The Runaway Jury (9 page)

“What are you doing here?” Harkin asked, a speck of goat cheese on his lower lip.

“I’m here on behalf of your jury.”

“What’s the matter?”

Nicholas leaned down so he wouldn’t create a scene. “We’re hungry,” he said, his anger apparent through clenched teeth and clearly absorbed by the four stricken faces. “While you folks are sitting here having a nice lunch, we’re sitting over there in a cramped room waiting on deli food that, for some reason, can’t find its way to us. We’re hungry, sir, with all due respect. And we’re upset.”

Harkin’s fork hit his plate hard, the shrimp bouncing off and tumbling to the floor. He tossed his napkin on the table while mumbling something completely indecipherable. He looked at the three women, arched his eyebrows, and said, “Well, let’s go see.” He stood, followed by the women, and the five of them stormed out of the restaurant.

Lou Dell and Willis were nowhere to be seen when Nicholas and Judge Harkin and the three women entered the hallway and opened the door to the jury room. The table was bare—no food. The time was five minutes after one. The jurors stopped their chatting and stared at His Honor.

“It’s been almost an hour,” Nicholas said, waving at the empty table. If the other jurors were astonished to see the Judge, their surprise quickly turned to anger.

“We have the right to be treated with dignity,”
snapped Lonnie Shaver, and with that Harkin was thoroughly defeated.

“Where’s Lou Dell?” he said in the general direction of the three women. Everyone looked at the door, and suddenly Lou Dell was rushing forth. She stopped cold when she saw His Honor. Harkin faced her squarely.

“What’s going on?” he asked firmly, but with control.

“I just talked to the deli,” she said, out of breath and scared, beads of sweat on her cheeks. “There’s been a mix-up. They claim someone called and said we wouldn’t need lunch until one-thirty.”

“These people are starving,” Harkin said, as if by now Lou Dell didn’t know this. “One-thirty?”

“It’s just a mix-up at the deli. Somebody got their wires crossed.”

“Which deli?”

“O’Reilly’s.”

“Remind me to speak to the owner of the deli.”

“Yes sir.”

The Judge turned his attention to his jury. “I’m very sorry. This will not happen again.” He paused for a second, looked at his watch, then offered them a pleasant smile. “I’m inviting you to follow me to Mary Mahoney’s and join me for lunch.” He turned to his law clerk, and said, “Call Bob Mahoney and tell him to prepare the back room.”

They dined on crab cakes and grilled snapper, fresh oysters and Mahoney’s famous gumbo. Nicholas Easter was the man of the hour. When they finished dessert a few minutes after two-thirty, they followed Judge Harkin, at a leisurely pace, back to the courtroom. By the time the jury was seated for
the afternoon session, everyone present had heard the story of their splendid lunch.

Neal O’Reilly, owner of the deli, later met with Judge Harkin and swore on a Bible that he had talked to someone, a young female claiming to be with the Circuit Clerk’s office, and that she had specifically instructed him to deliver lunch at precisely one-thirty.

THE TRIAL’S FIRST WITNESS was the deceased, Jacob Wood, testifying by a video deposition taken a few months before his death. Two twenty-inch monitors were rolled into place before the jury, and a series of six others were situated around the courtroom. The wiring had been completed while the jury feasted at Mary Mahoney’s.

Jacob Wood was propped up with pillows in what appeared to be a hospital bed. He wore a plain white T-shirt with a sheet covering him from the waist down. He was thin, gaunt, and pale, and took oxygen from a tiny tube running from behind his bony neck into his nose. He was told to begin, and he looked at the camera and stated his name and address. His voice was raspy and sick. He was also suffering from emphysema.

Though he was surrounded by lawyers, Jacob’s face was the only one to be seen. Occasionally a small skirmish would erupt off-camera among the lawyers, but Jacob didn’t seem to care. He was fifty-one, looked twenty years older, and was clearly pounding at death’s door.

With prompting from his lawyer, Wendall Rohr, he shared his biography beginning with his birth, and this took almost an hour. Childhood, early education, friends, homes, Navy, marriage, jobs, kids,
habits, hobbies, adult friends, travel, vacation, grandkids, thoughts of retirement. Watching a dead man talk was quite compelling at first, but the jurors soon learned that his life had been just as boring as theirs. The heavy lunch settled in, and they began to twitch and fidget. Brains and eyelids grew sluggish. Even Herman, who could only hear the voice and imagine the face, got bored. Fortunately, His Honor began to suffer from the same post-lunch sinking spell, and after an hour and twenty minutes he called for a quick recess.

The four smokers on the jury needed a break, and Lou Dell happily walked them to a room with an open window, a room next to the men’s toilet, a small cubicle normally used to hold juvenile delinquents awaiting court appearances. “If you can’t quit smoking after this trial, something’s wrong,” she said, in a very flat effort at humor. Not a smile from the four. “Sorry,” she said, closing the door behind her. Jerry Fernandez, thirty-eight, a car salesman with heavy casino debts and a bad marriage, lit his first, then waved his lighter in the faces of the three women. They pulled heavy puffs and blew large clouds at the window. “Here’s to Jacob Wood,” Jerry said as a toast. Nothing from the three women. They were too busy smoking.

Mr. Foreman Grimes had already delivered one brief lecture on the illegalities of discussing the case; he simply wouldn’t tolerate it because Judge Harkin was harping on it so strenuously. But Herman was in the next room, and Jerry was curious. “Wonder if ole Jacob ever tried to quit?” he said, to no one in particular.

Sylvia Taylor-Tatum, drawing ferociously on the end of a slender, emancipated cigarette, replied,
“I’m sure we’re about to find out,” then released an impressive torrent of bluish vapors from her long, pointed nose. Jerry loved nicknames, and he had already secretly tagged her as Poodle because of her narrow face, sharp protruding nose, and shaggy thick graying hair that parted perfectly in the center and fell in heavy layers to her shoulders. She was at least six feet tall, very angular, with a constant frown that kept people away. Poodle intended to be left alone.

“I wonder who’s next,” Jerry said, trying to start a conversation.

“I guess all those doctors,” Poodle said, staring through the window.

The other two ladies simply smoked, and Jerry gave it up.

THE WOMAN’S NAME was Marlee, at least that was the alias she’d chosen to use for this period of her life. She was thirty, short brown hair, brown eyes, medium height, slim build with simple clothing carefully selected to avoid attention. She looked great in tight jeans and short skirts, she looked great in anything or nothing, really, but for the moment she wanted no one to notice her. She’d been in the courtroom on two prior occasions—once two weeks earlier when she’d sat through another trial, and once during jury selection in the tobacco case. She knew her way around. She knew where the Judge kept his office and where he ate lunch. She knew the names of the plaintiff’s lawyers and those of the defense—no small task. She’d read the court file. She knew in which hotel Rankin Fitch was hiding during the trial.

During the recess, she got herself cleared through
the metal detector at the front door, and eased into the rear row of the courtroom. Spectators were stretching and lawyers were huddling and conferencing. She saw Fitch standing in a corner, chatting with two people she believed to be jury consultants. He did not notice her. There were about a hundred people present.

A few minutes passed. She carefully watched the door behind the bench, and when the court reporter came out with a cup of coffee, Marlee knew the Judge could not be far behind. She took an envelope from her purse, waited a second, then walked a few feet to one of the deputies guarding the front door. She flashed a comely smile and said, “Could you do me a favor?”

He almost smiled in return and noticed the envelope. “I’ll try.”

“I’ve gotta run. Could you hand this to that gentleman over there in the corner? I don’t want to interrupt him.”

The deputy squinted in the direction she was pointing, across the courtroom. “Which one?”

“The heavyset man in the middle, with the goatee, dark suit.”

At this moment, the bailiff entered from behind the bench and shouted, “Court come to order!”

“What’s his name?” the deputy asked, his voice lower.

She handed him the envelope and pointed to the name on it. “Rankin Fitch. Thanks.” She patted him on the arm and vanished from the courtroom.

Fitch leaned down the row and whispered something to an associate, then made his way to the rear of the courtroom as the jury returned. He’d seen enough for one day. Fitch typically spent little time
in the courtroom once the juries were selected. He had other means of monitoring the trial.

The deputy stopped him at the door and handed him the envelope. Fitch was startled to see his name in print. He was an unknown, a nameless shadow who introduced himself to no one and lived under an assumed name. His D.C. firm was called Arlington West Associates, about as bland and nondescript as he could imagine. No one knew his name—except of course his employees, his clients, and a few of the lawyers he hired. He glared at the deputy without muttering a “Thank you,” then stepped into the atrium, still staring in disbelief at the envelope. The printed letters were no doubt from a feminine hand. He slowly opened it, and removed a single sheet of white paper. Printed neatly in the center was a note: “Dear Mr. Fitch: Tomorrow, juror number two, Easter, will wear a gray pullover golf shirt with red trim, starched khakis, white socks, and brown leather shoes, lace-up.”

José the driver sauntered over from a water fountain and stood like an obedient watchdog beside his boss. Fitch reread the note, then looked blankly at José. He walked to the door, opened it slightly, and asked the deputy to step outside the courtroom.

“What’s the matter?” the deputy asked. His position was inside, against the door, and he was a man who followed orders.

“Who gave you this?” Fitch asked as nicely as was possible for him. The two deputies manning the metal detector were watching curiously.

“A woman. I don’t know her name.”

“When did she give it to you?”

“Just before you left. Just a minute ago.”

With that, Fitch looked quickly around. “Do you see her here?”

“Nope,” he answered after a cursory look.

“Can you describe her for me?”

He was a cop, and cops are trained to notice things. “Sure. Late twenties. Five six, maybe five seven. Short brown hair. Brown eyes. Pretty damned good-looking. Slim.”

“What was she wearing?”

He hadn’t noticed, but he couldn’t admit it. “Uhm, a light-colored dress, sort of a beige, cotton, buttons down the front.”

Fitch absorbed this, thought a second, asked, “What did she say to you?”

“Not much. Just asked me to hand this to you. Then she was gone.”

“Anything unusual about the way she talked?”

“No. Look, I need to get back inside.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Fitch and José descended the steps and roamed the corridors of the first floor. They walked outside and strolled around the courthouse, both smoking and acting as if they were out for a bit of fresh air.

THE VIDEO DEPOSITION of Jacob Wood had taken two and a half days to complete while he was alive. Judge Harkin, after editing the fights among the lawyers, the interruptions of the nurses, and the irrelevant portions of testimony, had pared it down nicely to a mere two hours and thirty-one minutes.

It seemed like days. Listening to the poor man give his personal history of smoking was interesting, to a point, but the jurors soon wished Harkin had cut more. Jacob started smoking Redtops at the age of sixteen because all of his buddies smoked Redtops.
He soon had the habit and was up to two packs a day. He quit Redtops when he left the Navy because he got married, and his wife convinced him to smoke something with a filter. She wanted him to quit. He couldn’t, so he started smoking Bristols because the ads claimed lower tar and nicotine. By the age of twenty-five he was smoking three packs a day. He remembered this well because their first child was born when Jacob was twenty-five, and Celeste Wood warned him he wouldn’t live to see his grandchildren if he didn’t stop smoking. She refused to buy cigarettes when she shopped, so Jacob did it himself. He averaged two cartons a week, twenty packs, and he usually picked up another pack or two until he could purchase by the carton.

He’d been desperate to quit. He once put ’em down for two weeks, then sneaked out of bed at night to start again. He’d cut back a few times; to two packs a day, then to one pack a day, then before he knew it he was back to three. He’d been to doctors and he’d been to hypnotists. He tried acupuncture and nicotine gum. But he simply couldn’t stop. He couldn’t after he was diagnosed with emphysema, and he couldn’t after he was told he had lung cancer.

It was the dumbest thing he’d ever done, and now at the age of fifty-one, he was dying for it. Please, he implored between coughs, if you’re smoking, stop.

Jerry Fernandez and Poodle glanced at each other.

Jacob turned melancholy when he talked about the things he’d miss. His wife, kids, grandkids, friends, trolling for redfish around Ship Island, etc. Celeste started crying softly next to Rohr, and before
long Millie Dupree, number three, next to Nicholas Easter, was rubbing her eyes with a Kleenex.

Finally, the first witness spoke his last words and the monitors went blank. His Honor thanked the jury for a fine first day, and promised more of the same tomorrow. He turned serious and launched into a dire warning against discussing this case with anyone, not even a spouse. Also, and more importantly, if anyone in any way tried to initiate contact with a juror, please report it immediately. He hammered them on this point for a good ten minutes, then dismissed them until 9 A.M.