The Runaway Jury (18 page)

No pecking order was established; none was needed. It was obvious that Peel, from the parent in New York, ranked higher than Teaker, who carried the title of CEO but only ran a division. Kellum was positioned somewhere further down the pole. Ken, even lower. And Lonnie was just happy to be there. Over the second drink, with the formalities and polite chitchat out of the way, Peel, with great relish and humor, offered his biography. Sixteen years earlier, he had been the first black mid-level manager to enter the world of Listing Foods, and he had been a pain in the ass. He’d been hired as a token, not as a talent, and he’d been forced to claw his way upward. Twice he’d sued the company, and twice he’d won. And once the boys upstairs realized he was determined to join them, and that he had the brains to do so, they accepted him as a person. It still wasn’t easy, but he had their respect. Teaker, now on his third scotch, leaned in and offered, confidentially of course, that Peel was being groomed
for the big job. “You could be talking to a future CEO,” he said to Lonnie. “One of the first black CEO’s of a Fortune 500 company.”

Because of Peel, Listing Foods had implemented an aggressive program of recruiting and promoting black managers. This is where Lonnie would fit in. Hadley Brothers was a decent company, but quite old-fashioned and quite Southern, and Listing was not surprised to find but a few blacks with more authority than floor sweepers.

For two hours, as darkness fell across the eighteenth green and a piano player sang in the lounge, they drank and talked and planned the future. Dinner was just down the hall, in a private dining room with a fireplace and a moosehead above the mantel. They ate thick steaks flavored with sauce and mushrooms. Lonnie slept that night in a suite on the third floor of the country club, and awoke to a splendid fairway view, and a slight hangover.

Only two brief meetings were planned for late Sunday morning. The first, again with Ken present, was a planning session with George Teaker, in a jogging suit, and fresh from a five-miler. “Best thing in the world for a hangover,” he said. He wanted Lonnie to run the store in Biloxi under a new contract for a period of ninety days, after which they would evaluate his performance. Assuming everyone was pleased, and they certainly expected to be, then he would be transferred to a larger store, probably in the Atlanta area. A larger store meant more responsibility, and more compensation. After a year there, he would be reevaluated, and probably moved again. During this fifteen-month period, he would be required to spend at least one weekend each month in Charlotte in a management trainee program,
one that was outlined in excruciating detail in a packet on the table.

Teaker finally finished, and ordered more black coffee.

The last guest was a wiry young black man with a bald head and a meticulous suit and tie. His name was Taunton, and he was a lawyer from New York, from Wall Street, actually. His firm represented Listing Foods, he explained gravely, and in fact, he worked on nothing but Listing’s business. He was there to present a proposed contract of employment, a rather routine matter but nonetheless an important one. He handed Lonnie a document, only three or four pages, but it seemed much heavier after having traveled from Wall Street. Lonnie was impressed beyond words.

“Look it over,” Taunton said, tapping his chin with a designer pen. “And we’ll talk next week. It’s fairly standard. The compensation paragraph has several blanks. We’ll fill them in later.”

Lonnie glanced at the first page, then placed it with the other papers and packets and memos in a pile that was growing by the moment. Taunton whipped out a legal pad and seemed to prepare himself for a nasty cross-examination. “Just a few questions,” he said.

Lonnie had a painful flashback to the courtroom in Biloxi where the lawyers always had “just a few more questions.”

“Sure,” Lonnie said, glancing at his watch. He couldn’t help it.

“No criminal record of any sort?”

“No. Just a few speeding tickets.”

“No lawsuits pending against you personally?”

“No.”

“Any against your wife?”

“No.”

“Have you ever filed for bankruptcy?”

“No.”

“Ever been arrested?”

“No.”

“Indicted?”

“No.”

Taunton flipped a page. “Have you, in your capacity as a store manager, ever been involved in litigation?”

“Yeah, lemme see. About four years ago, an old man slipped and fell on a wet floor. He sued. I gave a deposition.”

“Did it go to trial?” Taunton asked with great interest. He had reviewed the court file, had a copy of it in his thick briefcase, and knew every detail of the old man’s claim.

“No. The insurance company settled out of court. I think they paid him twenty thousand or so.”

It was twenty-five thousand, and Taunton wrote this figure on his legal pad. The script called for Teaker to speak at this point. “Damned trial lawyers. They’re a blight on society.”

Taunton looked at Lonnie, then at Teaker, then said defensively, “I’m not a trial lawyer.”

“Oh, I know that,” Teaker said. “You’re one of the good guys. It’s those greedy ambulance chasers I hate.”

“Do you know what we paid last year for liability insurance coverage?” Taunton asked Lonnie, as if he might be able to provide an intelligent guess. He just shook his head.

“Listing paid over twenty million.”

“Just to keep the sharks away,” Teaker added.

There was a dramatic pause in the conversation, or at least a pause aimed at drama as Taunton and Teaker bit their lips and showed their disgust and seemed to appear to contemplate the money wasted for protection against lawsuits. Then Taunton looked at something on his legal pad, glanced at Teaker, and asked, “I don’t suppose you’ve discussed the trial, have you?”

Teaker looked surprised. “I don’t think it’s necessary. Lonnie’s on board. He’s one of us.”

Taunton appeared to ignore this. “This tobacco trial in Biloxi has serious implications throughout the economy, especially for companies like ours,” he said to Lonnie, who nodded gently and tried to understand how the trial might affect anyone other than Pynex.

Teaker said to Taunton, “I’m not sure you’re supposed to discuss it.”

Taunton continued, “It’s okay. I know trial procedure. You don’t mind, do you, Lonnie? I mean, we can trust you on this, can’t we?”

“Sure. I won’t say a word.”

“If the plaintiff wins this case and there’s a big verdict, it will open the floodgates of tobacco litigation. Trial lawyers will go crazy. They’ll bankrupt the tobacco companies.”

“We make a lot of money off tobacco sales, Lonnie,” Teaker said with perfect timing.

“Then they’ll probably sue dairy companies claiming cholesterol kills people.” Taunton’s voice was rising and he was leaning forward across the table. The issue had struck a nerve. “There has to be an end to these trials. The tobacco industry has never lost one of them. I think their record is something like fifty-five
wins, no losses. Folks on juries have always understood that you smoke at your own risk.”

“Lonnie understands this,” Teaker said, almost defensively.

Taunton took a deep breath. “Sure. Sorry if I said too much. It’s just that this Biloxi trial has a lot at stake.”

“No problem,” Lonnie said. And he really wasn’t bothered by the talk. Taunton was, after all, a lawyer, and he certainly knew the law, and perhaps it was okay if he spoke of the trial in broad terms without going into specifics. Lonnie was satisfied. He was on board. No problem out of him.

Taunton was suddenly all smiles as he packed away his notes and promised to give Lonnie a call midweek. The meeting was over and Lonnie was a free man. Ken drove him to the airport where the same Lear with the same pleasant pilots sat idling and ready.

THE WEATHERMAN promised a chance of afternoon showers, and that was all Stella wanted to hear. Cal insisted there wasn’t a cloud to be seen, but she wouldn’t take a look. She pulled the shades and watched movies until noon. She ordered a grilled cheese and two bloody marys, then slept for a while with the door chained and a chair propped against it. Cal was off to the beach, specifically a topless one he’d heard about but never got the chance to visit on account of his wife. With her safely boarded up inside their room on the tenth floor, he was free to roam the sands and admire young flesh. He sipped a beer at a thatched-roof bar and thought how wonderful the trip had become.
She was afraid to be seen, thus the credit cards were safe for the weekend.

They caught an early flight Sunday morning and returned to Biloxi. Stella was hungover and weary from a weekend of being watched. She was apprehensive about Monday and the courtroom.

Thirteen

T
he hellos and howdies were muffled Monday morning. The routine of gathering by the coffeepot and inspecting the doughnuts and rolls was growing tiresome, not so much from repetition but more from the burdensome mystery of not knowing how long this all might drag on. They broke into small groups, and recounted what happened during their freedom over the weekend. Most ran their errands and shopped and visited with family and went to church, and the humdrum took on new importance for people about to be confined. Herman was late so there were whispers about the trial, nothing important, just a general consensus that the plaintiff’s case was sinking in a mire of charts and graphs and statistics. They all believed smoking caused lung cancer. They wanted new information.

Nicholas managed to isolate Angel Weese early in the morning. They had exchanged brief pleasantries throughout the trial, but had talked of nothing substantive. She and Loreen Duke were the only two
black women on the jury, and oddly kept their distance from each other. Angel was slender and quiet, single, and worked for a beer distributor. She kept the permanent look of someone in silent pain, and she proved difficult to talk to.

Stella arrived late and looked like death; her eyes were red and puffy, her skin pale. Her hands shook as she poured coffee, and she went straight to the smoke room down the hall, where Jerry Fernandez and Poodle were chatting and flirting as they were now prone to do.

Nicholas was anxious to hear Stella’s weekend report. “How about a smoke?” he said to Angel, the fourth official smoker on the jury.

“When did you start?” she asked with a rare smile.

“Last week. I’ll quit when the trial’s over.” They left the jury room under the prying gaze of Lou Dell, and joined the others—Jerry and Poodle still talking; Stella stone-faced and teetering on the brink of a breakdown.

Nicholas bummed a Camel from Jerry, and lit it with a match. “Well, how was Miami?” he asked Stella.

She jerked her head toward him, startled, and said, “It rained.” She bit her filter and inhaled fiercely. She didn’t want to talk. The conversation lagged as they concentrated on their cigarettes. It was ten minutes before nine, time for the last hit of nicotine.

“I think I was followed this weekend,” Nicholas said after a minute of silence.

The smoking continued without interruption, but the minds were working. “Say what?” Jerry asked.

“They followed me,” he repeated and looked at Stella, whose eyes were wide and filled with fear.

“Who?” asked Poodle.

“I don’t know. It happened Saturday when I left my apartment and went to work. I saw a guy lurking near my car, and I saw him later at the mall. Probably some agent hired by the tobacco boys.”

Stella’s mouth dropped open and her jaw quivered. Gray smoke leaked from her nostrils. “Are you gonna tell the Judge?” she asked, holding her breath. It was a question she and Cal had fought over.

“No.”

“Why not?” asked Poodle, only mildly curious.

“I don’t know for certain, okay. I mean, I’m sure I was followed, but I don’t know for sure who it was. What am I supposed to tell the Judge?”

“Tell him you were followed,” said Jerry.

“Why would they follow you?” asked Angel.

“Same reason they’re following all of us.”

“I don’t believe that,” Poodle said.

Stella certainly believed it, but if Nicholas, the ex-law student, planned to keep it from the Judge, then so did she.

“Why are they following us?” Angel asked again, nervously.

“Because it’s just what they do. The tobacco companies spent millions selecting us, and now they’re spending even more to watch us.”

“What are they looking for?”

“Ways to get to us. Friends we might talk to. Places we might go. They typically start gossip in the various communities where we live, little rumors about the deceased, bad things he did while he was alive. They’re always looking for a weak spot. That’s why they’ve never lost a jury trial.”

“How do you know it’s the tobacco company?” asked Poodle, lighting another one.

“I don’t. But they have more money than the plaintiff. In fact, they have unlimited funds to fight these cases with.”

Jerry Fernandez, always ready to help with a joke or assist in a gag, said, “You know, come to think of it, I remember seeing this strange little dude peeking around a corner at me this weekend. Saw him more than once.” He glanced at Nicholas for approval, but Nicholas was watching Stella. Jerry winked at Poodle, but she didn’t see.

Lou Dell knocked on the door.

NO PLEDGES or anthems Monday morning. Judge Harkin and the lawyers waited, ready to spring forward with unabashed patriotism at the slightest hint the jurors might be in the mood, but nothing happened. The jurors took their seats, already a bit tired it seemed and resigned to another long week of testimony. Harkin flashed them a warm welcoming smile, then proceeded with his patented monologue about unauthorized contact. Stella looked at the floor without a word. Cal was watching from the third row, present to give her support.

Scotty Mangrum rose and informed the court that the plaintiff would like to resume with the testimony of Dr. Hilo Kilvan, who was fetched from the rear somewhere and placed on the witness stand. He nodded politely at the jury. No one nodded back.

For Wendall Rohr and the plaintiff’s team of lawyers, the weekend had brought no break in their labors. The trial itself presented enough challenges, but the distraction of the fax from MM on Friday had wrecked all pretense of order. They had traced
its origin to a truck stop near Hattiesburg and after accepting some cash, a clerk had given a weak description of a young woman, late twenties maybe early thirties, with dark hair tucked under a brown fishing cap and a face half-hidden behind large dark sunshades. She was short, but then maybe she was average. Maybe she was about five six or five seven. She was slender, that was for sure, but after all it had been before nine on a Friday morning, one of their busiest periods. She’d paid five bucks for a one-page fax to a number in Biloxi, a law office, which in itself seemed odd and thus remembered by the clerk. Most of their faxes dealt with fuel permits and special loads.