John - The Runaway Jury

He lost track of the money. He pulled it from all four pockets, then he replaced some of it. He bought more chips. After an hour, he was down six thousand dollars and wanted desperately to quit. But his luck had to change. The dice had been hot earlier; they'd get hot again. He decided to keep betting heavily, and when his luck turned he'd get it all back. Another beer, and he switched to scotch.

After a bad run, he pulled himself away from the table and returned to the men's room, same stall. He locked it and pulled loose bills from all four pockets. Down to seven thousand dollars, and he felt like crying. But he had to get it back. He decided to go out there and reclaim his money. He'd try a different table. He'd alter his betting. And, regardless of what happened, he would throw up his hands and bolt from the floor if, God help him, his pot dwindled down to five thousand. There was no way he'd lose the last five thousand.

He walked past a roulette table with no players, and on a whim placed five hundred-dollar chips on red. The dealer spun, red played, Derrick made five hundred dollars. He left the chips on red, and won again. With no hesitation, he left the twenty hundred-dollar chips on red, and won for the third straight time. Four thousand dollars in less than five minutes. He got a beer in the sports bar and watched a boxing match. Wild shouting from the crap pit told him to stay away. He felt fortunate to have almost eleven thousand dollars in his pocket.

It was past time for visiting Angel, but he had to see her. He purposely walked through the rows of slot machines, as far away from the crap tables as he could get. He walked fast, hoping to reach the front door before changing his mind and racing toward the dice. He made it.

He'd driven for only a minute, it seemed, when he saw blue lights behind him. It was a City of Biloxi police car, fast on his bumper, headlights flickering. Derrick had no mints or gum. He stopped, got out of the car, and waited for orders from the cop, who got up close and immediately smelled alcohol.

“Been drinking?” he asked.

“Oh, you know, couple of beers at the casino.”

The cop checked Derrick's eyes with a blinding flashlight, then made him walk a straight line and touch his nose with his fingers. Derrick was obviously drunk. He was handcuffed and taken to jail. He consented to a breath test and registered .18.

There were lots of questions about the cash stuffed in his pockets. The explanation made sense-he'd had a good night at the casino. But he had no job. He lived with a brother. No criminal record. The jailer listed his cash and other pocket items and locked it all away in a vault.

Derrick sat on a top bunk in the drunk tank, with two winos moaning on the floor. A phone would not help because he couldn't call Angel direct. A five-hour stay was mandatory for drunk drivers. He had to reach Angel before she left for court.

THE PHONE woke Swanson at three-thirty Monday morning. The voice on the other end was thick and groggy, the words slurred but obviously belonging to Beverly Monk. “Welcome to the Big Apple,” she said loudly, then laughed crazily, bombed out of her mind.

“Where are you?” Swanson demanded. “I've got the money.”

“Later,” she said, then he heard two angry male voices in the background. “We'll do it later.” Someone turned up the music.

“I need the information fast.”

“And I need the money.”

“Great. Tell me when and where.”

“Oh, I don't know,” she said, then yelled an obscenity at someone in the room.

Swanson gripped the receiver tighter. “Look, Beverly, listen to me. You remember that little coffee shop where we met last time?”

“Yeah, I think.”

“On Eighth, near Balducci's.”

“Oh yeah.”

“Good. Meet me there as soon as you can.”

“How soon is that?” she asked, then erupted in laughter.

Swanson was patient. “How about seven o'clock?”

“What time is it now?”

“Three-thirty.”

“Wow.”

“Look, why don't I come get you right now? Tell me where you are, and I'll grab a cab.”

“Naw, I'm okay. Just having some fun.”

“You're drunk.”

“So.”

“So, if you want this four thousand bucks, you'd better stay sober enough to meet me.”

“I'll be there, baby. What's your name again?”

“Swanson.”

“Right, Swanson. I'll be there at seven, or close to it.” She laughed as she hung up.

Swanson didn't bother to sleep again.

AT FIVE-THIRTY, Marvis Maples presented himself to the jailer and asked if he could collect his brother Derrick. The five hours were up. The jailer retrieved Derrick from the drunk tank, then unlocked a metal tray and placed it on the counter. Derrick inventoried the contents of the tray-eleven thousand dollars in cash, car keys, pocketknife, lip balm-as his brother stared in disbelief.

In the parking lot, Marvis asked about the cash and Derrick explained he'd had a good night at the crap tables. He gave Marvis two hundred dollars and asked if he could borrow his car. Marvis took the money and agreed to wait at the jail until Derrick's car was brought from the city lot.

Derrick raced to Pass Christian and parked behind the Siesta Inn just as the sky was dawning in the east. He crouched low, in case anyone happened by, and sneaked through shrubbery until he came to the window of Angel's room. It was locked, of course, and he began pecking on it. There was no response, and so he picked up a small rock and tapped louder. Daylight was landing all around him, and he was beginning to panic.

“Freeze!” came a loud voice very near his back.

Derrick jerked around to see Chuck, the uniformed deputy, aiming a long shiny black pistol at his forehead. He waved the gun. “Get away from that window! Hands up.”

Derrick raised his hands and stepped through the shrubbery. “On the ground” was the next command, and Derrick went spread-eagle on the cold sidewalk, hands behind him. Chuck radioed for help.

Marvis was still loitering around the jail waiting for Derrick's car when his brother returned for his second arrest of the night.

Angel slept through it all.

It was a shame the juror who'd been the most diligent, listened more carefully than the others, remembered more of what had been said, and obeyed every one of Judge Harkin's rules would be the last one bumped and thus prevented from affecting the verdict.

As reliable as the clock itself, Mrs. Herman Grimes arrived in the dining room at exactly seven-fifteen, took a tray, and began gathering the same breakfast items she had been gathering for almost two weeks. Bran cereal, skim milk, and a banana for Herman. Cornflakes, two percent milk, a strip of bacon, and apple juice for herself. As he often did, Nicholas met her at the buffet and offered to help. He still prepared Herman's coffee throughout the day in the jury room, and he felt obligated to help in the morning. Two sugars and one cream for Herman. Black for Mrs. Grimes. They chatted about whether or not they were packed and ready to go. She seemed genuinely excited at the prospect of eating dinner at home Monday night.

The mood had been downright festive throughout the morning as Nicholas and Henry Vu held court at the dining table and greeted the early stragglers. They were going home!

Mrs. Grimes reached for the silverware, and Nicholas quickly dropped four small tablets into Herman's coffee while saying something about the lawyers. It wouldn't kill him. It was Methergine, an obscure prescription drug used primarily in emergency rooms to revive bodies which were all but dead. Herman would be a sick man for four hours, then recover completely.

As he often did, Nicholas followed her down the hall to their room, carrying the tray and chatting on about this and that. She thanked him generously; such a nice young man.