The Runaway Jury (17 page)

When finally asked, Durr Cable conceded that Dr. Kilvan was qualified to testify in his field. Scotty Mangrum thanked him, and then began with the first study—one comparing ratios of lung cancer mortality between cigarette smokers and non-smokers. Dr. Kilvan had been studying this for the past twenty years at the University of Montreal, and he relaxed in his chair as he explained the basics of this research to the jury. For American men, and he’d studied groups of men and women from around the world but primarily Canadians and
Americans, the risk of getting lung cancer for one who smokes fifteen cigarettes a day for ten years is ten times greater than for one who doesn’t smoke at all. Increase it to two packs a day, and the risk is twenty times greater. Increase it to three packs a day, the quantity smoked by Jacob Wood, and the risk is twenty-five times greater than for a non-smoker.

Brightly colored charts were produced and mounted on three tripods, and Dr. Kilvan, carefully and without a trace of hurry, demonstrated his findings to the jurors.

The next study was a comparison of the death rates from lung cancer in men in relation to the type of tobacco smoked. Dr. Kilvan explained the basic differences in pipe and cigar smoke and the rates of cancer for American men who used those forms of tobacco. He’d published two books on these comparisons, and was quite ready to show the jury the next series of charts and graphs. The numbers piled up, and they began to blur.

LOREEN DUKE was the first person with the nerve to remove her plate from the table and take it to a corner where she balanced it on her knees and ate alone. Because the lunches were ordered by menu at nine each morning, and because Lou Dell and Willis the deputy and the folks at O’Reilly’s Deli and anyone else involved in the serving of the food were determined to have the food on the table at the crack of noon, a certain order was necessary. A seating arrangement was developed. Loreen’s seat was directly across the table from Stella Hulic, who smacked as she talked and allowed large chunks of bread to hang from her teeth. Stella was a poorly
dressed social climber who’d spent most of her time in recess working desperately to convince the other eleven that she and her husband, a retired plumbing executive named Cal, possessed more than the rest. Cal had a hotel, and Cal had an apartment complex, and Cal had a car wash. There were other investments, most of which managed to pop out with the food as if both were accidents. They took trips, just traveled all the time. Greece was a favorite. Cal had an airplane and several boats.

According to widely accepted knowledge along the Coast, Cal, a few years earlier, had used an old shrimping boat to haul marijuana from Mexico. True or not, the Hulics were now flush, and it was Stella’s burden to discuss it with anyone who would listen. She rattled on with an obnoxious nasal twang, one foreign to the Coast, and waited until everyone had filled their mouths and an intense quiet had settled over the table.

She said, “I sure hope we finish early today. Me and Cal are headed to Miami for the weekend. There are some fabulous new shops down there.” All heads were bowed because no one could stomach the sight of half a dinner roll packed tightly in a jaw and clearly visible. Each syllable came forth with added sounds of food sticking to teeth.

Loreen left before taking the first bite. She was followed by Rikki Coleman, who offered the feeble excuse that she had to sit by the window. Lonnie Shaver suddenly needed to work during lunch. He excused himself and huddled with his computer while munching on a chicken club.

“Dr. Kilvan certainly is an impressive witness, isn’t he?” Nicholas asked the remaining jurors at the
table. A few glanced at Herman, who was eating his usual turkey sandwich on white bread with no mayonnaise or mustard or any condiment capable of sticking to his mouth or lips. A sliced turkey sandwich and a nice little pile of ridged potato chips could be easily handled and consumed without the benefit of sight. Herman’s jaws slowed for a second, but he said nothing.

“Those statistics are hard to ignore,” Nicholas said while smiling at Jerry Fernandez. It was a deliberate attempt to provoke the foreman.

“That’s enough,” Herman said.

“Enough of what, Herm?”

“Enough talk about the trial. You know the Judge’s rules.”

“Yeah, but the Judge isn’t in here, is” he, Herm? And he has no way of knowing what we discuss, does he? Unless, of course, you tell him.”

“I might just do that.”

“Fine, Herm. What would you like to discuss?”

“Anything but the trial.”

“Pick a topic. Football, the weather …”

“I don’t watch football.”

“Ha, ha.”

There was a heavy pause, a stillness broken only by the slapping of food around the mouth of Stella Hulic. Evidently the quick exchange between the two men had rattled nerves, and Stella chewed even faster.

But Jerry Fernandez had had enough. “Could you please stop smacking your food like that!” he snapped viciously.

He caught her in mid-bite, mouth open, food perceptible. He glared at her as if he might slap her,
then he said, after a deep breath, “I’m sorry, okay. It’s just that you have these terrible table manners.”

She was stunned for a second, then embarrassed. Then she attacked. Her cheeks turned red and she managed to swallow the large portion already in her mouth. “Maybe I don’t like yours either,” she said, bristling as the other heads lowered. Everyone wanted the moment to pass.

“At least I eat quietly and keep my food in my mouth,” Jerry said, very aware of how childish he sounded.

“So do I,” Stella said.

“No you don’t,” said Napoleon, who had the misfortune of sitting next to Loreen Duke and across from Stella. “You make more racket than a three-year-old.”

Herman cleared his throat loudly, said, “Let’s all take a deep breath now. And let’s finish our lunch in peace.”

Not another word was spoken as they strained to quietly finish the remains of their lunch. Jerry and Poodle left first for the smoke room, followed by Nicholas Easter, who didn’t smoke but needed a change of scenery. A light rain was falling, and the daily walk around the town would have to be canceled.

They met in the small, square room with folding chairs and a window that opened. Angel Weese, the quietest of all jurors, soon joined them. Stella, the fourth smoker, was wounded and had decided to wait behind.

Poodle didn’t mind talking about the trial. Neither did Angel. What else did they have in common? They seemed to agree with Jerry that everybody
knows cigarettes cause cancer. So if you smoke, you do so at your own risk.

Why give millions to the heirs of a dead man who smoked for thirty-five years? One should know better.

Twelve

T
hough the Hulics longed for a jet, a small cute one with leather seats and two pilots, they were temporarily stuck with an old twin-engine Cessna, which Cal could fly if the sun was up and the clouds were gone. He wouldn’t dare fly it at night, especially to a crowded place like Miami, so they boarded a commuter flight at the Gulfport Municipal Airport and flew to Atlanta. From there they flew to Miami International, first class, with Stella knocking down two martinis and a glass of wine in less than an hour. It had been a long week. Her nerves were ragged from the stress of civic service.

They poured their luggage into a cab and headed for Miami Beach, where they checked into a new Sheraton.

Marlee followed them. She’d sat behind them on the commuter, and she’d flown coach from Atlanta. Her cab waited as she loitered about the lobby to make sure they were checked in. She then found a room a mile down the beach at a resort hotel. She
waited until almost eleven, Friday night, before she called.

Stella had been tired and simply wanted a drink and dinner in the room. Several drinks. She’d shop tomorrow, but for now she needed liquids. When the phone rang, she was flat on the bed, barely conscious. Cal, clad only in drooping boxers, grabbed the phone. “Hello.”

“Yes, Mr. Hulic,” came the very crisp, professional voice of a young lady. “You need to be careful.”

“Say what?”

“You’re being followed.”

Cal rubbed his red eyes. “Who is this?”

“Listen carefully please. Some men are watching your wife. They’re here in Miami. They know you took flight 4476 from Biloxi to Atlanta, flight 533 on Delta to Miami, and they know exactly which room you’re in now. They’re watching every move.”

Cal looked at the phone and slapped himself lightly on the forehead. “Wait a minute. I—”

“And they’ll probably wire your phones tomorrow,” she added helpfully. “So, please be very careful.”

“Who are these guys?” he asked loudly, and Stella perked up slightly. She managed to swing her bare feet onto the floor and focus on her husband through foggy eyes.

“They’re agents hired by the tobacco companies,” was the reply. “And they’re vicious.”

The young lady hung up. Cal again looked at the receiver, then looked at his wife, a pathetic sight. She was reaching for the cigarettes. “What is it?” she demanded with a thick tongue, and Cal repeated every word.

“Oh my god!” she shrieked and walked to the table
by the TV where she clutched a wine bottle and poured another glass. “Why are they after me?” she asked, falling into a chair and spilling cheap cabernet on her hotel bathrobe. “Why me?”

“She didn’t say they were gonna kill you,” he explained, with a slight trace of regret.

“Why are they following me?” She was near tears.

“I don’t know, dammit,” Cal growled as he took another beer from the mini-bar. They drank in silence for a few minutes, neither wanting to look at the other, both bewildered.

Then, the phone rang again and she let out a yelp. Cal took the receiver, slowly said, “Hello.”

“Hi, it’s me again,” came the same voice, this time quite merry. “Something I forgot to mention. Don’t call the cops or anything. These guys are doing nothing illegal. It’s best just to pretend as if nothing is wrong, okay?”

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Bye.” And she was gone.

LISTING FOODS owned not one but three jets, one of which was dispatched early Saturday morning to collect Mr. Lonnie Shaver and fly him to Charlotte, alone. His wife had been unable to find a baby-sitter for the three kids. The pilots greeted him warmly and offered him coffee and fruit before takeoff.

Ken met him at the airport in a company van with a company driver, and fifteen minutes later they arrived at the SuperHouse headquarters in suburban Charlotte. Lonnie was greeted by Ben, the other pal from the first meeting in Biloxi, and together Ben and Ken gave Lonnie a quick tour of their corporate center. The building was new, a one-story brick with lots of glass and completely indistinguishable from
a dozen others they’d passed on the drive from the airport. The hallways were wide and tiled and spotless; the offices were sterile and filled with technology. Lonnie could almost hear the sound of money being printed.

They shared coffee with George Teaker, CEO, in his large office with a view of a small courtyard filled with plastic greenery. Teaker was youthful, energetic, clad in denim (his usual Saturday office dress, he explained). On Sundays he wore a jogging suit. He fed Lonnie the party line—the company was growing like crazy and they wanted him on board. Then Teaker was off to a meeting.

In a small, white boardroom with no windows, Lonnie was placed at a table with coffee and doughnuts before him. Ben disappeared, but Ken stuck close as the lights dimmed and an image appeared on the wall. It was a thirty-minute video about SuperHouse—its brief history, its current position in the market, its ambitious growth plans. And its people, the “real assets.”

According to the script, SuperHouse planned to increase both gross sales and number of stores by fifteen percent a year for the next six years. Profits would be stunning.

The lights came on, and an earnest young man with a name that was quickly forgotten appeared and took a position across the table. He was a benefits specialist, and had all the answers to all the questions about health care, pension plans, vacations, holidays, sick leave, employee stock options. Everything was covered in one of the packages on the table before Lonnie, so he could mull over it later.

After a long lunch with Ben and Ken in a swanky
suburban restaurant, Lonnie went back to the boardroom for a few more meetings. One covered the training program they were contemplating for him. The next, presented by video, outlined the structure of the company in relation to its parent and to its competitors. Boredom hit hard. For a man who’d spent the entire week sitting on his rear listening to lawyers haggle with experts, this was no way to spend a Saturday afternoon. Excited though he was about his visit and its prospects, he suddenly needed fresh air.

Ken, of course, knew this, and the moment the video ended he suggested they go play golf, a sport Lonnie had yet to try. Ken, of course, knew this too, so he suggested they get some sunshine anyway. Ken’s BMW was blue and spotless, and he drove it with great care into the countryside, past manicured farms and estates and tree-lined roads until they reached the country club.

For a black guy from a lower-middle-class family in Gulfport, the thought of stepping foot in a country club was intimidating. Lonnie at first resented the idea, and vowed to leave if he saw no other black faces. On second thought, however, he was somewhat flattered that his new employers would think so highly of him. They were really nice guys, genuine and seemingly anxious for him to adjust to their corporate culture. There’d been no mention of money yet, but how could it be less than he was earning now?

They stepped into the Club Lounge, a sprawling room of leather chairs, stuffed game on the walls, and a cloud of blue cigar smoke hanging near the pitched ceiling. A serious boy room. At a large table near the window, with the eighteenth green just below,
they found George Teaker, now in golf attire, having a drink with two black gentlemen, also nicely dressed and apparently not long off the links. All three stood and warmly greeted Lonnie, who was relieved to see kindred spirits. In fact, a huge weight left his chest, and he was suddenly ready for a drink, though he was careful with alcohol. The burly black man was Morris Peel, a loud and hearty soul who smiled constantly and introduced the other, a Percy Kellum from Atlanta. Both men were in their mid-forties, and as the first round of drinks was ordered, by Peel, he explained that he was a vice president with Listing Foods, the parent company in New York, and that Kellum was a regional something or other for Listing.