The Runaway Jury (54 page)

There was a silence as they waited to see if she would regroup or come unglued. She took a deep breath, jutted her chin forward, and found inner strength.

“Can I ask a question?” Angel said in the direction of Nicholas, as if he were now the sole source of wisdom.

“Sure,” he said, shrugging.

“What will happen to the tobacco industry if we bring back a big verdict, the kind we’re talking about?”

“Legally, economically, or politically?”

“All.”

He thought for a second or two, but was anxious to respond. “A lot of panic, initially. Lots of shock waves. Lots of scared executives worrying about what’s next. They’ll hunker down and wait to see if the trial lawyers flood them with litigation. They’ll be forced to reexamine their advertising strategies. They won’t go bankrupt, at least not in the near future, because they have so much money. They’ll run to Congress and demand special laws, and I suspect Washington will treat them with less and less favor. In short, Angel, the industry will never be the same if we do what we should do.”

“Hopefully, one day cigarettes will be outlawed,” Rikki added.

“That, or the companies will not be financially able to manufacture them,” said Nicholas.

“What will happen to us?” Angel asked. “I mean,
will we be in any danger? You said these people have been watching us since before the trial started.”

“Naw, we’ll be safe,” Nicholas said. “They can’t do anything to us. Like I said earlier, next week they won’t remember our names. But everyone will remember our verdict.”

Phillip Savelle returned and took his seat. “So what have you Robin Hoods decided now?” he asked.

Nicholas ignored him. “We need to decide on an amount, folks, if we want to go home.”

“I thought we’d made that decision,” said Rikki.

“Do we have at least nine votes?” Nicholas asked.

“For how much, may I ask?” Savelle inquired in a mocking tone.

“Three hundred and fifty million, give or take a few,” Rikki answered.

“Ah, the old distribution of wealth theory. Funny, you folks don’t look like a bunch of Marxists.”

“I have an idea,” Jerry said. “Let’s round it off to four hundred, half their cash. That shouldn’t bankrupt them. They can tighten their belts, load up some more nicotine, hook some more kids, and, presto, they’ll have the money back in a couple of years.”

“Is this an auction?” Savelle asked, and no one answered.

“Let’s do it,” Rikki said.

“Count the votes,” Nicholas said, and nine hands went up. He then polled them by asking each of the other eight if they were voting to return a verdict of two million dollars in actual damages and four hundred million in punitive. Each of them said yes. He filled in the verdict form, and made each of them sign it.

Lonnie returned after a long absence.

Nicholas addressed him. “We’ve reached a verdict, Lonnie.”

“What a surprise. How much?”

“Four hundred and two million dollars,” Savelle said. “Give or take a few million.”

Lonnie looked at Savelle, then looked at Nicholas. “You’re kidding?” he said, barely audible.

“Nope,” Nicholas said. “It’s true, and we have nine votes. Care to join?”

“Hell no.”

“Pretty incredible, ain’t it?” Savelle said. “And just think, we’ll all be famous.”

“This is unheard of,” Lonnie said, leaning against the wall.

“Not really,” Nicholas replied. “Texaco got hit with a ten-billion-dollar verdict a few years back.”

“Oh, so this is a bargain?” Lonnie said.

“No,” Nicholas said, standing. “This is justice.” He walked to the door, opened it, and asked Lou Dell to inform Judge Harkin that his jury was ready.

While they waited for a minute, Lonnie cornered Nicholas, and in a whisper asked, “Is there any way I can keep my name out of this?” He was more nervous than angry.

“Sure. Don’t worry. The Judge will poll us, ask us one at a time if this is our verdict. When he asks you, make sure everyone knows you had nothing to do with it.”

“Thanks.”

Forty-two

L
ou Dell took the note as she had taken his previous ones and gave it to Willis, who walked down the hall, around the corner, and out of sight. He personally delivered it to His Honor, who at that moment was chatting on the phone, and anxious to hear the verdict. He heard verdicts all the time, but he had a hunch this one might have some pop to it. He felt sure he would one day preside over a grander civil trial, but one was hard to contemplate at the moment.

The note said: “Judge Harkin, Could you arrange for a deputy to escort me from the courthouse as soon as we’re dismissed? I’m scared. I’ll explain later. Nicholas Easter.”

His Honor gave instructions to a deputy waiting outside his chambers, then strode purposefully through the door and into the courtroom, where the air seemed thick with trepidation. Lawyers, most of whom had been lounging around their offices not far away waiting for the call, were scurrying down
the aisle, hustling to their seats, nerved up and wild-eyed. Spectators filtered in. It was almost eight o’clock.

“I have been informed that the jury has reached a verdict,” Harkin said loudly into his microphone, and he could see the lawyers shaking. “Please bring in the jury.”

They filed in with solemn faces, something jurors always do. Regardless of what good news they bear for one side or the other, and regardless of how united they might be, their eyes are always downcast, causing both sides to instinctively sink low and begin plans for appeal.

Lou Dell took the form from Nicholas, gave it to His Honor, who somehow managed to examine it while remaining remarkably straight-faced. He gave not the slightest hint of the shattering news he was holding. The verdict shocked him beyond reason, but procedurally there was nothing he could do. It was technically in order. There would be motions to reduce it later, but he was handcuffed now. He refolded it, gave it back to Lou Dell, who walked it over to Nicholas. He was standing and ready for the announcement.

“Mr. Foreman, read the verdict.”

Nicholas unfolded his masterpiece, cleared his throat, glanced around quickly to see if Fitch was in the courtroom, and when he didn’t see him, he read: “We, the jury, find for the plaintiff, Celeste Wood, and award compensatory damages in the amount of two million dollars.”

This alone was a precedent. Wendall Rohr and his gang of trial lawyers breathed an enormous sigh of relief. They had just made history.

But the jury wasn’t finished.

“And we, the jury, find for the plaintiff, Celeste Wood, and award punitive damages in the amount of four hundred million dollars.”

From a lawyer’s point of view, the receiving of a verdict approaches an art form. One cannot flinch or twitch. One cannot look around for either solace or jubilation. One cannot grab one’s client to celebrate or to comfort. One must sit perfectly still, frown hard at a legal pad upon which one is writing, and act as though one knew precisely what the verdict would be.

The art form was desecrated. Cable slumped as if shot in the stomach. His comrades stared at the jury box with mouths gaping, air rushing out, eyes squinted in utter disbelief. An “Oh my god!” was heard from somewhere among the second-tier defense lawyers behind Cable.

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 cliché 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 Gulfport, 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.