She then ticked off a list of specifics, starting with automobiles. When was the last time you saw a TV ad for a sports car with a fat fifty-year-old man behind the wheel? Or a mini-van driven by an obese housewife with six kids and a dirty dog hanging out the windows? Never happens. Beer? You got ten guys sitting in a den watching the Super Bowl. Most have hair, strong chins, perfect jeans, and flat stomachs. This is not reality, but it's successful advertising.
Her testimony became quite humorous as she went through her list. Toothpaste? Ever see an ugly person with ugly teeth grinning at you through the TV? Of course not. They all have perfect teeth. Even in the acne commercials the troubled teens have only a pimple or two.
She smiled easily and even giggled at times at her own comments. The jury smiled along with her. Her point found its mark repeatedly. If successful advertising depends on targeting young adults, why shouldn't tobacco companies be allowed to do it?
She stopped smiling when Cable moved her to the issue of targeting kids. She and her research team had found no evidence of this, and they had studied thousands of tobacco ads over the past forty years. They had watched, studied, and cataloged every cigarette ad used during the TV days. And she noted, almost in an aside, that smoking had increased since such ads were banned from TV. She had spent almost two years searching for evidence that tobacco companies target teens, because she had started the project with this unfounded bias. But it simply wasn't true.
In her opinion, the only way to prevent kids from being influenced by cigarette ads was to ban all of them-billboards, buses, newspapers, magazines, coupons. And, in her opinion, this would do nothing to slow tobacco sales. It would have no impact whatsoever on underage smoking.
Cable thanked her as if she were a volunteer. She'd already been paid sixty thousand dollars to testify, and would send a bill for another fifteen. Rohr, who was anything but a gentleman, knew the pitfalls of attacking such a pretty lady in the Deep South. He delicately probed instead. He had lots of questions about the Consumer Product Institute, and the eight hundred thousand dollars it had paid for this study. She told him everything she knew. It was an academic body established to study trends and formulate policy. It was funded by private industry.
“Any tobacco companies?”
“Not that I'm aware of.”
“Any subsidiaries of tobacco companies?”
“I'm not sure.”
He asked her about companies related to tobacco companies, parent companies, sister companies, and divisions and conglomerates, and she knew nothing.
She knew nothing because that was the way Fitch had planned it.
CLAIRE'S TRAIL took an unexpected turn Thursday morning. The ex-boyfriend of a friend of Claire's took a thousand dollars in cash and said his ex-girlfriend was now in Greenwich Village working as a waitress while aspiring to do serious work in soap operas. His ex-girlfriend and Claire had worked together at Mulligan's and allegedly had been close friends. Swanson flew to New York, arrived late Thursday afternoon, and took a cab to a small hotel in SoHo where he paid cash for one night and started making calls. He found Beverly at work in a pizzeria. She answered the phone in a hurry.
“Is this Beverly Monk?” Swanson asked, in his best imitation of Nicholas Easter. He'd listened to his recorded voice many times.
“It is. Who is this?”
“The Beverly Monk who once worked at Mulligan's in Lawrence?”
A pause, then, “Yes. Who is this?”
“This is Jeff Kerr, Beverly. It's been a long time.” Swanson and Fitch were gambling that after Claire and Jeff left Lawrence they had not kept in touch with Beverly.
“Who?” she asked, and Swanson was relieved.
“Jeff Kerr. You know, I went with Claire. I was a law student.”
“Oh yeah,” she said as if maybe she remembered him and maybe she didn't.
“Look, I'm in the city, and I was wondering if you've heard from Claire recently.”
“I don't understand,” she said slowly, obviously trying to place the name with the face and figure out who was who and why was he here.
“Yeah, it's a long story, but Claire and I split six months ago. I'm sorta looking for her.”
“I haven't talked to Claire in four years.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Look, I'm real busy. Maybe some other time.”
“Sure.” Swanson hung up and called Fitch. They decided it was worth the risk to approach Beverly Monk, with cash, and ask about Claire. If she hadn't talked to her in four years, it would be impossible for her to quickly find Marlee and report the contact. Swanson would follow her, and wait until tomorrow.
EACH JURY CONSULTANT was required by Fitch to prepare a one-page report at the close of trial each day. One page, double-spaced, straightforward, with no words beyond four syllables and setting forth in clear language that expert's impressions of the day's witnesses and how their testimony was received by the jury. Fitch demanded honest opinions, and had berated his experts before when the language was too sugary. He insisted on pessimism. The reports were due on his desk precisely one hour after Judge Harkin recessed for the day.
Wednesday's reports on Jankle were mixed to bad, but Thursday's summaries of Dr. Denise McQuade and Dr. Myra Sprawling-Goode were nothing short of magnificent. Aside from brightening up a drab courtroom packed with boring men in dull suits, both women had performed well on the stand. The jurors paid attention, and seemed to believe what they heard. Especially the men.
Still, Fitch was not consoled. He had never felt worse at this point in a trial. The defense had lost one of its most sympathetic jurors with the exit of Herrera. The New York financial press had suddenly declared the defense to be on the ropes and was openly concerned about a plaintiff's verdict. Barker's column in Mogul was the week's hottest topic. Jankle had been a disaster. Luther Vandemeer of Trellco, the smartest and most influential of the Big Four CEO's, had called with harsh words during lunch. The jury was sequestered, and the longer the trial dragged on, the more blame the jurors would heap upon the party now calling the witnesses.
THE TENTH NIGHT of sequestration passed without incident. No wayward lovers. No unauthorized trips to casinos. No spontaneous yoga at full volume. Herrera was missed by no one. He had packed in minutes and left, telling the Sheriff repeatedly he was being framed and vowing to get to the bottom of it.
An impromptu checkers tournament began in the dining room after dinner. Herman had a braille board with numbered spaces, and the night before, he'd whipped Jerry eleven straight games. Challenges were issued, and Herman's wife brought his board to the room and a crowd gathered. In less than an hour, he took three straight from Nicholas, three more from Jerry, three from Henry Vu, who'd never played the game, three straight from Willis, and was about to play Jerry again, this time for a small wager, when Loreen Duke entered the room in search of another dessert. She'd played the game as a child with her father. When she beat Herman in the first game, there was not the slightest trace of sympathy for the blind man. They played until curfew.
Phillip Savelle stayed in his room, as usual. He spoke occasionally during meals at the motel and during coffee breaks in the jury room, but he was perfectly content to keep his nose in a book and ignore everyone.