NICHOLAS ARRIVED FIRST with two gym bags stuffed with clothes and toiletries. Lou Dell and Willis and another deputy, a new one, were waiting in the hallway outside the jury room to collect the bags and store them for a while in an empty witness room. It was eight-twenty, Tuesday.
“How do the bags get from here to the motel?” Nicholas asked, still holding his and quite suspicious.
“We'll haul them over sometime during the day,” Willis said. “But we have to inspect them first.”
“I'll be damned.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“No one is inspecting these bags,” Nicholas pronounced and stepped into the empty jury room.
“Judge's orders,” said Lou Dell, following.
“I don't care what the Judge has ordered. No one is inspecting my bags.” He placed them in a corner, walked to the coffeepot, and said to Willis and Lou Dell in the doorway, “Leave, okay. This is the jury room.”
They shuffled backward and Lou Dell closed the door. A minute passed before there were words in the hallway. Nicholas opened the door and saw Millie Dupree, sweat lining her forehead, confronting Lou Dell and Willis with two huge Samsonite suitcases. “They think they're gonna inspect our bags, but they're not,” Nicholas explained. “Let's put them in here.” He grabbed the nearest, and with great effort lifted it and hauled it to the same corner in the jury room.
“Judge's orders,” Lou Dell was heard to mumble.
“We're not terrorists,” Nicholas snapped, heaving. “What's he think we're gonna do, smuggle in some guns or drugs or something?” Millie grabbed a doughnut and expressed her gratitude to Nicholas for protecting her privacy. There were things in there that, well, she just wouldn't want men such as Willis or anybody for that matter to touch or feel.
“Leave,” Nicholas yelled, pointing at Lou Dell and Willis, who again retreated into the hallway.
By eight forty-five, all twelve jurors were present and the room was cramped with baggage Nicholas had rescued and stored. He'd ranted and raved and grown angrier with each new load, and had done a fine job of whipping the jury into a nasty bunch ready for a showdown. At nine, Lou Dell knocked on the door, then turned the knob to enter.
The door was locked from the inside.
She knocked again.
In the jury room, no one moved but Nicholas. He walked to the door, said, “Who is it?”
“Lou Dell. It's time to go. The Judge is ready for you.”
“Tell the Judge to go to hell.”
Lou Dell turned to Willis, who was bug-eyed and reaching for his rusty revolver. The harshness of his reply startled even some of the angrier jurors, but there was no break in their unity.
“What did you say?” Lou Dell asked.
There was a loud click, then the doorknob turned. Nicholas walked into the hallway and closed the door behind him. “Tell the Judge we're not coming out,” he said, glaring down at Lou Dell and her dirty gray bangs.
“You can't do that,” Willis said as aggressively as possible, which was not aggressive at all but rather feeble.
“Shut up, Willis.”
THE EXCITEMENT of jury trouble lured people back to the courtroom Tuesday morning. Word had spread quickly that one juror had been bounced and that another had had his apartment broken into, and that the Judge was angry and had ordered the entire panel locked up. Rumors ran wild, the most popular of which was the one about a tobacco snoop actually getting caught in a juror's apartment and a warrant being issued for his arrest. Cops and FBI were looking everywhere for the man.
The morning papers from Biloxi, New Orleans, Mobile, and Jackson ran large stories either on the front page or front page-Metro.
The courthouse regulars were back in droves. Most of the local bar suddenly had pressing business in the courtroom and loitered about. A half-dozen reporters from various papers held the front row, plaintiff's side. The boys from Wall Street, a group that had been dwindling as its members discovered casinos and deep sea fishing and long nights in New Orleans, were back in full force.
And so there were many witnesses to the sight of Lou Dell nervously tiptoeing through the jury door, across the front of the courtroom to the bench, where she leaned up and Harkin leaned down, and they conferred. Harkin's head cocked sideways as if he didn't catch it at first, then he looked blankly at the jury door where Willis was standing with his shoulders up in a frozen shrug.
Lou Dell finished delivering her message and walked quickly back to where Willis was waiting. Judge Harkin studied the inquiring faces of the lawyers, then looked at all the spectators out there. He scribbled something he couldn't read himself. He pondered about what to do next.
His jury was on strike!
And what exactly did his judge's handbook say about that?
He pulled his microphone closer and said, “Gentlemen, there is a small problem with the jury. I need to go speak with them. I'll ask Mr. Rohr and Mr. Cable to assist me. Everyone else is to remain in place.”
The door was locked again. The Judge knocked politely, three light raps followed by a twist of the doorknob. It wouldn't open. “Who is it?” came a male voice from inside.
“It's Judge Harkin,” he said loudly. Nicholas was standing at the door. He turned and smiled at his colleagues. Millie Dupree and Mrs. Gladys Card were hovering in a corner near a pile of luggage, fidgeting nervously, afraid of jail or whatever the Judge might throw at them. But the other jurors were still indignant.
Nicholas unlocked the door and opened it. He smiled pleasantly as if nothing were wrong, as if strikes were a routine part of trials. “Come in,” he said.
Harkin, in a gray suit, no robe, entered with Rohr and Cable in tow. “What's the problem here?” he asked while surveying the room. Most of the jurors were seated at the table with coffee cups and empty plates and newspapers scattered everywhere. Phillip Savelle stood alone at one window. Lonnie Shaver sat in a corner with a laptop on his knees. Easter was no doubt the spokesman, and probably the instigator.
“We don't think it's fair for the deputies to search our bags.”
“And why not?”
“It should be obvious. These are our personal effects. We're not terrorists or drug smugglers, and you're not a customs agent.” Easter's tone was authoritative, and the fact that he spoke so boldly to a distinguished judge made most of the jurors very proud. He was one of them, undoubtedly their leader regardless of what Herman thought, and he had told them more than once that they-not the Judge, not the lawyers, not the parties-but they the jurors were the most important people in this trial.
“It's routine in all sequestration cases,” His Honor said, taking a step closer to Easter, who was four inches taller and not about to be cowered.
“But it's not in black and white, is it? In fact, I'll bet it's a simple matter of discretion with the presiding judge. True?”
“There are some good reasons for it.”
“Not good enough. We're not coming out, Your Honor, until you promise our bags will be left alone.” Easter said this with a tight jaw and semi-snarl, and it was evident to the Judge and the lawyers that he meant it. He was also speaking for the group. No one else had moved.
Harkin made the mistake of glancing over his shoulder at Rohr, who couldn't wait to add a few thoughts. “Oh hell, Judge, what's the big deal?” he blurted. “These folks aren't carrying plastic explosives.”
“That's enough,” Harkin said, but Rohr had managed to curry a slight favor with the jury. Cable, of course, felt the same, and wanted to convey his heartfelt trust in whatever the jurors had packed in their American Touristers, but Harkin didn't give him the chance.
“Very well,” His Honor said. “The bags will not be searched. But if it comes to my attention that any juror possesses any item prohibited by the list I handed out yesterday, then that juror will be in contempt of court and subject to being jailed. Do we understand?”