The Runaway Jury (39 page)

“Below forty, and smoking is not unhealthy. Above forty, and the product is being abused. Is this your testimony?”

“It’s my opinion.” Jankle was starting to squirm and cast his eyes at Cable, who was angry and looking away. The abuse theory was a new one, a creation of Jankle’s. He insisted on using it.

Rohr lowered his voice and studied his notes. He took his time for the setup because he didn’t want to spoil the kill. “Would you describe for the jury the steps you’ve taken as CEO to warn the public that smoking more than forty cigarettes a day is dangerous?”

Jankle had a quick retort, but he thought the better of it. His mouth opened, then he hung in mid-thought for a long, painful pause. After the damage was done, he gathered himself and said, “I think you misunderstand me.”

Rohr wasn’t about to let him explain. “I’m sure I do. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a warning on any of your products to the effect that more than two packs a day is abusive and dangerous. Why not?”

“We’re not required to.”

“Required by whom?”

“The government.”

“So if the government doesn’t make you warn folks that your products can be abused, then you’re certainly not going to do it voluntarily, are you?”

“We follow the law.”

“Did the law require Pynex to spend four hundred million dollars last year in advertising?”

“No.”

“But you did, didn’t you?”

“Something like that.”

“And if you wanted to warn smokers of potential dangers you could certainly do it, couldn’t you?”

“I suppose.”

Rohr switched quickly to butter and sugar, two products Jankle had mentioned as being potentially dangerous. Rohr took great delight in pointing out the differences between them and cigarettes, and made Jankle look silly.

He saved the best for last. During a short recess, the video monitors were once again rolled into place. When the jury returned, the lights were dimmed and there was Jankle on-screen, right hand raised while being asked to tell the truth and nothing but the truth. The occasion was a hearing before a congressional subcommittee. Standing next to Jankle were Vandemeer and the other two CEO’s of the Big Four, all summoned against their will to give testimony to a bunch of politicians. They looked like four Mafia dons about to tell Congress there was no such thing as organized crime. The questioning was brutal.

The tape was heavily edited. One by one, they
were asked point-blank if nicotine was addictive, and each emphatically said no. Jankle went last, and by the time he made his angry denial, the jury, just like the subcommittee, knew he was lying.

Twenty-eight

D
uring a tense forty-minute meeting with Cable in his office. Fitch unloaded most of what had been bothering him about the way the case was being defended. He started with Jankle and his brilliant new tobacco defense, the abused-cigarette strategy, a harebrained approach that just might doom them. Cable, in no mood to be scolded, especially by a nonlawyer he loathed anyway, repeatedly explained that they had begged Jankle not to raise the issue of abuse. But Jankle had been a lawyer in another life and fancied himself as an original thinker who’d been given the golden chance to save Big Tobacco. Jankle was now on a Pynex jet en route to New York.

And Fitch thought the jury might be tired of Cable. Rohr had spread the courtroom work among his gang of thieves. Why couldn’t Cable allow another defense lawyer besides Felix Mason to handle a few witnesses? God knew there were enough of
them. Was it ego? They yelled at each other from across the desk.

The article in
Mogul
had unraveled nerves and added another, much heavier layer of pressure.

Cable reminded Fitch that he was the lawyer, and he had thirty rather outstanding years in the courtroom. He could better read the mood and texture of the trial.

And Fitch reminded Cable that this was the ninth tobacco trial he’d directed, not to mention the two mistrials he’d engineered, and he’d certainly seen more effective courtroom advocacy than what was being offered by Cable.

When the yelling and cursing died down, and after both men made efforts to pull themselves together, they did agree that the defense should be brief. Cable projected three more days, and that included whatever cross-examination Rohr would offer. Three days and no more, Fitch said.

He slammed the door as he left the office, and gathered José in the hallway. Together they stormed through the offices, offices still very much alive with lawyers in shirtsleeves and paralegals eating pizza and harried secretaries darting about trying to finish and get home to the kids. The mere sight of Fitch swaggering at full speed and the beefy José stomping after him made grown men cower and duck into doorways.

In the Suburban, José handed Fitch a stack of faxes, which he scanned as they sped away to headquarters. The first was a list of Marlee’s movements since the meeting on the pier yesterday. Nothing unusual.

Next was the recap of what was happening in Kansas. A Claire Clement had been found in Topeka,
but she was a resident of a nursing home. The one in Des Moines actually answered the phone at her husband’s used-car lot. Swanson said they were pursuing many leads, but the report was rather scant on details. One of Kerr’s law school chums had been found in Kansas City, and they were trying to arrange a meeting.

They drove past a convenience store, and in the front window a neon beer sign caught Fitch’s attention. The smell and taste of a cold beer filled his senses, and Fitch ached for a drink. Just one. Just a sweet, frosty beer in a tall mug. How long had it been?

The urge to stop hit hard. Fitch closed his eyes and tried to think of something else. He could send José in to buy just one, one cold bottle and that would be it. Wouldn’t it? Surely, after nine years of sobriety he could handle a single drink. Why couldn’t he have just one?

Because he’d had a million. And if José stopped here then he’d stop again two blocks away. And by the time they eventually reached the office the Suburban would be filled with empty bottles and Fitch would be throwing them at passing cars. He was not a pretty drunk.

But just one to settle his nerves, to help forget this miserable day.

“You okay, boss?” José asked.

Fitch grunted something, and stopped thinking about beer. Where was Marlee, and why hadn’t she called today? The trial was winding down. A deal would take time to negotiate and execute.

He thought of the column in
Mogul
, and he longed for Marlee. He heard Jankle’s idiotic voice expounding a brand-new defense theory, and he
longed for Marlee. He closed his eyes and saw the faces of the jurors, and he longed for Marlee.

SINCE DERRICK now considered himself to be a major player, he chose a new meeting place for Wednesday night. It was a rough bar in the black section of Biloxi, a place Cleve had actually been before. Derrick figured he’d have the upper hand if the rendezvous occurred on his turf. Cleve insisted they meet in the parking lot first.

The lot was almost filled. Cleve was late. Derrick spotted him when he parked, and walked to the driver’s side.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Cleve said, peeking through the crack in his window and looking at the dark, cinder-block building with steel rods across the windows.

“It’s okay,” said Derrick, himself a bit worried but unwilling to show it. “It’s safe.”

“Safe? They’ve had three stabbings here in the last month. I’ve got the only white face here, and you expect me to walk in there with five thousand bucks in cash and hand it over to you. Reckon who’d get cut first? Me or you?”

Derrick saw his point, but was unwilling to concede so quickly. He leaned closer to the window, glanced around the parking lot, suddenly more fearful.

“I say we go in,” he said, in his best tough-guy routine.

“Forget it,” Cleve said. “If you want the money, meet me at the Waffle House on 90.” Cleve started his engine and raised the window. Derrick watched him drive away, with the five thousand dollars in
cash somewhere within his reach, then ran to his car.

THEY ATE PANCAKES and drank coffee at the counter. Conversation was low because the cook was flipping eggs and sausage on a grill less than ten feet away and seemed to be straining to hear every word.

Derrick was nervous and his hands were jittery. Runners handled cash payoffs daily. The affair was of little significance to Cleve.

“So I’m thinking that maybe ten grand ain’t enough, know what I mean?” Derrick said finally, repeating a line he’d rehearsed most of the afternoon.

“Thought we had a deal,” Cleve said, unmoved, chomping on pancakes.

“I think you’re trying to screw me, though.”

“Is this your way of negotiating?”

“You ain’t offering enough, man. I’ve been thinking about it. I even went by the courtroom this morning and watched some of the trial. I know what’s going on now. I got it figured out.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. And you guys ain’t playing fair.”

“There were no complaints last night when we agreed on ten.”

“Things are different now. You caught me off guard last night.”

Cleve wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and waited for the cook to serve someone at the far end of the counter. “Then what do you want?” he asked.

“A lot more.”

“We don’t have time to play games. Tell me what you want.”

Derrick swallowed hard and glanced over his shoulder. Under his breath he said, “Fifty thousand, plus a percentage of the verdict.”

“What percentage?”

“I figure ten percent would be fair.”

“Oh you do.” Cleve tossed his napkin onto his plate. “You’re outta your mind,” he said, then put a five-dollar bill beside his plate. He stood and said, “We cut a deal for ten. That’s it. Anything larger and we’ll get caught.”

Cleve left in a hurry. Derrick searched both pockets and found nothing but coins. The cook was suddenly hovering nearby watching the desperate search for money. “I thought he was gonna pay,” Derrick said, checking his shirt pocket.

“How much you got?” the cook asked, picking the five-dollar bill from beside Cleve’s plate.

“Eighty cents.”

“That’s enough.”

Derrick raced into the parking lot where he caught Cleve waiting with his engine running and his window down. “I’ll bet the other side’ll pay more,” he said, leaning over.

“Then go try. Walk up to them tomorrow and tell them you want fifty thousand bucks for one vote.”

“And ten percent.”

“You’re clueless, son.” Cleve slowly switched off the ignition and got out of the car. He lit a cigarette. “You don’t understand. A defense verdict means no money changes hands. Zero for the plaintiff means zero for the defense. It means no percentages for anybody. The plaintiff’s lawyers get forty percent of zero. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” Derrick said slowly, though obviously still confused.

“Look, what I’m offering you is something that’s illegal as hell. Don’t get greedy. If you do, then you’ll get caught.”

“Ten thousand seems cheap for something this big.”

“No, don’t look at it that way. Think of it like this. She’s entitled to nothing, okay. Zero. She’s doing her civic duty, getting fifteen bucks a day from the county for being a good citizen. The ten thousand is a bribe, a dirty little gift that has to be forgotten as soon as it’s received.”

“But if you offer a percentage, then she’ll be motivated to work harder in the jury room.”

Cleve drew a long puff and exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “You just don’t understand. If there’s a plaintiff’s verdict, it will be years before the money changes hands. Look, Derrick, you’re making this too complicated. Take the money. Talk to Angel. Help us out.”

“Twenty-five thousand.”

Another long puff, then the cigarette fell to the asphalt, where Cleve ground it with his boot. “I’ll have to talk to my boss.”

“Twenty-five thousand, per vote.”

“Per vote?”

“Yeah. Angel can deliver more than one.”

“Who?”

“I ain’t saying.”

“Lemme talk to my boss.”

IN ROOM 54, Henry Vu read letters from his daughter at Harvard while his wife Qui studied new insurance policies for their fleet of fishing boats. Because Nicholas was watching movies down the hall, 48 was empty. In 44, Lonnie and his wife cuddled under
the covers for the first time in almost a month, but they had to hurry since her sister had the kids. In 58, Mrs. Grimes watched sitcoms while Herman loaded trial narratives into his computer. Room 50 was empty because the Colonel was in the Party Room, alone again because Mrs. Herrera was off in Texas visiting a cousin. And 52 was also empty because Jerry was drinking beer with the Colonel and Nicholas and waiting until later to sneak across the hall to Poodle’s room. In 56, Shine Royce, alternate number two, worked on a large bag of rolls and butter he’d taken from the dining room, watched TV, and once again thanked God for his good fortune. Royce was fifty-two, unemployed, lived in a rented trailer with a younger woman and her six kids, and hadn’t earned fifteen dollars a day doing anything in years. Now, he simply had to sit and listen to a trial and the county would not only pay him but feed him too. In 46, Phillip Savelle and his Pakistani mate drank herbal tea and smoked pot with the windows open.

Across the hall in Room 49, Sylvia Taylor-Tatum talked on the phone with her son. In 45, Mrs. Gladys Card played gin rummy with Mr. Nelson Card, he of the prostate history. In 51, Rikki Coleman waited for Rhea, who was running late and might not make it because the baby-sitter hadn’t called. In 53, Loreen Duke sat on her bed, eating a brownie and listening with wretched envy as Angel Weese and her boyfriend rattled the walls next door in 55.

And in 47, Hoppy and Millie Dupree made love like never before. Hoppy had arrived early with a large sack of Chinese food and a bottle of cheap champagne, something he hadn’t tried in years. Under normal circumstances, Millie would’ve fussed
about the alcohol, but these days were far from normal. She sipped a little of the beverage from a plastic motel cup, and ate a generous portion of sweet and sour pork. Then Hoppy attacked her.