They had agreed to park their egos outside the door. Rohr took another beating, something he didn't do well, and agreed to perform again.
It had to be perfect. Victory was so close.
CABLE UNDERWENT similar abuse. His audience was much larger-a dozen lawyers, several jury consultants, lots of paralegals. He was videotaped so he could study himself. He was determined to do it in half an hour. The jury would be appreciative. Rohr would no doubt run longer. The contrast would be nice-Cable the technician sticking to the facts versus Rohr the flamboyant mouthpiece tugging at their emotions.
He delivered his closing, then watched the video. Again and again, throughout Sunday afternoon and deep into the night.
BY THE TIME Fitch arrived at the beach house, he had managed to work himself back into his usual state of cautious pessimism. The four CEO's were waiting, having just finished a fine meal. Jankle was drunk and kept to himself by the fireplace. Fitch took some coffee and analyzed the last-minute efforts of the defense. The questions quickly got around to the wire transfers he'd demanded on Friday; two million from each of the four.
Prior to Friday, The Fund had a balance of six and a half million, certainly more than enough to complete the trial. What was the additional eight million for? And how much was in The Fund now?
Fitch explained that the defense had had a sudden, unplanned expenditure of the grandest proportions.
“Stop the games, Fitch,” said Luther Vandemeer of Trellco. “Have you managed to finally purchase a verdict?”
Fitch tried not to lie to these four. They were, after all, his employers. He never told them the complete truth, and they didn't expect him to. But in response to a direct question, especially one of this magnitude, he felt compelled to make some effort at honesty. “Something like that,” he said.
“Do you have the votes, Fitch?” asked another CEO.
Fitch paused and looked carefully at each of the four, including Jankle, who was suddenly attentive. “I believe I do,” he said.
Jankle jumped to his feet, unsteady but quite focused, and stepped into the center of the room. “Say it again, Fitch,” he demanded.
“You heard me,” Fitch said. “The verdict has been purchased.” His voice couldn't resist a touch of pride.
The other three stood too. All four eased toward Fitch, forming a loose semicircle. “How?” one of them asked.
“I'll never tell,” Fitch said coolly. “The details are not important.”
“I demand to know,” Jankle said.
“Forget it. Part of my job is to do the dirty work while protecting you and your companies. If you want to terminate me, fine. But you'll never know the details.”
They stared at him during a long pause. The circle grew tighter. They slowly sipped their drinks and admired their hero. Eight times they'd been to the brink of disaster, and eight times Rankin Fitch had worked his dirty tricks and saved them. Now he'd done it for the ninth time. He was invincible.
And he'd never promised victory before, not like this. Just the opposite. He'd always anguished before each verdict, always predicting defeat and taking pleasure in making them miserable. This was so uncharacteristic.
“How much?” Jankle demanded.
It was something Fitch couldn't hide. For obvious reasons, these four had the right to know where the money went. They had installed a primitive accounting format for The Fund. Each company contributed equal amounts when Fitch said so, and each CEO was entitled to a monthly list of all expenses.
“Ten million,” Fitch said.
The drunk barked first. “You've paid ten million dollars to a juror!” The other three were equally shocked.
“No. Not to a juror. Let's put it this way. I've purchased the verdict for ten million dollars, okay? That's all I will say. The Fund now has a balance of four-point-five million. And I'm not going to answer any questions about how the money changed hands.”
Maybe a sack of cash under the table might make sense. Five, ten thousand bucks maybe. But it was impossible to picture any of these small-town hicks on the jury possessing brains big enough to dream of ten million dollars. Surely it wasn't all going to one person.
They hung together near Fitch in stunned silence, each having the same thoughts. Surely Fitch had worked his wizardry on ten of them. That would make sense. He'd gotten ten and offered them a million each. That made a helluva lot more sense. Ten fresh new millionaires on the Gulf Coast. But how do you hide that kind of money?
Fitch savored the moment. “Of course, nothing is guaranteed,” he said. “You never know until the jury conies back.”
Well, it damned sure better be guaranteed, at the rate of ten million bucks. But they said nothing. Luther Vandemeer backed away first. He poured a stiffer brandy and sat on the piano bench near the baby grand. Fitch would tell him later. He'd wait a month or two, get Fitch up to New York on business, and pick the story out of him.
Fitch said he had things to do. He wanted each of the four in the courtroom tomorrow for closing arguments. Don't sit together, he instructed.
Thirty-seven
There was a general feeling among the jurors that Sunday night would be their last in sequestration. They whispered that perhaps if they got the case by noon Monday, then certainly they could reach a verdict by Monday night and go home. This wasn't discussed openly because it necessarily involved speculation about the verdict, something Herman was quick to stifle.
The mood was light, though, and many of the jurors quietly packed and tidied up their rooms. They wanted their last visit to the Siesta Inn to be quick – a dash in from court to gather packed bags and grab toothbrushes.
Sunday was the third consecutive night of personal visits, and collectively they'd had enough of their mates. Especially the married ones. Three straight nights of coziness in a small room was trying for most marriages. Even the singles needed a night off. Savelle's woman friend stayed away. Derrick told Angel he might stop by later, but had some important business first. Loreen didn't have a boyfriend, but she'd had enough of her teenaged daughters for one weekend. Jerry and Poodle were having their first little spat.
The motel was quiet Sunday night; no football and beer in the Party Room, no checkers tournaments. Marlee and Nicholas ate pizza in his room. They covered their checklists and made final plans. Both were nervous and tense, and managed only slight humor at her recounting of Fitch's sad story about Hoppy.
Marlee left at nine. She drove her leased car to her rented condo, where she finished packing her own things.
Nicholas walked across the hall where Hoppy and Millie were waiting like a couple of honeymooners. They couldn't thank him enough. He had exposed this horrible fraud and set them free again. It was shocking to think of the extreme measures the tobacco industry would go to just to pressure a juror.
Millie expressed her concern about remaining on the jury. She and Hoppy had already discussed it, and she didn't feel she could be fair and impartial in light of what they'd done to her husband. Nicholas had anticipated this. It was his opinion that he needed Millie.
And there was a more compelling reason. If Millie told Judge Harkin about the Hoppy scam, then he'd probably declare a mistrial. And that would be a tragedy. A mistrial would mean that in a year or two another jury would be picked to hear the same case. Each side would spend another fortune doing what they were doing right now. “It's up to us, Millie. We've been chosen to decide this case, and it's our responsibility to reach a verdict. The next jury will be no smarter than us.”