I promised.”

“Yeah right. You're clean. Have a seat,” she said, nodding at one of two chairs on his side of the table. Fitch shook the folding chair, a rather thin job that might not meet his challenge. He lowered himself onto it, then leaned forward with his elbows on the table, which was also not too stable, so he was perched precariously at both ends. “Are we ready to talk money?” he asked with a nasty grin.

“Yes. It's a simple deal, really, Fitch. You wire me a bunch of money, and I promise to deliver you a verdict.”

“I think we should wait until after the verdict.”

“You know I'm not that stupid.”

The folding table was three feet wide. Both were leaning on it, their faces not far apart. Fitch often used his bulk and his nasty eyes and his sinister goatee to physically intimidate those around him, especially the younger lawyers in the firms he hired. If Marlee was intimidated, she certainly didn't show it. Fitch admired her poise. She stared straight into his eyes, never blinking, a most difficult task.

“Then there are no guarantees,” he said. “Juries are unpredictable. We could give you the money-”

“Drop it, Fitch. You and I both know the money will be paid before the verdict.”

“How much money?”

“Ten million.”

He managed a guttural discharge, as if choking on a golf ball, then he coughed loudly as his elbows flew up and his eyes rolled and his fat jowls shook in utter, sheer disbelief. “You must be kidding,” he managed to say in a raspy voice, glancing around for a cup of water or a bottle of pills or anything to help him through this horrible shock.

She watched the show calmly, never blinking, never taking her eyes off him. “Ten million, Fitch. It's a bargain. And it's nonnegotiable.”

He coughed again, his face slightly redder. Then he gathered his composure and thought of a response. He'd guessed in the millions, and he knew he'd sound foolish trying to negotiate down as if his client couldn't afford it. She probably had the latest quarterly reports for each of the Big Four.

“How much is in The Fund?” she asked, and Fitch's eyes instinctively narrowed. As far as he could tell, she hadn't blinked yet.

“The what?” he asked. No one knew about The Fund!

“The Fund, Fitch. Don't play games with me. I know all about your little slush fund. I want the ten million wired from The Fund account to a bank in Singapore.”