The Runaway Jury (55 page)

“Nice.”

Later, they sat in the sand, at the edge of the water, splashing in the foam as the gentle waves broke across their feet. A few boats with dim lights inched along the horizon. The hotels and condos stood quiet behind them. They owned the beach for the moment.

And what a moment it was. Their four-year quest was now over. Their plans had finally worked, and to perfection. They’d dreamed of this night for so long, had been convinced countless times that it could never happen.

The hours drifted by.

THEY THOUGHT IT BEST if Marcus the broker never laid eyes on Nicholas. There was an excellent chance authorities might ask questions later, and the less Marcus knew, the better. Marlee presented herself to the Royal Swiss Trust receptionist promptly at nine, and was escorted upstairs where Marcus was waiting with many questions he couldn’t ask. He offered coffee, then closed his door.

“The shorting of Pynex seems to have been an excellent trade,” he said with a grin at his own talent for understatement.

“Seems so,” she said. “Where will it open?”

“Good question. I’ve been on the phone to New York, and things are quite chaotic. The verdict has stunned everyone. Except you, I guess.” He wanted so badly to probe, but he knew there would be no answers. “There’s a chance it might not open. They could suspend trading for a day or two.”

She seemed to understand this perfectly. The coffee arrived. They sipped it as they reviewed yesterday’s closings. At nine-thirty, Marcus slipped on his headset and focused on the two monitors on his side desk. “The market is open,” he said, waiting.

Marlee listened intently while trying to appear calm. She and Nicholas wanted to make a quick killing, in and out, then be gone with the money to some faraway place they’d never seen before. She had to cover 160,000 shares of Pynex, stock she was anxious to unload.

“It’s suspended,” Marcus said to his computer, and she flinched slightly. He punched digits and began a conversation with someone in New York. He mumbled numbers and points, then said to her, “They’re offering it at fifty, and there are no buyers. Yes or no?”

“No.”

Two minutes passed. His eyes never left the screen. “It’s on the board at forty-five. Yes or no?”

“No. What about the others?”

His fingers danced across the keyboard. “Wow. Trellco is down thirteen to forty-three. Smith Greer down eleven to fifty-three and a quarter. ConPack down eight to twenty-five. It’s a bloodbath. The entire industry is getting shelled.”

“Check Pynex.”

“Still falling. Forty-two, with a few small buyers.”

“Buy twenty thousand shares at forty-two,” she said, looking at her notes.

A few seconds passed before he said, “Confirmed. Up to forty-three. They’re paying attention up there. I’d keep it under twenty thousand shares next time.”

Less commissions, the Marlee/Nicholas partnership had just made $740,000.

“Back down to forty-two,” he said.

“Buy twenty thousand shares at forty-one,” she said.

A minute later he said, “Confirmed.”

Another $760,000 in profits.

“Steady at forty-one, now a half up,” he said like a robot. “They saw your buy.”

“Is anybody else buying?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

“When will they start?”

“Who knows? But soon, I think. This company has too much cash to go under. Book value per share is around seventy. It’s a steal at fifty. I’d tell all my clients to jump in now.”

She bought another twenty thousand shares at forty-one, then waited half an hour to buy twenty thousand at forty. When Trellco fell to forty, down sixteen, she bought twenty thousand shares, for a profit of $320,000.

The quick kill was happening. She borrowed a phone at ten-thirty and called Nicholas, who was glued to the TV, watching it all unfold on CNN. They had a crew in Biloxi trying to get interviews from Rohr and Cable and Harkin, from Gloria Lane or anybody who might know something. No one wanted to talk to them. Nicholas was also watching stock quotes on a financial news channel.

Pynex found its bottom an hour after it opened.

Takers were found at thirty-eight, at which point Marlee dumped the remaining eighty thousand shares.

When Trellco found resistance at forty-one, she bought forty thousand shares. She was out of the Trellco business. With the bulk of her trades covered, and covered quite brilliantly, Marlee was less inclined to hang around and be greedy with the other stocks. She worked hard at being patient. She had rehearsed this plan many times, and the opportunity would never again be hers.

A few minutes before noon, with the market still in disarray, she covered the remaining shares of Smith Greer. Marcus removed his headset and wiped his forehead.

“Not a bad morning, Ms. MacRoland. You’ve netted over eight million, less commissions.” A printer hummed quietly on the desk, spewing out confirmations.

“I want the money wired to a bank in Zurich.”

“Our bank?”

“No.” She handed him a sheet of paper with wiring instructions.

“How much?” he asked.

“All of it, minus, of course, your commissions.”

“Certainly. I assume this is a priority.”

“Immediately, please.”

SHE PACKED QUICKLY. He watched because he had nothing to pack, nothing but two golf shirts and a pair of jeans he’d purchased at a dive shop in the hotel. They promised each other new wardrobes at their next destination. Money would not be a factor.

They flew, first class, to Miami, where they waited two hours before boarding a flight to Amsterdam.
The in-flight news service in first class featured none other than CNN and Financial News. They watched with great amusement as the verdict got covered in Biloxi while Wall Street ran in circles. Experts popped up everywhere. Law professors made fearless predictions about the future of tobacco liability. Stock analysts offered myriad opinions, each in sharp contrast to the preceding one. Judge Harkin had no comment. Cable could not be found. Rohr finally emerged from his office and took full credit for the victory. No one knew of Rankin Fitch, which was a shame because Marlee wanted so badly to see his suffering face.

In hindsight, her timing was perfect. The market bottomed soon after it crashed, and by the end of the day Pynex was holding steady at forty-five.

From Amsterdam, they flew to Geneva, where they leased a hotel suite for a month.

Forty-three

F
itch left Biloxi three days after the verdict. He returned to his home in Arlington and to his routine in Washington. Though his future as director of The Fund was in doubt, his anonymous little firm had plenty of nontobacco work to keep it busy. Nothing, though, that paid like The Fund.

A week after the verdict, he met with Luther Vandemeer and D. Martin Jankle in New York, and confessed every detail of the deal with Marlee. It was not a pretty meeting.

He also conferred with a collection of ruthless New York lawyers on how best to attack the verdict. The fact that Easter had vanished immediately was grounds for suspicion. Herman Grimes had already agreed to release his medical records. There was no evidence of an imminent heart attack. He’d been fit and healthy until that morning. He remembered an odd taste to his coffee, then he was on the floor. Retired Colonel Frank Herrera had already given an affidavit in which he swore the unauthorized materials
found under his bed were not placed there by him. He’d had no visitors.
Mogul
was not sold anywhere near the motel. The mystery surrounding the verdict swirled more each day.

The New York lawyers did not know about the Marlee deal, nor would they ever.

Cable had prepared and was almost ready to file a motion requesting permission to interview the jurors, an idea Judge Harkin seemed to like. How else could they find out what had gone on in there? Lonnie Shaver was particularly anxious to tell all. He’d received his promotion and was ready to defend corporate America.

There was hope for the post-trial efforts. The appellate process would be long and arduous.

As for Rohr and the group of trial lawyers who’d funded the case, the future was filled with unbounded opportunity. A staff was organized just to handle the flood of calls from other lawyers and potential victims. An 800 number was implemented. Class actions were being considered.

Wall Street seemed more sympathetic to Rohr than to the tobacco industry. In the weeks following the verdict, Pynex couldn’t top fifty, and the other three were down at least twenty percent. Antismoking groups openly predicted the bankruptcy and eventual demise of the tobacco companies.

SIX WEEKS after he left Biloxi, Fitch was eating lunch alone in a tiny Indian diner near Dupont Circle in D.C. He huddled over a bowl of spicy soup, still wearing his overcoat because it was snowing outside and chilly inside.

She dropped in from nowhere, just appeared like an angel, the same way she’d emerged on the rooftop
terrace of the St. Regis in New Orleans, over two months earlier. “Hi, Fitch,” she said, and he dropped his spoon.

He glanced around the dark restaurant, saw nothing but small groups of Indians huddled over steaming bowls, not another spoken word of English within forty feet.

“What are you doing here?” he said without moving his lips. Her face was lined with the fur from her coat. He remembered how pretty she was. The hair seemed even shorter.

“Just dropped in to say hello.”

“You’ve said it.”

“And the money is being returned to you, even as we speak. I’m wiring it back to your account at Hanwa, in the Netherlands Antilles. All ten million, Fitch.”

He could think of no quick response to this. He was looking at the lovely face of the only person who’d ever beaten him. And she still had him guessing. “How kind of you,” he said.

“I started to give it away, you know, like to some of those antismoking groups. But we decided against it.”

“We? How’s Nicholas?”

“I’m sure you miss him.”

“Deeply.”

“He’s fine.”

“So you’re together?”

“Of course.”

“Thought you probably just took the money and ran from everybody, including him.”

“Come on, Fitch.”

“I don’t want the money.”

“Great. Give it to the American Lung Association.”

“That’s not my kinda charity. Why are you returning the money?”

“It’s not mine.”

“So you’ve found ethics and morals, maybe even God.”

“Skip the lecture, Fitch. It sounds rather hollow coming from you. I never planned to keep the money. I just wanted to borrow it.”

“If you’re gonna lie and cheat, why not go ahead and steal?”

“I’m not a thief. I lied and I cheated because that’s what your client understands. Tell me, Fitch, did you find Gabrielle?”

“Yes, we did.”

“And did you find her parents?”

“We know where they are.”

“Do you understand now, Fitch?”

“It makes more sense, yes.”

“They were both wonderful people. They were intelligent and vigorous and they loved life. They both got hooked on cigarettes when they were in college, and I watched them fight the habit until they died. They hated themselves for smoking, but could never give it up. They died horrible deaths, Fitch. I watched them suffer and shrivel and gasp for breath until they couldn’t breathe anymore. I was their only child, Fitch. Did your goons learn this?”

“Yes.”

“My mother died at home, on the sofa in the den because she couldn’t walk to her bedroom. Just Mother and I.” She paused and glanced around. Fitch noticed her eyes were remarkably clear. Sad as it must have been, he could muster no sympathy.

“When did you set this plan in motion?” he asked, finally taking a spoonful of soup.

“Grad school. I studied finance, thought about law, then I dated a lawyer for a while and heard stories of tobacco litigation. The idea evolved.”

“A helluva plot.”

“Thanks, Fitch. Coming from you, that’s a compliment.”

She pulled her gloves tighter as if she was ready to go. “Just wanted to say hello, Fitch. And to make sure you know why it happened.”

“Are you finished with us?”

“No. We’ll watch the appeal closely, and if your lawyers get too carried away attacking the verdict, then I’ve got copies of the wire transfers. Be careful, Fitch. We’re kind of proud of that verdict, and we’re always watching.”

She stood at the edge of the table. “And remember, Fitch, next time you boys go to trial, we’ll be there.”

To the memory of
Tim Hargrove
(1953–1995)           

Acknowledgments

ONCE AGAIN, I am indebted to my friend Will Denton, now of Biloxi, Mississippi, for providing much of the research and many of the stories upon which this one is based; and to his lovely wife Lucy, for the hospitalities extended to me while I was on the Coast.

Thanks also to Glenn Hunt of Oxford, Mark Lee of Little Rock, Robert Warren of Bogue Chitto; and to Estelle, for finding more mistakes than I care to think about.

Books by John Grisham

A TIME TO KILL
THE FIRM
THE PELICAN BRIEF
THE CLIENT
THE CHAMBER
THE RAINMAKER
THE RUNAWAY JURY
THE PARTNER
THE STREET LAWYER
THE TESTAMENT
THE BRETHREN
A PAINTED HOUSE
SKIPPING CHRISTMAS
THE SUMMONS
THE KING OF TORTS
BLEACHERS
THE LAST JUROR
THE BROKER
THE INNOCENT MAN
PLAYING FOR PIZZA
THE APPEAL
THE ASSOCIATE
FORD COUNTY: STORIES

JOHN GRISHAM has written twenty-one novels, including the recent #1
New York Times
bestsellers
The Associate
and
The Appeal
, as well as one work of nonfiction,
The Innocent Man
. He lives in Virginia and Mississippi. His new book from Doubleday is
Ford County: Stories
.

www.jgrisham.com

Read on for an excerpt of

The

Litigators

A Novel