John - The Runaway Jury

His Honor declared a ten-minute recess.

SHE WAS FOUR HOURS LATE, but Swanson could've hugged her nonetheless. He didn't, though, because he feared infectious diseases, and because she was escorted by a grimy young man in black leather from toe to cap, jet black hair and goatee, dyed. The word JADE was tattooed impressively in the center of his forehead, and he wore a handsome collection of earrings on both sides of his head.

Jade said nothing as he pulled a chair close and perched on guard like a Doberman.

Beverly appeared to have been beaten. Her lower lip was cut and puffy. She'd tried to cover a bruise on her cheek with makeup. The corner of her right eye was swollen. She smelled of rancid pot smoke and cheap bourbon, and she was on something, probably speed.

With little provocation, Swanson could've slapped Jade across his tattoo and slowly ripped out the earrings.

“Have you got the money?” she asked, glancing at Jade, who stared blankly at Swanson. No doubt where the money was going.

“Yes. Tell me about Claire.”

“Lemme see the money.”

Swanson removed a small envelope, opened it slightly to reveal the bills, then tucked it under both hands on the table. “Four thousand bucks. Now talk quickly,” he said, glaring at Jade.

Beverly looked at Jade, who nodded like a bad actor and said, “Go ahead.”

“Her real name is Gabrielle Brant. She's from Columbia, Missouri. She went to college at the university there, where her mother taught medieval studies. That's all I know.”

“What about her father?”

“I think he's dead.”

“Anything else?”

“No. Gimme the money.”

Swanson slid it across the table, and immediately jumped to his feet. “Thanks,” he said, and disappeared.

IT TOOK DURWOOD CABLE slightly more than half an hour to skillfully discount the ridiculous notion of giving millions to the family of a man who'd voluntarily smoked for thirty-five years. The trial was hardly more than a naked grab for money.

What he resented most about the plaintiff's case was that they had attempted to shift the issues away from Jacob Wood and his habits, and turn the trial into an emotional debate on teenage smoking. What did Jacob Wood have to do with current cigarette advertising? There wasn't an ounce of proof that the late Mr. Wood had been influenced by an ad campaign. He had started smoking because he chose to start.

Why bring the kids into this fight? Emotion, that's why. We respond angrily when we think children are being hurt or manipulated. And before the plaintiff's lawyers can convince you, the jurors, to hand them a fortune, they must first make you angry.

Cable deftly appealed to their sense of fairness. Decide the case on its facts, not on emotions. When he finished, he had their complete attention.

As he took his seat, Judge Harkin thanked him and said to the jury, “Ladies and gentlemen, the case now belongs to you. I suggest you select a new foreman to take the place of Mr. Grimes, who I'm told is doing much better. I talked to his wife during the last recess, and he is still quite ill but expected to recover fully. If for any reason you need to speak to me, please notify madam clerk. The rest of your instructions will be handed to you in the jury room. Good luck.”

As Harkin bid them farewell, Nicholas turned slightly to the audience and locked eyes with Rankin Fitch, just a brief acknowledgment of where matters were at the moment. Fitch nodded, and Nicholas stood with his colleagues.

It was almost noon. Court was in recess subject to the call of the bench, which meant that those who wanted to were free to loiter about until the jury reached a verdict. The horde from Wall Street sprinted out to call their offices. The Big Four CEO's mingled with underlings for a moment, then made their way out of the courtroom.

Fitch left immediately and went to his office. Konrad was hovering over a bank of phones. “It's her,” he said anxiously. “She's calling from a pay phone.” Fitch walked even faster to his office, where he grabbed his phone. “Hello.”

“Fitch, look. New wiring instructions. Put me on hold and go to your fax.” Fitch looked at his private fax, which was transmitting.

“It's right here,” he said. “Why new instructions?”

“Shut up, Fitch. Just do as I say, and do it immediately.”

Fitch yanked the fax from his machine and skimmed the handwritten message. The money was now headed to Panama. Banco Atlantico, in Panama City. She had routing instructions and account numbers.

“You have twenty minutes, Fitch. The jury is eating lunch. If I don't have a confirmation by twelve-thirty, then the deal is off and Nicholas changes directions. He has a cellphone in his pocket, and he's waiting for me to call.”

“Call back at twelve-thirty,” Fitch said, hanging up. He told Konrad to hold all calls. No exceptions. He immediately faxed her message to his wiring expert in D.C., who in turn faxed the necessary authorization to Hanwa Bank in the Netherlands Antilles. Hanwa had been on standby all morning, and within ten minutes the money left Fitch's account and bounced across the Caribbean to the bank in Panama City, where it had been expected. A confirmation from Hanwa was faxed to Fitch, who, at the moment, would've loved to fax it to Marlee, but he didn't have her number.

At twelve-twenty, Marlee called her banker in Panama, who confirmed the receipt of ten million dollars.

Marlee was in a motel room five miles away, working with a portable fax. She waited five minutes, then sent instructions to the same banker to wire the money to a bank in the Cayman Islands. All of it, and once it's gone, close the account in Banco Atlantico.

Nicholas called at exactly twelve-thirty. He was hiding in the men's room. Lunch was over, and it was time to start the deliberations. Marlee said the money was safe, and that she was leaving.

Fitch waited until almost one. She called from another pay phone. “The money has arrived, Fitch,” she said.

“Great. How about lunch?”

“Maybe later.”

“So when can we expect a verdict?”

“Late afternoon. I hope you're not worried, Fitch.”

“Me. Never.”

“Just relax. It'll be your finest hour. Twelve to zip, Fitch. How does that sound?”

“Like music. Why'd you bump poor old Herman?”

“Don't know what you're talking about.”

“Yeah right. When can we celebrate?”

“I'll call you later.”

She sped away in a rented car, watching every movement behind her. Her leased car was sitting in front of her condo, abandoned for all she cared. In the backseat she had two bags stuffed with clothing, the only personal items she could pack, along with the portable fax. The furniture in the condo would belong to whoever bought it at a sidewalk sale.

She looped through a subdivision, a run she'd practiced yesterday in case anyone wanted to follow. Fitch's boys weren't behind her. She zigzagged through side streets until she came to the Gulfport Municipal Airport, where the small Learjet was waiting. She grabbed her two bags and locked the keys in the car.

SWANSON CALLED ONCE, but couldn't get through. He called the supervisor in Kansas City, and three agents were immediately dispatched to Columbia, an hour away. Two more worked the phones, making rapid calls to the University of Missouri, to the medieval studies department, in a desperate attempt to locate someone who knew something and was willing to talk. Six Brants were listed in the Columbia phone book. All were called more than once and none claimed to know Gabrielle Brant.

He finally got Fitch on the phone just after one. Fitch had been barricaded in his office for an hour, taking no calls. Swanson was on his way to Missouri.