Jerry invited Sylvia Taylor-Tatum, the Poodle. The two were becoming friends of a sort. She was divorced for the second time, and Jerry was about to be divorced for the first. Since Jerry knew all the casinos along the Coast, he suggested they meet at a new one called The Diplomat. It had a sports bar with a large screen, cheap drinks, a little privacy, and cocktail waitresses with long legs and skimpy outfits.
When Nicholas arrived at eight, Poodle was already there, holding a table in the crowded bar, sipping a draft beer and smiling pleasantly, something she never did inside the courthouse. Her flowing curly hair was pulled back. She wore tight faded jeans, a bulky sweater, and red cowboy boots. Still far from pretty, she looked much better in a bar than in the jury box.
Sylvia had the dark, sad, worldly eyes of a woman beaten by life, and Nicholas was determined to dig as fast and as deep as possible before Fernandez arrived. He ordered another round, and dispensed with the chitchat. “Are you married?” he asked, knowing she wasn't. The first marriage had occurred when she was nineteen, had produced twin boys, now twenty. One worked offshore on an oil rig, the other was a junior in college. Very opposite. Husband One left after five years, and she raised the boys herself. “What about you?” she asked.
“No. Technically I'm still a student, but I'm working now.”
Husband Two was an older man, and thankfully they produced no children. The marriage lasted seven years, then he traded her in for a newer model. She vowed to never marry again. The Bears kicked off to the Packers and Sylvia watched the game with interest. She loved football because her boys had been all-conference picks in high school.
Jerry arrived in a rush, casting wary glances behind him before apologizing for being late. He gulped down the first beer in a matter of seconds, and explained that he thought he was being followed. Poodle scoffed at this, and offered the opinion that right now every member of the jury was jerking at the neck, certain that shadows were not far behind.
“Forget the jury,” Jerry said. “I think it's my wife.”
“Your wife?” said Nicholas. “Yeah. I think she's got some private snoop trailing me.”
“You should look forward to being sequestered,” Nicholas said.
“Oh I am,” Jerry said, winking at Poodle.
He had five hundred dollars on the Packers, plus six points, but the bet was only for the combined score in the first half. He'd place another bet at half-time. Any pro or college game offered an amazing array of bets, he explained to the two novices seated with him, virtually none of which had anything to do with the ultimate winner. Jerry sometimes bet on who'd fumble first, who'd make the first field goal, who'd throw the most interceptions. He watched the game with the edginess of a man wagering money he could ill afford to lose. He drank four draft beers in the first quarter. Nicholas and Sylvia fell quickly behind.
In the gaps of Jerry's incessant chatter about football and the art of successful betting, Nicholas made a few awkward forays into the subject of the trial, without success. Sequestration was a sore subject, and since they had not yet experienced it there was little to say. The day's testimony had been painful enough to sit through, and the thought of rehashing Dr. Kilvan's opinions during leisure seemed cruel. Nor was there interest in the bigger picture. Sylvia in particular was disgusted by a simple inquiry into the general concept of liability.
MRS. GRIMES had been ushered from the courtroom and was in the atrium when Judge Harkin announced his rules for sequestration. As she drove Herman home he explained that he'd be spending the next two weeks in a motel room, on strange turf, without her around. Shortly after they reached their house, she had Judge Harkin on the phone, and gave him an earful of her thoughts on these most recent developments. Her husband was blind, she reminded him more than once, and he needed special assistance. Herman sat on the sofa, drinking his one beer of the day and fuming at his wife's intrusion.
Judge Harkin quickly found middle ground. He would allow Mrs. Grimes to stay with Herman in his room at the motel. She could eat breakfast and dinner with Herman, and care for him, but she had to avoid contact with the other jurors. Also, she could no longer watch the trial because it was imperative that she not be able to discuss it with Herman. This didn't sit well with Mrs. Grimes, one of the few spectators who'd heard every word so far. And, though she didn't reveal this to His Honor, or to Herman, she had already developed some rather strong opinions about the case. The Judge was firm. Herman was furious. But Mrs. Grimes prevailed, and set off to the bedroom to begin packing.
LONNIE SHAVER did a week's work Monday night at the office. After numerous attempts, he found George Teaker at home in Charlotte, and explained that the jury was about to be locked away for the duration of the trial. He was scheduled to talk to Taunton later in the week, and he was worried about being inaccessible. He explained that the Judge was prohibiting any direct phone calls to and from the motel room, and it would be impossible to correspond again until after the trial. Teaker was sympathetic, and as the conversation progressed he expressed somber concerns about the outcome of the trial.
“Our people in New York think an adverse verdict could send shock waves through the retail economy, especially in our business. God knows where insurance rates will go.”
“I'll do what I can,” Lonnie promised. “Surely the jury isn't serious about a big verdict, is it?”
“Hard to tell right now. We're halfway through the plaintiff's case, it's just too early.”
“You've gotta protect us on this, Lonnie. I know it puts you in the bull's-eye, but, damn, you just happen to be there, know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I understand. I'll do what I can.”
“We're counting on you up here. Hang in there.”
THE CONFRONTATION with Fitch was brief and went nowhere. Durwood Cable waited until almost nine, Monday night, when the offices were still busy with trial preparation and a late, catered dinner was being completed in the conference room. He asked Fitch to step into his office. Fitch obliged, though he wanted to leave and return to the dime store.
“I'd like to discuss a matter,” Durr said stiffly, standing on his side of his desk.
“What is it?” Fitch barked, choosing also to stand with hands on hips. He knew exactly what Cable had in mind.
“We were embarrassed in court this afternoon.”
“You were not embarrassed. As I recall, the jury was not present. So whatever happened was of no consequence to the final verdict.”
“You got caught, and we got embarrassed.”
“I did not get caught.”
“Then what do you call it?”
“I call it a lie. We did not send people to follow Stella Hulic. Why would we do that?”
“Then who called her?”
“I don't know, but it certainly wasn't any of our people. Any more questions?”
“Yeah, who was the guy in the apartment?”
“He was not one of my men. I didn't get to see the video, you understand. So I didn't see his face, but we have reason to believe he was a goon employed by Rohr and his boys.”
“Can you prove this?”
“I don't have to prove a damned thing. And I don't have to answer any more questions. Your job is to try this lawsuit, and you let me worry about security.”
“Don't embarrass me, Fitch.”
“And don't you embarrass me by losing this trial.”
“I rarely lose.”
Fitch turned and headed for the door. “I know. And you're doing a fine job, Cable. You just need a little help from the outside.”