She was stunned for a second, then embarrassed. Then she attacked. Her cheeks turned red and she managed to swallow the large portion already in her mouth. “Maybe I don't like yours either,” she said, bristling as the other heads lowered. Everyone wanted the moment to pass.
“At least I eat quietly and keep my food in my mouth,” Jerry said, very aware of how childish he sounded.
“So do I,” Stella said.
“No you don't,” said Napoleon, who had the misfortune of sitting next to Loreen Duke and across from Stella. “You make more racket than a three-year-old.”
Herman cleared his throat loudly, said, “Let's all take a deep breath now. And let's finish our lunch in peace.”
Not another word was spoken as they strained to quietly finish the remains of their lunch. Jerry and Poodle left first for the smoke room, followed by Nicholas Easter, who didn't smoke but needed a change of scenery. A light rain was falling, and the daily walk around the town would have to be canceled.
They met in the small, square room with folding chairs and a window that opened. Angel Weese, the quietest of all jurors, soon joined them. Stella, the fourth smoker, was wounded and had decided to wait behind.
Poodle didn't mind talking about the trial. Neither did Angel. What else did they have in common? They seemed to agree with Jerry that everybody knows cigarettes cause cancer. So if you smoke, you do so at your own risk.
Why give millions to the heirs of a dead man who smoked for thirty-five years? One should know better.
Twelve
Though the Hulics longed for a jet, a small cute one with leather seats and two pilots, they were temporarily stuck with an old twin-engine Cessna, which Cal could fly if the sun was up and the clouds were gone. He wouldn't dare fly it at night, especially to a crowded place like Miami, so they boarded a commuter flight at the Gulfport Municipal Airport and flew to Atlanta. From there they flew to Miami International, first class, with Stella knocking down two martinis and a glass of wine in less than an hour. It had been a long week. Her nerves were ragged from the stress of civic service.
They poured their luggage into a cab and headed for Miami Beach, where they checked into a new Sheraton.
Marlee followed them. She'd sat behind them on the commuter, and she'd flown coach from Atlanta. Her cab waited as she loitered about the lobby to make sure they were checked in. She then found a room a mile down the beach at a resort hotel. She waited until almost eleven, Friday night, before she called.
Stella had been tired and simply wanted a drink and dinner in the room. Several drinks. She'd shop tomorrow, but for now she needed liquids. When the phone rang, she was flat on the bed, barely conscious. Cal, clad only in drooping boxers, grabbed the phone. “Hello.”
“Yes, Mr. Hulic,” came the very crisp, professional voice of a young lady. “You need to be careful.”
“Say what?”
“You're being followed.” Cal rubbed his red eyes. “Who is this?”
“Listen carefully please. Some men are watching your wife. They're here in Miami. They know you took flight 4476 from Biloxi to Atlanta, flight 533 on Delta to Miami, and they know exactly which room you're in now. They're watching every move.”
Cal looked at the phone and slapped himself lightly on the forehead. “Wait a minute. I-“
“And they'll probably wire your phones tomorrow,” she added helpfully. “So, please be very careful.”
“Who are these guys?” he asked loudly, and Stella perked up slightly. She managed to swing her bare feet onto the floor and focus on her husband through foggy eyes.
“They're agents hired by the tobacco companies,” was the reply. “And they're vicious.”
The young lady hung up. Cal again looked at the receiver, then looked at his wife, a pathetic sight. She was reaching for the cigarettes. “What is it?” she demanded with a thick tongue, and Cal repeated every word.
“Oh my god!” she shrieked and walked to the table by the TV where she clutched a wine bottle and poured another glass. “Why are they after me?” she asked, falling into a chair and spilling cheap cabernet on her hotel bathrobe. “Why me?”
“She didn't say they were gonna kill you,” he explained, with a slight trace of regret.
“Why are they following me?” She was near tears.
“I don't know, dammit,” Cal growled as he took another beer from the mini-bar. They drank in silence for a few minutes, neither wanting to look at the other, both bewildered.
Then, the phone rang again and she let out a yelp. Cal took the receiver, slowly said, “Hello.”
“Hi, it's me again,” came the same voice, this time quite merry. “Something I forgot to mention. Don't call the cops or anything. These guys are doing nothing illegal. It's best just to pretend as if nothing is wrong, okay?”
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Bye.” And she was gone.
LISTING FOODS owned not one but three jets, one of which was dispatched early Saturday morning to collect Mr. Lonnie Shaver and fly him to Charlotte, alone. His wife had been unable to find a baby-sitter for the three kids. The pilots greeted him warmly and offered him coffee and fruit before takeoff.
Ken met him at the airport in a company van with a company driver, and fifteen minutes later they arrived at the SuperHouse headquarters in suburban Charlotte. Lonnie was greeted by Ben, the other pal from the first meeting in Biloxi, and together Ben and Ken gave Lonnie a quick tour of their corporate center. The building was new, a one-story brick with lots of glass and completely indistinguishable from a dozen others they'd passed on the drive from the airport. The hallways were wide and tiled and spotless; the offices were sterile and filled with technology. Lonnie could almost hear the sound of money being printed.
They shared coffee with George Teaker, CEO, in his large office with a view of a small courtyard filled with plastic greenery. Teaker was youthful, energetic, clad in denim (his usual Saturday office dress, he explained). On Sundays he wore a jogging suit. He fed Lonnie the party line-the company was growing like crazy and they wanted him on board. Then Teaker was off to a meeting.
In a small, white boardroom with no windows, Lonnie was placed at a table with coffee and doughnuts before him. Ben disappeared, but Ken stuck close as the lights dimmed and an image appeared on the wall. It was a thirty-minute video about SuperHouse-its brief history, its current position in the market, its ambitious growth plans. And its people, the “real assets.”
According to the script, SuperHouse planned to increase both gross sales and number of stores by fifteen percent a year for the next six years. Profits would be stunning.
The lights came on, and an earnest young man with a name that was quickly forgotten appeared and took a position across the table. He was a benefits specialist, and had all the answers to all the questions about health care, pension plans, vacations, holidays, sick leave, employee stock options. Everything was covered in one of the packages on the table before Lonnie, so he could mull over it later.
After a long lunch with Ben and Ken in a swanky suburban restaurant, Lonnie went back to the boardroom for a few more meetings. One covered the training program they were contemplating for him. The next, presented by video, outlined the structure of the company in relation to its parent and to its competitors. Boredom hit hard. For a man who'd spent the entire week sitting on his rear listening to lawyers haggle with experts, this was no way to spend a Saturday afternoon. Excited though he was about his visit and its prospects, he suddenly needed fresh air.
Ken, of course, knew this, and the moment the video ended he suggested they go play golf, a sport Lonnie had yet to try. Ken, of course, knew this too, so he suggested they get some sunshine anyway. Ken's BMW was blue and spotless, and he drove it with great care into the countryside, past manicured farms and estates and tree-lined roads until they reached the country club.