The Runaway Jury (40 page)

When they finished, they lay in the darkness and talked softly about the kids and school and the home in general. She was quite weary of this ordeal, and anxious to get back to her family. Hoppy spoke forlornly of her absence. The kids were testy. The house was a wreck. Everybody missed Millie.

He dressed and turned on the television. Millie found her bathrobe and poured another tiny bit of champagne.

“You’re not gonna believe this,” Hoppy said, fishing through a coat pocket and retrieving a folded piece of paper.

“What is it?” she asked, taking the paper and unfolding it. It was a copy of Fitch’s bogus memo listing the many sins of Leon Robilio. She read it slowly, then looked suspiciously at her husband. “Where did you get this?” she demanded.

“It came across the fax yesterday,” Hoppy said sincerely. He’d practiced his answer because he couldn’t stand the thought of lying to Millie. He felt like a wretch, but then Napier and Nitchman were out there somewhere, just waiting.

“Who sent it?” she asked.

“Don’t know. It looks like it came from Washington.”

“Why didn’t you throw it away?”

“I don’t know. I—”

“You know it’s wrong to show me stuff like this, Hoppy.” Millie flung the paper on the bed and walked closer to her husband, hands on hips. “What are you trying to do?”

“Nothing. It just got faxed to my office, that’s all.”

“What a coincidence! Somebody in Washington just happened to know your fax number, just happened to know your wife was on the jury, just happened to know Leon Robilio testified, and just happened to suspect that if they sent you this you’d be stupid enough to bring it over here and try to influence me. I want to know what’s going on!”

“Nothing. I swear,” Hoppy said, on his heels.

“Why have you taken such a sudden interest in this trial?”

“It’s fascinating.”

“It was fascinating for three weeks and you hardly mentioned it. What’s going on, Hoppy?”

“Nothing. Relax.”

“I can tell when something’s bothering you.”

“Get a grip, Millie. Look, you’re edgy. I’m edgy. This thing has all of us somewhat out of whack. I’m sorry for bringing it.”

Millie finished off her champagne and sat on the edge of the bed. Hoppy sat next to her. Mr. Cristano at Justice had suggested in rather strong terms that Hoppy get Millie to show the memo to all of her friends on the jury. He dreaded telling Mr. Cristano that this probably wouldn’t happen. But then, how would Mr. Cristano know for sure what happened to the damned thing?

As Hoppy pondered this Millie started crying. “I just want to go home,” she said, eyes red, lip quivering. Hoppy put his arm around her and squeezed tightly.

“I’m sorry,” he said. She cried even harder.

Hoppy felt like crying too. This meeting had proved worthless, the sex notwithstanding. According to Mr. Cristano, the trial would end in a few
short days. It was imperative that Millie soon be convinced that the only verdict was one for the defense. Since their time together was scarce. Hoppy would be forced to tell her the awful truth. Not now, not tonight, but surely during the next personal visit.

Twenty-nine

T
he Colonel’s routine never varied. Like a good soldier, he rose at precisely five-thirty every morning for fifty pushups and situps before a quick, cold shower. At six, he went to the dining room, where there’d damned well better be some fresh coffee and plenty of newspapers. He ate toast with jam and no butter, and greeted each of his colleagues with a hale and hearty good morning as they drifted in and out. They were sleepy-eyed and anxious to return to their rooms where they could sip coffee and watch the news in private. It was a helluva way to start the day, being forced to greet the Colonel and return his verbal barrage. The longer they were sequestered, the more hyper he became before sunrise. Several of the jurors waited until eight, when he was known to promptly leave and return to his room.

At six-fifteen Thursday morning, Nicholas said hello to the Colonel as he poured a cup of coffee, then endured a brief discussion about the weather.
He left the makeshift dining room and eased quietly down the empty, darkened hall. Several TV’s could already be heard. Someone was talking on the phone. He unlocked his door and quickly set the coffee on the dresser, removed a stack of newspapers from a drawer, then left the room.

Using a key he’d stolen from the rack under the front desk, Nicholas entered Room 50, the Colonel’s. The smell of cheap aftershave lingered heavily. Shoes were assembled in a perfect row against one wall. The clothes in the closet were neatly hung and precisely starched. Nicholas fell to his knees, lifted the edge of the bedspread, and deposited the newspapers and magazines under the bed. One was a copy of yesterday’s
Mogul
.

He silently left the room and returned to his. An hour later he called Marlee. Assuming Fitch was listening to all of her calls, he simply said, “Darlene, please.” To which she said, “Wrong number.” Both hung up. He waited five minutes and dialed the number to a cellphone Marlee kept hidden in a closet. They expected Fitch to tap her phones and wire her apartment.

“Delivery’s complete,” he said.

Thirty minutes later Marlee left her apartment and found a pay phone at a biscuit drive-through. She called Fitch, and waited for her call to be routed.

“Good morning, Marlee,” he said.

“Hey, Fitch. Look, I’d love to talk on the phone, but I know all this is getting recorded.”

“No it’s not. I swear.”

“Right. There’s a Kroger at the corner of Fourteenth and Beach Boulevard, five minutes from your office. There are three pay phones near the front
entrance, right side. Go to the one in the middle. I’ll call in seven minutes. Hurry, Fitch.” She hung up.

“Sonofabitch!” Fitch screamed as he threw down the receiver and bolted for the door. He yelled at José and together they raced out the back door and jumped into the Suburban.

As expected, the pay phone was ringing when Fitch got there.

“Hey, Fitch. Look, Herrera, number seven, is really getting on Nick’s nerves. I think we’ll lose him today.”

“What!”

“You heard me.”

“Don’t do it, Marlee!”

“Guy’s a real pain. Everybody’s sick of him.”

“But he’s on our side!”

“Oh, Fitch. They’ll all be on our side when it’s over. Anyway, be there at nine for the suspense.”

“No, listen, Herrera is vital to—” Fitch got himself cut off in mid-sentence when he heard the click on her end. Then the line was dead. He gripped the receiver and began pulling on it, as if he’d slowly rip it from the phone and hurl it across the parking lot. Then he released it, and without cursing or yelling he calmly walked back to the Suburban and told José to go to the office.

Whatever she wanted. It didn’t matter.

JUDGE HARKIN lived in Gulfport, fifteen minutes from the courthouse. For obvious reasons, his phone number was not listed in the local directory. Who needed convicts from the jail calling at all hours of the night?

As he was in the process of kissing his wife and gathering his cup of coffee for the road, the phone in
the kitchen rang and Mrs. Harkin took it. “It’s for you, dear,” she said, handing it to His Honor, who set down his coffee and briefcase and glanced at his watch.

“Hello,” he said.

“Judge, I’m sorry to bother you at home like this,” said a nervous voice, one almost in a whisper. “This is Nicholas Easter, and if you want me to hang up right now, I’ll do it.”

“Not yet. What’s the matter?”

“We’re still at the motel, getting ready to leave, and, well, I think I need to talk to you first thing this morning.”

“What is it, Nicholas?”

“I hate to call you, but I’m afraid some of the other jurors might be getting suspicious of our notes and chats in chambers.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“So I thought I’d call you. This way they’ll never know we’ve talked.”

“Let’s try it. If I think we should stop the conversation, then I’ll do so.” Harkin wanted to ask how a sequestered juror obtained his phone number, but decided to wait.

“It’s about Herrera. I think maybe he’s reading some stuff that isn’t on the approved list.”

“Like what?”

“Like
Mogul
. I walked into the dining room early this morning. He was there all alone, and he tried to hide a copy of
Mogul
from me. Isn’t that some kind of business magazine?”

“Yes, it is.” Harkin had read yesterday’s column by Barker. If Easter was telling the truth, and why should he doubt him, then Herrera would be sent home immediately. The reading of any unauthorized
material was grounds for dismissal, maybe even contempt. The reading of yesterday’s
Mogul
by any juror bordered on grounds for a mistrial. “Do you think he’s discussed it with anyone else?”

“I doubt it. Like I said, he was trying to hide it from me. That’s why I got suspicious. I don’t think he’d discuss it with anyone. But I’ll listen carefully.”

“You do that. I’ll call Mr. Herrera in first thing this morning and interrogate him. We’ll probably search his room.”

“Please don’t tell him I’m the snitch. I feel rotten doing this.”

“It’s okay.”

“If the other jurors get word we’re talking, then my credibility is gone.”

“Don’t worry.”

“I’m just nervous, Judge. We’re all tired and ready to go home.”

“It’s almost over, Nicholas. I’m pushing the lawyers as hard as I can.”

“I know. Sorry, Judge. Just make sure no one knows I’m playing the mole here. I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“You’re doing the right thing, Nicholas. And I thank you for it. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

Harkin kissed his wife much quicker the second time, and left the house. By car phone, he called the Sheriff and asked him to go to the motel and wait. He called Lou Dell, something he did most mornings while driving to court, and asked her if
Mogul
was sold at the motel. No, it wasn’t. He called his law clerk and asked her to locate both Rohr and Cable and have them waiting in chambers when he arrived. He listened to a country station and wondered how in the world a sequestered juror got a
copy of a business magazine not readily available on the streets of Biloxi.

Cable and Rohr were waiting with the law clerk when Judge Harkin entered his chambers and closed his door. He removed his jacket, took his seat, and summarized the allegations against Herrera without divulging his source. Cable was annoyed because Herrera was deemed by all to be a solid defense juror. Rohr was irritated because they were losing another juror and a mistrial couldn’t be far away.

With both lawyers unhappy, Judge Harkin felt much better. He sent his law clerk to the jury room to fetch Mr. Herrera, who was sipping his umpteenth cup of decaf and chatting with Herman over his braille computer. Frank glanced around quizzically after Lou Dell called his name, and left the room. He followed Willis the deputy through the back corridors behind the courtroom. They stopped at a side door, where Willis knocked politely before entering.

The Colonel was greeted warmly by the Judge and the lawyers, and he was shown a chair in the cramped room, a chair sitting snugly next to one occupied by the court reporter, who sat ready with her stenographic machine.

Judge Harkin explained that he had a few questions which would require responses under oath, and the lawyers suddenly produced yellow legal pads and started their scribbling. Herrera immediately felt like a criminal.

“Have you been reading any materials not expressly authorized by me?” Judge Harkin asked.

A pause as the lawyers looked at him. The law clerk and the court reporter and the Judge himself
were poised to pounce on his response. Even Willis by the door was awake and paying remarkable attention.

“No. Not to my knowledge,” the Colonel said, truthfully.

“Specifically, have you been reading a business weekly called
Mogul
?”

“Not since I’ve been sequestered.”

“Do you normally read
Mogul
?”

“Once, maybe twice a month.”

“In your room at the motel, do you possess any reading materials not authorized by me?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Will you consent to a search of your room?”

Frank’s cheeks went red and his shoulders jerked. “What’re you talking about?” he demanded.

“I have reason to believe you’ve been reading unauthorized materials, and that this has occurred at the motel. I think a quick search of your room might settle the matter.”

“You’re questioning my integrity,” Herrera said, wounded and angry. His integrity was vital to him. A glance at the other faces revealed that they all thought he was guilty of some heinous transgression.

“No, Mr. Herrera. I simply believe a search will allow us to proceed with this trial.”

It was just a motel room, not like a home where all sorts of private things are hidden. And, besides, Frank knew damned well there was nothing in his room that could incriminate him. “Then search it,” he said with clenched teeth.

“Thank you.”

Willis led Frank into the hallway outside chambers, and Judge Harkin called the Sheriff at the
motel. The manager opened the door to Room 50. The Sheriff and two deputies conducted a delicate search of the closet and drawers and bathroom. Under the bed, they found a stack of
Wall Street Journals
and
Forbes
magazines, and also a copy of yesterday’s
Mogul
. The Sheriff called Judge Harkin, relayed what they’d found, and was instructed to bring the unauthorized items to chambers at once.

Nine-fifteen, no jury. Fitch sat rigid on a back pew, eyes peering just barely over the top of a newspaper and staring hard at the door near the jury box, knowing full and damned well that when they finally emerged, juror number seven would not be Herrera but rather Henry Vu. Vu was mildly tolerable from a defense view because he was Asian, and Asians typically weren’t the big spenders of other people’s moneys in tort cases. But Vu was no Herrera, and Fitch’s jury people had been telling him for weeks now that the Colonel was with them and would be a force during deliberations.