At this very moment, there was a sequestered juror holding a piece of paper with the amount “$10,000,000” printed twice on it. This juror, and this jury, belonged to Fitch. This trial was over. For certain, he would skip sleep and sweat bullets until he heard the verdict, but for all practical purposes, the trial was over. Fitch had won again. He'd snatched another victory from near defeat. The cost was much greater this time, but so were the stakes. He'd be forced to listen to some pointed bitching from Jankle and the others about the price of this operation, but it would just be a formality. They had to bitch about costs. They were corporate executives.
The real costs were the ones they wouldn't mention: the price of a plaintiff's verdict, certainly with the potential to exceed ten million, and the incalculable cost of a torrent of lawsuits.
He deserved this rare moment of pleasure, but his work was far from finished. He couldn't rest until he knew the real Marlee, where she came from, what motivated her, how and why she hatched this plot. There was something back there that Fitch had to know, and the unknown scared him immensely. If and when he found the real Marlee, then he would have his answers. Until then, his precious verdict was not safe.
Four blocks into his walk, Fitch was once again his angry, pouting, tormented self.
DERRICK MADE IT to the front lobby and was poking his head through an open door when a young woman politely asked him what he wanted. She held a stack of files and looked quite busy. It was almost eight, Friday night, and the law offices were still swarming.
What he wanted was a lawyer, one of those he'd seen in court who represented the tobacco company, one he could sit down with and cut a deal behind closed doors. He'd done his homework and learned the names of Durwood Cable and a few of his partners. He'd found this place, and he'd waited outside in his car for two hours, rehearsing his lines, steadying his nerves, mustering the guts to leave the car and walk through the front door.
There wasn't another black face to be seen.
Weren't all lawyers crooks? He figured that if Rohr would offer cash, then it made sense that all lawyers involved in the trial would offer cash. He had something to sell. There were rich buyers out there. It was a golden opportunity.
But the right words failed him as the secretary lingered and looked, and then began glancing around as if she might need some help with the situation. Cleve had said more than once that this was highly illegal, that he'd get caught if he got too greedy, and the fear suddenly hit like him a brick.
“Uh, is Mr. Gable in?” he asked with great uncertainty.
“Mr. Gable?” she said, eyebrows arched.
“Yeah, that's him.”
“There is no Mr. Gable here. Who are you?”
A group of young coatless honkies walked slowly behind her, sizing him up and down, each knowing he didn't belong. Derrick had nothing else to offer. He was sure he had the right firm, but the wrong name, the wrong game, and he wasn't about to go to jail.
“I guess I have the wrong place,” he said, and she gave him an efficient little smile. Of course you have the wrong place; now please leave. He stopped at a table in the front lobby and gathered five business cards from a small bronze rack. He'd show these to Cleve as proof of his visit.
He thanked her and left in a hurry. Angel was waiting.
MILLIE WEPT and tossed and flung sheets until midnight, then she changed into her favorite outfit, a well-worn red sweat suit, size XX-Large, a Christmas gift from one of the kids years ago, and quietly opened her door. Chuck, the guard at the far end, called softly to her. She was just going down for a snack, she explained, then eased down the semi-lit hall to the Party Room, where she heard a faint noise. Inside, Nicholas sat alone on a sofa, eating microwave popcorn and sipping carbonated water. He was watching rugby from Australia. Harkin's Party Room curfew had long since been forgotten.
“Why are you up so late?” he asked, muting the wide-screen TV with the remote. Millie sat nearby in a chair, her back to the door. Her eyes were red and puffy. Her short gray hair was tousled. She didn't care. Millie lived in a house which was continually filled with teenagers. They came and went, stayed, slept, ate, watched TV, cleaned out the fridge, saw her all the time in her red sweats, and she wouldn't have it any other way. Millie was everybody's mother.
“Can't sleep. You?” she said.
“It's hard to sleep here. You want some popcorn?”
“No thanks.”
“Did Hoppy stop by tonight?”
“Yes.” “Seems like a nice man.”
She paused, then said, “He is.”
There was a longer pause as they sat in silence and thought about what they should say next. “You wanna watch a movie?” he finally asked.
“No. Can I ask you something?” she said, very seriously, and Nicholas punched the remote and the TV was off. The room was now lit only by a shadowy table lamp.
“Sure. You look troubled.”
“I am. It's a legal question.”
“I'll try to answer.”
“Okay.” She took a deep breath and squeezed her hands together. “What if a juror becomes convinced she cannot be fair and impartial? What should she do?”
He looked at the wall, the ceiling, then took a sip of water. Slowly, he said, “I think it would depend on the reasons behind her decision.”
“I don't follow you, Nicholas.” He was such a sweet boy, and so sharp. Her youngest son wanted to be a lawyer, and she'd caught herself hoping he'd turn out as smart as Nicholas.
“For the sake of simplicity, let's skip the hypotheticals,” he said. “Let's say this juror is actually you, okay?”
“Okay.”
“So something has happened since the trial started to affect your ability to be fair and impartial?”
Slowly, she said, “Yes.”
He pondered this for a moment, then said, “I think it would depend on whether it was something you heard in court, or something that has happened out of court. As jurors, we're expected to become biased and partial as the trial progresses. That's how we reach our verdict. There's nothing wrong with that. It's part of the decision-making process.”
She rubbed her left eye, and slowly asked, “What if it's not that? What if it's something out of court?”
He seemed shocked by this. “Wow. That's a lot more serious.”
“How serious?”
For dramatic effect, Nicholas stood and walked a few steps to a chair, which he pulled close to Millie, their feet almost touching.
“What's the matter, Millie?” he asked softly.
“I need help, and there's no one to turn to. I'm locked up here in this awful place, away from my family and friends, and there's just nowhere to turn. Can you help me, Nicholas?”
“I'll try.”
Her eyes watered for the umpteenth time that night. “You're such a nice young man. You know the law and this is a legal matter, and there's just no one else I can talk to.” She was crying now, and he handed her a cocktail napkin from the table.
She told him everything.
LOU DELL AWOKE for no reason at 2 A.M., and took a quick patrol of the hallway in her cotton nightgown. In the Party Room, she found Nicholas and Millie with the TV off, deep in conversation, with a large bowl of popcorn between them. Nicholas was actually polite to her as he explained they couldn't sleep, were just talking about families, everything was fine. She left, shaking her head.
Nicholas suspected a scam, but he did not indicate that to Millie. Once her tears stopped, he grilled her on the details and took a few notes. She promised to do nothing until they could talk again. They said good night.
He went to his room, dialed Marlee's number, and hung up when she answered the phone with a rather sleepy hello. He waited two minutes, then dialed the same number. It rang six times, unanswered, then he hung up. After another two minutes, he dialed the number of her hidden cellphone. She answered it in the closet.