No sign of her vehicle, but then again the place was packed.
It was the collective opinion of the eight principal plaintiff's lawyers, a group with a combined total of 150 years of trial experience, that this was something new. Not a one could recall a single trial in which a person on the outside contacted the lawyers involved with hints of what the jury might do. They were unanimous in their belief that she, MM, would be back. And though they at first denied it, through the weekend they grudgingly arrived at the belief that she would probably ask for money. A deal. Money for a verdict.
They could not, however, muster the courage to plot a strategy to deal with her when she wanted to negotiate. Maybe later, but not now.
Fitch, on the other hand, thought of little else. The Fund currently had a balance of six and a half million dollars, with two of that budgeted for the remaining trial expenses. The money was quite liquid and very movable. He'd spent the weekend monitoring jurors and meeting with lawyers and listening to summaries from his jury people, and he'd spent time on the phone with D. Martin Jankle at Pynex. He'd been pleased with the results of the Ken and Ben show in Charlotte, and had been assured by George Teaker that Lonnie Shaver was a man they could trust. He'd even watched a secret video of the last meeting in which Taunton and Teaker had all but convinced Shaver to sign a pledge.
Fitch slept four hours Saturday and five Sunday, about average for him though sleep was difficult. He dreamed of the girl Marlee and of what she might bring him. This could be the easiest verdict yet.
He watched the opening ceremonies Monday from the viewing room with a jury consultant. The hidden camera had been working so well they had decided to try a better one, one with a larger lens and clearer picture. It was locked in the same briefcase and placed under the same table, and no one in the busy courtroom had a clue.
No Pledge of Allegiance, nothing out of the ordinary, but then Fitch had expected this. Surely Marlee would've called if something special was planned.
He listened as Dr. Hilo Kilvan resumed his testimony, and almost smiled to himself as the jurors seemed to dread it. His consultants and his lawyers were unanimous in the belief that the plaintiff's witnesses had yet to capture the jury. The experts were impressive with credentials and visual aids, but the tobacco defense had seen it all before.
The defense would be simple and subtle. Their doctors would argue strenuously that smoking does not cause lung cancer. Other impressive experts would argue people make informed choices about smoking. Their lawyers would argue that if cigarettes are allegedly so dangerous, then you smoke at your own risk.
Fitch had been through it many times before. He'd memorized the testimony. He'd suffered through the arguments of the lawyers. He'd sweated while the juries deliberated. He'd quietly celebrated the verdicts, but he'd never had the chance to purchase one.
CIGARETTES kill four hundred thousand Americans each year, according to Dr. Kilvan, and he had four large charts to prove it. It is the single deadliest product on the market, nothing else comes close. Except for guns, and they, of course, are not designed to be aimed and fired at people. Cigarettes are designed to be lit and puffed; thus they are used properly. They are deadly if used exactly as intended.
This point hit home with the jury, and it would not be forgotten. But by ten-thirty they were ready for the morning coffee and potty break. Judge Harkin recessed for fifteen minutes. Nicholas slipped a note to Lou Dell, who gave it to Willis, who happened to be awake for the moment. He took the note to the Judge. Easter wanted a private conference at noon, if possible. It was urgent.
NICHOLAS EXCUSED HIMSELF from lunch with the explanation that his stomach was queasy and he'd lost his appetite. He needed to visit the boys' room, he said, and he'd be back in a moment. No one cared. Most were leaving the table anyway to avoid being near Stella Hulic.
He cut through the narrow back hallways and entered the chambers where the Judge was waiting, alone with a cold sandwich. They greeted each other tensely. Nicholas carried a small brown leather handbag. “We need to talk,” he said, sitting.
“Do the others know you're here?” Harkin asked. “No. But I need to be quick.”
“Go.” Harkin ate a corn chip and pushed his plate away.
“Three things. Stella Hulic, number four, front row, went to Miami this weekend, and she was followed by unknown persons believed to be working for the tobacco company.”
His Honor stopped chewing. “How do you know?”
“I overheard a conversation this morning. She was trying to whisper this to another juror. Don't ask me how she knew she was being followed-I didn't hear all of it. But the poor woman is a wreck. Frankly, I think she had a coupla drinks before court this morning. Vodka, I'd say. Probably bloody marys.”
“Keep going.”
“Secondly, Frank Herrera, number seven, we talked about him last time, well his mind is made up and I'm afraid he's trying to influence other people.”
“I'm listening.”
“He came into this trial with a fixed opinion. I think he wanted to serve; he's retired military or something, probably bored to death, but he is very pro-defense and, well, he just worries me. I don't know what you do with jurors like that.”
“Is he discussing the case?”
“Once, with me. Herman is very proud of his title of foreman, and he won't tolerate any talk about the trial.”
“Good for him.”
“But he can't monitor everything. And as you know, well, it's just human nature to gossip. Anyway, Herrera is poison.”
“Okay. And third?”
Nicholas opened his leather bag and removed a videocassette. “Does this thing work?” he asked, nodding to a small-screened TV/VCR on a roller stand in the corner. “I think so. It did last week.”
“May I?”
“Please.”
Nicholas punched the ON button and inserted the tape. “You remember the guy I saw in court last week? The one who was following me?”
“Yes.” Harkin stood and walked to within two feet of the TV screen. “I remember.”
“Well, here he is.” In black and white, a little fuzzy but certainly clear enough to distinguish, the door opened and the man entered Easter's apartment. He looked around anxiously, and for one very long second seemed to look in the precise direction of the camera, hidden in an air vent above the refrigerator. Nicholas stopped the video in full frontal shot of the man's face, and said, “That's him.”
Judge Harkin repeated without breathing, “Yeah, that's him.”
The tape continued with the man (Doyle) coming and going from view, taking pictures, leaning close to the computer, then leaving in less than ten minutes. The screen went black. “When did-“ Harkin asked slowly, still staring.
“Saturday afternoon. I worked an eight-hour shift, and this guy broke in while I was on the job.” Not entirely true, but Harkin would never know the difference. Nicholas had reprogrammed the video to reflect last Saturday's time and date in the lower right corner.
“Why do you-“
“I was robbed and beaten five years ago when I lived in Mobile, almost died. Happened during a break-in of my apartment. I'm careful about security, that's all.”