John - The Runaway Jury

“Are you sure, Fitch?”

Nicholas had met Hoppy in the hallway of the motel, just outside his room, a week ago as Hoppy was arriving with flowers and fudge for his wife. They had chatted for a moment. The next day Nicholas had noticed Hoppy sitting in the courtroom, a new face filled with wonder, a new face suddenly interested after almost three weeks of trial.

With Fitch in the game, Nicholas and Marlee were assuming that any juror was a potential target for outside influence. So Nicholas watched everyone. He sometimes loitered in the hallway as the guests were arriving for the personal visits, and he sometimes loitered there as they left. He eavesdropped on the gossip in the jury room. He listened to three conversations at once during the daily walks around town after lunch. He took notes on every person in the courtroom, even had nicknames and code names for them all.

It was only a hunch that Fitch was working on Millie through Hoppy. They seemed like such a nice, good-hearted pair; the type Fitch could easily snare in one of his insidious plots.

“Of course I'm sure. Nothing on Millie.”

“She's been acting strange,” Marlee said, lying.

Wonderful, thought Fitch. The Hoppy sting was working.

“What does Nicholas think about Royce, the last alternate?” he asked.

“White trash. Not bright at all. Easily manipulated. The type we could slip five grand to and we'd own him. That's another reason Nicholas wants to bump Savelle. We get Royce, and he'll be easy.”

Her casualness about bribery warmed Fitch's heart. Many times, in other trials, he'd dreamed of finding angels like Marlee, little saviors with sticky hands who were anxious to fix his juries for him. This was almost unbelievable!

“Who else might take cash?” he asked eagerly.

“Jerry's broke, lots of gambling debts, plus a messy divorce around the corner. He'll need twenty thousand or so. Nicholas hasn't cut the deal with him yet, but it'll happen over the weekend.”

“This could get expensive,” Fitch said, trying to be serious.

Marlee laughed loudly, and continued to laugh until Fitch was forced to snicker at his own humor. He'd just promised her ten million, and he was in the process of spending another two million for the defense. His clients had a net worth of something close to eleven billion.

The moment passed, and they spent a while ignoring each other. Finally, Marlee looked at her watch, and said, “Write this down, Fitch. It's now three-thirty, Eastern Time. The money's not going to Singapore. I want the ten million wired to the Hanwa Bank in the Netherlands Antilles, and I want it done immediately.”

“Hanwa Bank?”

“Yes. It's Korean. The money is not going to my account, but to yours.”

“I don't have an account there.”

“You'll open one with the wire.” She pulled folded papers from her purse and slid them across the table. “Here are the forms and instructions.”

“It's too late in the day to do this,” he said,” taking the papers. “And tomorrow is Saturday.”

“Shut up, Fitch. Just read the instructions. Everything'll work fine if you simply do as you're told. Hanwa is always open for preferred customers. I want the money parked there, in your account, over the weekend.”

“How will you know it's there?”

“You'll show me a confirmation of the wire. The money is diverted briefly until the jury retires, then it leaves Hanwa and goes to my account. This should happen Monday morning.”

“What if the jury gets the case sooner?”

“Fitch, I assure you, there will be no verdict until the money is in my account. That's a promise. And if for some reason you try to screw us, then I can also promise you there'll be a nice verdict for the plaintiff. A huge verdict.”

“Let's not talk about that.”

“No, let's not. This has all been carefully planned, Fitch. Don't mess it up. Just do as you're told. Start the wire now.”

WENDALL ROHR yelled at Dr. Gunther for an hour and a half, and when he finished there were no calm nerves anywhere in the courtroom. Rohr himself was probably the most relaxed person because his own badgering bothered him not in the least. Everybody else was sick of it. It was almost five, Friday, another week finished. Another weekend planned at the Siesta Inn.

Judge Harkin was worried about his jury. They were obviously bored and irritated, weary of sitting captive and listening to words they no longer cared about.

The lawyers were worried about them too. They weren't responding to testimony as expected. When they weren't fidgeting they were nodding off. When they weren't gazing about with blank looks they were pinching themselves to stay awake.

But Nicholas wasn't the least bit concerned about his colleagues. He wanted them fatigued and on the verge of revolt. A mob needs a leader.

During a late afternoon recess, he had prepared a letter to Judge Harkin in which he requested the trial be continued on Saturday. The issue had been debated during lunch, a debate which lasted only a few minutes because he had planned it and had all the answers. Why sit around the motel room when they could be sitting in the jury box trying to finish this marathon?

The other twelve readily added their signatures, under his, and Harkin had no choice. Saturday court was rare but not unheard of, especially in sequestration trials.

His Honor quizzed Cable as to what they might expect tomorrow, and Cable confidently predicted the defense would finish its case. Rohr said the plaintiff would have no rebuttal. Sunday court was out of the question.

“This trial should be over Monday afternoon,” Harkin said to the jury. “The defense will finish tomorrow, then we'll have closing arguments Monday morning. I anticipate you'll receive the case before noon Monday. That's the best I can do, folks.”

There were suddenly smiles throughout the jury box. With the end in sight, they could endure one last weekend together.

Dinner would be at a notorious rib place in Gulf-port, followed by four hours of personal visits both tonight, tomorrow night, and Sunday. He sent them away with apologies.

After the jury left, Judge Harkin reconvened the lawyers for two hours of arguments on a dozen motions.

He arrived late with no flowers or chocolates, no champagne or kisses, nothing but his tortured soul, which he wore on his sleeve. He took her by the hand at the door, led her to the bed, where he sat on the edge and tried to utter something before choking up. He buried his face in his hands.

“What's the matter, Hoppy?” she asked, fully alarmed and certain she was about to hear some dreadful confession. He had not been himself lately. She sat beside him, patted his knee, and listened. He began by blurting out just how stupid he'd been. He said repeatedly she wouldn't believe what he'd done, and he rambled on about how stupid it was until she finally said, firmly, “What have you done?”

He was suddenly angry-angry at himself for such a ridiculous stunt. He clenched his teeth, curled his upper lip, scowled, and launched into Mr. Todd Ringwald and KLX Property Group and Stillwater Bay and Jimmy Hull Moke. It was a setup! He'd been minding his own business, not out looking for trouble, just hustling with his sad little properties, just trying to help newlyweds into their first charming little starters. Then this guy walked in, from Vegas, nice suit, thick wad of architect's plans which, when unraveled on Hoppy's desk, looked like a gold mine.

Oh how could he have been so stupid! He lost his edge and began sobbing.

When he got to the part about the FBI coming to the house, Millie couldn't contain herself. “To our house?!”

“Yes, yes.”

“Oh my god! Where were the kids?”