John - The Runaway Jury

Rohr was all teeth as he quickly put his arm around Celeste Wood, who had started crying. The other trial lawyers clutched each other with quiet congratulations. Oh, the thrill of victory, the prospect of splitting forty percent of this verdict. Nicholas sat down and patted Loreen Duke on the leg. It was over, finally over.

Judge Harkin was suddenly all business, as if it were just another verdict. “Now, ladies and gentlemen. I'm going to poll the jury. This means I will ask each of you individually if this is your verdict. I'll start with Ms. Loreen Duke. Please state clearly for the record whether or not you voted for this verdict.”

“I did,” she said proudly.

Some of the lawyers took notes. Some simply stared blankly into space.

“Mr. Easter? Did you vote in favor of this verdict?”

“I did.”

“Mrs. Dupree?”

“Yes sir. I did.”

“Mr. Savelle?”

“I did not.”

“Mr. Royce? Did you vote for this?”

“I did.”

“Ms. Weese?”

“I did.”

“Mr. Vu?”

“I did.”

“Mr. Lonnie Shaver?”

Lonnie half-stood, said loudly for the world to hear, “No sir, Your Honor, I did not vote for this verdict, and I disagree with it entirely.”

“Thank you. Mrs. Rikki Coleman? Is this your verdict?”

“Yes sir.”

“Mrs. Gladys Card?”

“No sir.”

There suddenly arose a flicker of hope for Cable and Pynex and Fitch and the entire tobacco industry. Three jurors had now disclaimed the verdict. Only one more, and the jury would be sent back for more deliberations. Every trial judge could tell stories of juries whose verdicts disintegrated after they were delivered and while the polling took place. A verdict sounded much different in open court, with lawyers and clients watching, than it did only minutes earlier in the safety of the jury room.

But the slim prospect of a miracle was stamped out by the Poodle and Jerry. Both affirmed the verdict.

“Looks like the vote is nine to three,” His Honor said. “Everything else appears to be in order. Anything, Mr. Rohr?”

Rohr simply shook his head. He could not thank the jury now, though he would've loved to jump over the railing and kiss their feet. He sat smugly in his seat, one heavy arm around Celeste Wood.

“Mr. Cable?”

“No sir,” Cable managed to say. Oh, the things he'd love to tell the jurors, the idiots.

The fact that Fitch was not in the courtroom worried Nicholas immensely. His absence meant he was outside, somewhere in the dark, lurking and waiting. How much did Fitch know now? Probably too much. Nicholas was anxious to leave the courtroom, and get the hell out of town.

Harkin then began a windy thank-you, interspersed it with a rowsing dose of patriotism and civic duty, threw in every cliche he'd heard from the bench, warned them against talking to anybody about their deliberations and their verdict, said he could hold them in contempt of court if they breathed a word of what had happened in the jury room, and sent them away on their final journey to the motel to gather their things.

Fitch watched and listened from the viewing room next to his office. And he watched alone, the jury consultants having been fired hours earlier and sent back to Chicago.

He could snatch Easter, and this had been discussed at length with Swanson, who'd been told everything as soon as he arrived. But what good would it do? Easter wouldn't talk and they'd run the risk of a kidnapping charge. They had enough troubles without spending time in jail in Biloxi.

They decided to follow him, hoping he would lead them to the girl. Which, of course, posed another dilemma: What would they do with the girl if they found her? They couldn't report Marlee to the police. She'd made the magnificent decision to steal dirty money. What would Fitch tell the FBI in his sworn affidavit: that he gave her ten million dollars to deliver a verdict in a tobacco trial, and she had the nerve to double-cross him? Now would somebody please prosecute her? Fitch was screwed at every turn.

He watched the video through the lens of Oliver McAdoo's hidden camera. The jurors stood, shuffled out, and the jury box was empty.

They gathered in the jury room to pick up books and magazines and knitting bags. Nicholas was in no mood for small talk. He slipped through the door, where Chuck, an old friend now, stopped him and told him the Sheriff was waiting outside.

Without a word to Lou Dell or Willis, or to any of the people he'd spent the last four weeks with, Nicholas hurriedly disappeared behind Chuck. They ducked out the back entrance, where the Sheriff himself was waiting behind the wheel of his big brown Ford.

“Judge said you needed some help,” the Sheriff said from behind the wheel.

“Yeah. Get on Forty-nine north. I'll show you where to go. And make sure we're not followed.”

“Okay. Who might be following you?”

“Bad guys.”

Chuck slammed the passenger door in the front, and they sped away. Nicholas took one last look at the jury room on the second floor. He saw Millie from the waist up, hugging Rikki Coleman.

“Don't you have things at the motel?” the Sheriff asked.

“Forget it. I'll get them later.”

The Sheriff radioed instructions for two cars to follow and make sure they were not being tailed. Twenty minutes later, as they raced through Gulf-port, Nicholas began pointing this way and that, and the Sheriff stopped by the tennis court of a large apartment complex north of town. Nicholas said this was fine, and got out.

“You sure you're okay?” the Sheriff asked.

“I'm sure. I'll stay here with some friends. Thanks.”

“Call me if you need help.”

“Sure.”

Nicholas disappeared into the night, and watched from a corner as the patrol car left. He waited by the pool house, a vantage point that enabled him to see all traffic to and from the apartment complex. He saw nothing suspicious.

His getaway car was brand-new, a rental Marlee had left there two days ago, one of three now abandoned in various parking lots on the outskirts of Biloxi. He safely made the ninety-minute drive to Hattiesburg while watching his rear the entire way.

The Lear was waiting at the Hattiesburg airport. Nicholas locked the keys in the car, and walked nonchalantly into the small terminal.

SOMETIME AFTER MIDNIGHT, he breezed through customs in George Town with fresh Canadian papers. There were no other passengers; the airport was practically deserted. Marlee met him by the baggage claim, and they embraced fiercely.

“Have you heard?” he asked. They stepped outside, where the humid air hit hard.

“Yeah, it's all over CNN,” she said. “Was that the best you could do?” she asked with a laugh, and they kissed again.

She drove toward George Town, through the empty winding streets, around the modern bank buildings clustered near the pier.

“That's ours,” she said, pointing to the Royal Swiss Trust building.

“Nice.”

Later, they sat in the sand, at the edge of the water, splashing in the foam as the gentle waves broke across their feet. A few boats with dim lights inched along the horizon. The hotels and condos stood quiet behind them. They owned the beach for the moment.

And what a moment it was. Their four-year quest was now over. Their plans had finally worked, and to perfection. They'd dreamed of this night for so long, had been convinced countless times that it could never happen. The hours drifted by.

THEY THOUGHT IT BEST if Marcus the broker never laid eyes on Nicholas. There was an excellent chance authorities might ask questions later, and the less Marcus knew, the better. Marlee presented herself to the Royal Swiss Trust receptionist promptly at nine, and was escorted upstairs where Marcus was waiting with many questions he couldn't ask. He offered coffee, then closed his door.