The Runaway Jury

The Runaway Jury Page 3

The main courtroom of the Biloxi courthouse was on the second floor, up the tiled staircase to an atrium where sunlight flooded in. A fresh coat of white paint had just been applied to the walls, and the floors gleamed with new wax.

By eight Monday a crowd was already gathering in the atrium outside the large wooden doors leading to the courtroom. One small group was clustered in a corner, and was comprised of young men in dark suits, all of whom looked remarkably similar. They were well groomed, with oily short hair, and most either wore horn-rimmed glasses or had suspenders showing from under their tailored jackets. They were Wall Street financial analysts, specialists in tobacco stocks, sent South to follow the early developments of Wood v. Pynex.

Another group, larger and growing by the minute, hung loosely together in the center of the atrium. Each member awkwardly held a piece of paper, a jury summons. Few knew one another, but the papers labeled them and conversation came easy. A nervous chatter rose quietly outside the courtroom. The dark suits from the first group became still and watched the potential jurors.

The third group wore frowns and uniforms and guarded the doors. No fewer than seven deputies were assigned to keep things secure on opening day. Two fiddled with the metal detector in front of the door. Two more busied themselves with paperwork behind a makeshift desk. They were expecting a full house. The other three sipped coffee from paper cups and watched the crowd grow.

The guards opened the courtroom doors at exactly eight-thirty, checked the summons of each juror, admitted them one by one through the metal detector, and told the rest of the spectators they would have to wait awhile. Same for the analysts and same for the reporters.

With a neat ring of folding chairs in the aisles around the padded benches, the courtroom could seat about three hundred people. Beyond the bar, another thirty or so would soon crowd around the counsel tables. The Circuit Clerk, popularly elected by the people, checked each summons, smiled, and even hugged a few of the jurors she knew, and in a much experienced way herded them into the pews. Her name was Gloria Lane, Circuit Clerk for Harrison County for the past eleven years. She wouldn't dare miss this opportunity to point and direct, to put faces with names, to shake hands, to politic, to enjoy a brief moment in the spotlight of her most notorious trial yet. She was assisted by three younger women from her office, and by nine the jurors were all properly seated by number and were busy filling out another round of questionnaires.

Only two were missing. Ernest Duly was rumored to have moved to Florida, where he supposedly died, and there was not a clue to the whereabouts of Mrs. Telia Gail Ridehouser, who registered to vote in 1959 but hadn't visited the polls since Carter beat Ford. Gloria Lane declared the two to be nonexistent. To her left, rows one through twelve held 144 prospective jurors, and to her right, rows thirteen through sixteen held the remaining 50. Gloria consulted with an armed deputy, and pursuant to Judge Harkin's written edict, forty spectators were admitted and seated in the rear of the courtroom.

The questionnaires were finished quickly, gathered by the assistant clerks, and by ten the first of many lawyers began easing into the courtroom. They came not through the front door, but from somewhere in the back, behind the bench, where two doors led to a maze of small rooms and offices. Without exception they wore dark suits and intelligent frowns, and they all attempted the impossible feat of gawking at the jurors while trying to appear uninterested. Each tried vainly to seem preoccupied with weightier matters as files were examined and whispered conferences took place. They trickled in and took their places around the tables. To the right was the plaintiff's table. The defense was next to it. Chairs were packed tightly into every possible inch between the tables and the wooden rail which separated them from the spectators.

Row number seventeen was empty, again Harkin's orders, and in eighteen the boys from Wall Street sat stiffly and studied the backs of the jurors. Behind them were some reporters, then a row of local lawyers and other curious types. Rankin Fitch pretended to read a newspaper in the back row.

More lawyers filed in. Then the jury consultants from both sides took their positions in the cramped seats between the railing and the counsel tables. They began the uncomfortable task of staring into the inquiring faces of 194 strangers. The consultants studied the jurors because, first, that was what they were being paid huge sums of money to do, and second, because they claimed to be able to thoroughly analyze a person through the telltale revelations of body language. They watched and waited anxiously for arms to fold across the chest, for fingers to pick nervously at teeth, for heads to cock suspiciously to one side, for a hundred other gestures that supposedly would lay a person bare and expose the most private of prejudices.

They scribbled notes and silently probed the faces. Juror number fifty-six, Nicholas Easter, received more than his share of concerned looks. He sat in the middle of the fifth row, dressed in starched khakis and a button-down, a nice-looking young man. He glanced around occasionally, but his attention was directed at a paperback he'd brought for the day. No one else had thought to bring a book.

More chairs were filled near the railing. The defense had no fewer than six jury experts examining facial twitches and hemorrhoidal clutches. The plaintiff was using only four.

For the most part, the prospective jurors didn't enjoy being appraised in such a manner, and for fifteen awkward minutes they returned the glaring with scowls of their own. A lawyer told a private joke near the bench, and the laughter eased the tension. The lawyers gossiped and whispered, but the jurors were afraid to say anything.

The last lawyer to enter the courtroom was, of course, Wendall Rohr, and as usual, he could be heard before he was seen. Since he didn't own a dark suit, he wore his favorite opening-day ensemble-a gray checkered sports coat, gray slacks that didn't match, a white vest, blue shirt with red-and-yellow paisley bow tie. He was barking at a paralegal as they strode in front of the defense lawyers, ignoring them as if they'd just finished a heated skirmish somewhere in the rear. He said something loudly to another plaintiff's lawyer, and once he had the attention of the courtroom, he gazed upon his potential jurors. These were his people. This was his case, one he'd filed in his hometown so he could one day stand in this, his courtroom, and seek justice from his people. He nodded at a couple, winked at another. He knew these folks. Together, they would find the truth.

His entrance rattled the jury experts on the defense side, none of whom had actually met Wendall Rohr, but all of whom had been briefed extensively on his reputation. They saw the smiles on the faces of some of the jurors, people who actually knew him. They read the body language as the entire panel seemed to relax and respond to a familiar face. Rohr was a local legend. Fitch cursed him from the back row.

Finally, at ten-thirty, a deputy burst from the door behind the bench and shouted, "All rise for the court!" Three hundred people jumped to their feet as the Honorable Frederick Harkin stepped up to the bench and asked everyone to be seated.

For a judge he was quite young, fifty, a Democrat appointed by the governor to fill an unexpired term, then elected by the people. Because he'd once been a plaintiffs lawyer, he was now rumored to be a plaintiffs judge, though there was no truth to this. Just gossip deliciously spread by members of the defense bar. In reality, he'd been a decent general practitioner in a small firm not noted for its courtroom victories. He'd worked hard, but his passion had always been local politics, a game he'd played skillfully. His luck had paid off with an appointment to the bench, where he now earned eighty thousand dollars a year, more than he'd ever made as a lawyer.

The sight of a courtroom packed with so many qualified voters would warm the heart of any elected official, and His Honor couldn't conceal a broad grin as he welcomed the panel to his lair as if they were volunteers. The smile slowly vanished as he completed a short welcoming speech, impressing upon them the importance of their presence. Harkin was not known for either his warmth or his humor, and he quickly turned serious.

And with good reason. Seated before him were more lawyers than could actually fit around the tables. The court file listed eight as counsel of record for the plaintiff, and nine for the defense. Four days earlier, in a closed courtroom, Harkin had assigned seating for both sides. Once the jury was selected and the trial started, only six lawyers per side could sit with feet under the table. The others were assigned to a row of chairs where the jury consultants now huddled and watched. He also designated seats for the parties-Celeste Wood, the widow, and the Pynex representative. The seating arrangement had been reduced to writing and included in a small booklet of rules His Honor had written just for this occasion.

The lawsuit had been filed four years ago, and actively pursued and defended since its inception. It now filled eleven storage boxes. Each side had already spent millions to reach this point. The trial would last at least a month. Assembled at this moment in his courtroom were some of the brightest legal minds and largest egos in the country. Fred Harkin was determined to rule with a heavy hand.

Speaking into the microphone on the bench, he gave a quick synopsis of the trial, but only for informational purposes. Nice to let these folks know why they're here. He said the trial was scheduled to last for several weeks, and that the jurors would not be sequestered. There were some specific statutory excuses from jury duty, he explained, and asked if anyone over the age of sixty-five had slipped through the computer. Six hands shot upward. He seemed surprised and looked blankly at Gloria Lane, who shrugged as if this happened all the time. The six had the option of leaving immediately, and five chose to do so. Down to 189. The jury consultants scribbled and X'ed off names. The lawyers gravely made notes.

"Now, do we have any blind people here?" the Judge asked. "I mean, legally blind?" It was a light question, and brought a few smiles. Why would a blind person show up for jury duty? It was unheard of.

Slowly, a hand was raised from the center of the pack, row seven, about halfway down. Juror number sixty-three, a Mr. Herman Grimes, age fifty-nine, computer programmer, white, married, no kids. What the hell was this? Did anybody know this man was blind? The jury experts huddled on both sides. The Herman Grimes photos had been of his house and a shot or two of him on the front porch.

He'd lived in the area about three years. His questionnaires didn't indicate any handicap.

"Please stand, sir," the Judge said.

Mr. Herman Grimes stood slowly, hands in pockets, casually dressed, normal-looking eyeglasses. He didn't appear to be blind.

"Your-number please," the Judge asked. He, unlike the lawyers and their consultants, had not been required to memorize every available tidbit about every juror.

"Uh, sixty-three."

"And your name?" He was flipping the pages of his computer printout.

"Herman Grimes."

Harkin found the name, then gazed into the sea of faces. "And you're legally blind?"

"Yes sir."

"Well, Mr. Grimes, under our law, you are excused from jury duty. You're free to go."

Herman Grimes didn't move, didn't even flinch. He just looked at whatever he could see and said, "Why?"

"I beg your pardon."

"Why do I have to leave?"

"Because you're blind."

"I know that."

"And, well, blind people can't serve on juries," Harkin said, glancing to his right and then to his left as his words trailed off. "You're free to go, Mr. Grimes."

Herman Grimes hesitated as he contemplated his response. The courtroom was still. Finally, "Who says blind people can't serve on juries?"

Harkin was already reaching for a lawbook. His Honor was meticulously prepared for this trial. He'd stopped hearing other matters a month ago, and had secluded himself in his chambers, where he pored over pleadings, discovery, the applicable law, and the latest in the rules of trial procedure. He'd picked dozens of juries during his tenure on the bench, all kinds of juries for all kinds of cases, and he thought he'd seen it all. So of course he'd get ambushed during the first ten minutes of jury selection. And of course the courtroom would be packed.

"You want to serve, Mr. Grimes?" he said, trying to force a lighthearted moment as he flipped pages and looked at the wealth of legal talent assembled nearby.

Mr. Grimes was growing hostile. "You tell me why a blind person can't be on a jury. If it's written in the law, then the law is discriminatory, and I'll sue. If it ain't written in the law, and if it's just a matter of practice, then I'll sue even faster."

There was little doubt that Mr. Grimes was no stranger to litigation.

On one side of the bar were two hundred little people, those dragged into court by the power of the law. On the other side was the law itself-the Judge sitting elevated above the rest, the packs of stuffy lawyers looking down their nasty noses, the clerks, the deputies, the bailiffs. On behalf of the draftees, Mr. Herman Grimes had struck a mighty blow at the establishment, and he was rewarded with chuckles and light laughter from his colleagues. He didn't care.

Across the railing, the lawyers smiled because the prospective jurors were smiling, and they shifted in their seats and scratched their heads because no one knew what to do. "I've never seen this before," they whispered.

The law said that a blind person may be excused from jury service, and when the Judge saw the word may he quickly decided to placate Mr. Grimes and deal with him later. No sense getting sued in your own courtroom. There were other ways to exclude him from jury duty. He'd discuss it with the attorneys. "On second thought, Mr. Grimes, I think you'd make an excellent juror. Please be seated."

Herman Grimes nodded and smiled and politely said, "Thank you, sir."

How do you factor in a blind juror? The experts mulled this question as they watched him slowly bend and sit. What are his prejudices? Which side will he favor? In a game with no rules, it was a widely held axiom that people with handicaps and disabilities made great plaintiff's jurors because they better understood the meaning of suffering. But there were countless exceptions.

From the back row, Rankin Fitch strained to his right in a vain effort to make eye contact with Carl Nussman, the man who'd already been paid $1,200,000 to select the perfect jury. Nussman sat in the midst of his jury consultants, holding a legal pad and studying the faces as if he'd known perfectly well that Herman Grimes was blind. He hadn't, and Fitch knew he hadn't. It was a minor fact that had slipped through their vast web of intelligence. What else had they missed? Fitch asked himself. He'd peel the hide off Nussman as soon as they broke for a recess.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen," the Judge continued, his voice suddenly sharper and anxious to move on now that an on-the-spot discrimination suit had been averted. "We enter into a phase of jury selection that will be somewhat time-consuming. It deals with physical infirmities which might prevent you from serving. We are not going to embarrass you, but if you have a physical problem, we need to discuss it. We'll start with the first row."

As Gloria Lane stood in the aisle by row one, a man of about sixty raised his hand, then got to his feet and walked through the small swinging gate of the bar. A bailiff led him to the witness chair and shoved the microphone away. The Judge moved to the end of the bench and leaned downward so that he could whisper to the man. Two lawyers, one from each side, took their places directly in front of the witness stand and blocked the view from the spectators. The court reporter completed the tight huddle, and when everyone was in place the Judge softly asked about the man's affliction.

It was a herniated disc, and he had a letter from his doctor. He was excused and left the courtroom in a hurry.

When Harkin broke for lunch at noon, he had dismissed thirteen people for medical reasons. The tedium had set in. They would resume at one-thirty, for much more of the same.

NICHOLAS EASTER left the courthouse alone, and walked six blocks to a Burger King, where he ordered a Whopper and a Coke. He sat in a booth near the window, watching kids swing in the small playground, scanning a USA Today, eating slowly because he had an hour and a half.

The same blonde who first met him at the Computer Hut in tight jeans now wore baggy Umbros, a loose T-shirt, new Nikes, and carried a small gym bag over her shoulder. She met him for the second time as she walked by his booth carrying her tray and stopped when she seemed to recognize him.

"Nicholas," she said, feigning uncertainty.

He looked at her, and for an awkward second knew they'd met somewhere before. The name escaped him.

"You don't remember me," she said with a pleasant smile. "I was in your Computer Hut two weeks ago looking for-"

"Yeah, I remember," he said with a quick glance at her nicely tanned legs. "You bought a digital radio."

"Right. The name is Amanda. If I remember correctly, I left you my phone number. I guess you lost it."

"Would you like to sit down?"

"Thank you." She sat quickly and took a french fry.

"I still have the number," he said. "In fact-"

"Don't bother. I'm sure you've called several times. My answering machine is broken."

"No. I haven't called, yet. But I was thinking about it."

"Sure," she said, almost giggling. She had perfect teeth, which she delighted in showing him. Her hair was in a ponytail. She was too cute and too put together to be a jogger. And there was no evidence of sweat on her face.

"So what are you doing here?" he asked.

"On my way to aerobics."

"You're eating french fries before you do aerobics?"

"Why not?"

"I don't know. It just doesn't seem right."

"I need the carbohydrates."

"I see. Do you smoke before aerobics?"

"Sometimes. Is that why you haven't called? Because I smoke?"

"Not really." "Come on, Nicholas. I can take it." She was still smiling and trying to be coy.

"Okay, it crossed my mind."

"Figures. Have you ever dated a smoker?"

"Not that I recall."

"Why not?"

"Maybe I don't want to breathe it secondhand, I don't know. It's not something I spend time worrying about."

"Have you ever smoked?" She nibbled on another fry and watched him intently.

"Sure. Every kid tries it. When I was ten, I stole a pack of Camels from a plumber working around our house. Smoked them all in two days, got sick, and thought I was dying of cancer." He took a bite of his burger.

"And that was it?"

He chewed and thought it over before saying, "I think so. I can't remember another cigarette. Why did you start?"

"Stupid. I'm trying to quit."

"Good. You're too young."

"Thanks. And let me guess. When I quit, you'll give me a call, right?"

"I may call you anyway."

"I've heard this before," she said, all toothy and teasing. She took a long drink from her straw, then said, "Can I ask what you're doing here?"

"Eating a Whopper. And you?"

"I've told you. I'm headed to the gym."

"Right. I was just passing through, had some business downtown, got hungry."

"Why do you work in a Computer Hut?"

"You mean, like, why am I wasting my life working for minimum wage in a mall?"

"No, but close."

"I'm a student."

"Where?"

"Nowhere. I'm between schools."

"Where was the last school?"

"North Texas State."

"Where's the next one?"

"Probably Southern Mississippi."

"What are you studying?"

"Computers. You ask a lot of questions."

"But they're easy ones, aren't they?"

"I suppose. Where do you work?"

"I don't. I just divorced a rich man. No kids. I'm twenty-eight, single, and would like to stay that way, but a date every now and then would be nice. Why don't you give me a call?"

"How rich?"

She laughed at this, then checked her watch. "I need to go. My class starts in ten minutes." She was on her feet, getting her bag but leaving her tray. "I'll see you around." She drove off in a small BMW.

THE REST of the sick folks were hastily cleared from the panel, and by 3 P.M. the number was down to 159. Judge Harkin ordered a fifteen-minute recess, and when he returned to the bench he announced they were entering into a different phase of jury selection. He delivered a strong lecture on civic responsibility, and practically dared anyone to claim a nonmedical hardship. The first attempt was by a harried corporate executive who sat in the witness chair and softly explained to the Judge, the two lawyers, and the court reporter that he worked eighty hours a week for a large company that was losing lots of money, and any time away from the office would be disastrous. The Judge instructed him to return to his seat and await further directions.

The second attempt was by a middle-aged woman who operated an unlicensed day care center in her home. "I keep kids, Your Honor," she whispered, fighting back tears. "It's all I can do. I collect two hundred dollars a week, and I barely get by. If I have to serve on this jury, then I'll have to hire a stranger to keep the kids. Their parents won't like this, plus I can't afford to hire anyone. I'll go busted."

The prospective jurors watched with great interest as she walked down the aisle, past her row, and out of the courtroom. Her story must've been a good one. The harried corporate executive fumed.

By five-thirty, eleven people had been excused, and sixteen others had been sent back to their seats after failing to sound sufficiently pitiful. The Judge instructed Gloria Lane to pass out another, lengthier questionnaire, and told the remaining jurors to have it answered by nine in the morning. He dismissed them, with firm warnings against discussing the case with strangers.

Rankin Fitch was not in the courtroom when it adjourned Monday afternoon. He was in his office down the street. There was no record of any Nicholas Easter at North Texas State. The blonde had recorded their little chat at Burger King, and Fitch had listened to it twice. It had been his decision to send her in for a chance meeting. The meeting was risky, but it worked. She was now on a plane back to Washington. Her answering machine in Biloxi was on and would remain so until after the jury was selected. If Easter decided to call, something Fitch doubted, he wouldn't be able to reach her.