“They say they’re deadlocked. They can’t reach a verdict.”
Cecily was unprepared for the hollow pain she felt when she heard those words. Of course, she had realized it might not be good news, but this? She would almost rather be told that the jury found for the defendant.
“Why? What’s their problem?”
“I don’t know. And I can’t ask. But they say they can’t work it out.”
“So what did the judge do?”
“Basically, he told them to get their butts back in their chairs and work harder.”
“So—he didn’t let them declare a deadlock?”
“Not yet. But eventually …”
Cecily knew what he meant; they had discussed it often enough during the past two weeks. The judge couldn’t let the jury deliberate forever; eventually he would have to declare a mistrial. Which meant all their work, all their expense, would be for nothing. Their only option would be to try again with a new jury—an option she knew Ben couldn’t afford. And the chances of another lawyer taking the case—when it had already bankrupted the first lawyer—were nonexistent.
“Surely they’ll work it out,” Cecily said, but her voice sounded weak. “Surely they’ll see things the way we do.”
Ben laid his hand gently on her shoulder and guided her back to the bench. “I hope so.”
In the jury deliberation room, the frustration levels had reached an all-time high. No one had been happy about sending the note to the judge saying they were deadlocked—but they had at least thought it would bring this misery to an end. But now they had the judge’s reply, and not only were they not off the hook, the judge was basically scolding them and telling them the work would have to continue, perhaps for weeks.
“I just can’t stand this any longer,” Mrs. Cartwright said. “I’m tired of the pictures and the transcripts. I’m tired of the charts and graphs. And most of all, I’m tired of all this bickering.”
“I’m tired of everything, too,” Mary Ann Althorp added. “I’ve missed so much school I may have to retake the whole semester in summer school.”
“Don’t tell me your sob stories, girl,” Marshall said. “I got my own business. And it’s been goin" to hell in a handbasket since I got stuck with this trial.”
“None of which gets us where we need to go,” Foreman Peabody interjected. “I think we need to reconsider the evidence and see if we can get anyone to change their mind. Should we start with the medical evidence or the damages evidence?”
“Why don’t you ask Mrs. Johnson?” Marshall huffed. “Since it’s her mind you want to change.”
Peabody smiled thinly. “What about it, Mrs. Johnson? Shall we rehash the medical evidence?”
The woman at the end of the table looked up from the papers she had been reading. For the first time, at least in several days, Peabody realized how frail she was, how delicate. And yet she had stood up to the lot of them for two weeks running. That took some serious fiber. He had to admire that, even if he did think she was dead wrong.
Mrs. Johnson cleared her throat. “Actually, I think that may not be necessary. I think … maybe … I’ve changed my mind.”
Peabody leaned forward, his eyes bulging. “You mean it? You agree that Blaylock caused the cancers?”
“To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure. But I remember what that young attorney for the plaintiffs said, and I saw it again in the jury instructions. We don’t have to say that we think that definitely did happen. We just have to find that it’s more likely than not that it did happen. And—well, I think I can do that.”
Peabody felt as if firecrackers were going off inside his head. “Then you’ll join the rest of us in a plaintiffs" verdict?”
Mrs. Johnson licked her lips. “Yes. I will.”
A cheer went up around the table. Several of them leaned forward and slapped the old lady on the back. “That’s great. Great!”
“And that just leaves the matter of damages,” Peabody said, hurriedly returning to the verdict forms. “How much shall we give the plaintiffs for their actual damages?”
Mrs. Johnson answered for all of them. “Everything. All their medical expenses.”
Peabody could not have been more pleased. He scribbled the numbers onto the verdict form. “And for punitive damages?”
“No,” Mrs. Johnson said quietly. “No punitive damages.”
“Wait a minute,” Marshall said. “These people are out a lot of money.”
“That’s not the point,” Mary Ann said. “Punitive damages are for punishment. This corporation did a wrong thing. A negligent, greedy thing. They should be punished.”
“I agree,” Mrs. Cartwright added. “We have to give them something.”
“Fine,” Mrs. Johnson said. “Give them one dollar.”
“One dollar!” Marshall practically exploded. For a moment, it had seemed as if they were close to finishing this thing once and for all. Now he realized they were still far, far apart. “That’s like an insult. It needs to be something big! We gotta send a message to corporate America. Tell "em we won’t tolerate this sort of thing.”
“I can’t agree with that,” Mrs. Johnson said. “I’m not positive that this corporation did anything wrong—I just think it’s more likely than not. I won’t tax the defendant millions of dollars on a mere probability.”
Marshall pounded his head against the table. “I don’t believe this. I don’t believe it.”
Mary Ann’s eyes widened like balloons. “We’re gonna be here forever.”
“No,” Peabody said, “we’re not.” He’d been holding back so far. But by God, if he could make a living as a farmer in the state with the most unpredictable weather in the union, he could make this jury agree on a verdict. “Mrs. Johnson, I’m going to take you through the evidence one more time. In great detail.”
The elderly woman leaned away. “I don’t want to hear it again.”
“Now stay with me here; this is absolutely the last time. I’m going to show you point by point exactly why we should award punitive damages. And when I’m done, if you’re convinced, then I want you to join the rest of us.”
“And if I’m not?”
“Then I’ll join you. We all will. We’ll award no punitives—or just render judgment for the defendant. Whatever you want.” He drew himself up, placing his thumbs under the straps of his overalls. “But one way or the other, this trial is going to end. Today.”
Chapter 42
WHEN BEN FINALLY HEARD, it came as such a shock he didn’t believe it at first. Didn’t even understand it. The bailiff had to repeat it twice before it finally sank in.
The jury had returned. They had reached a verdict.
He stumbled back into the courtroom, feeling dazed. He’d waited for this so long it seemed unreal. Slowly but surely, the players were reassembled. Christina was the first to return, followed closely by Professor Matthews and the rest of Ben’s office staff. Colby strolled in shortly thereafter, trying to look unconcerned, as did the rest of his entourage.
And finally, just before the judge called the trial back into session, Cecily Elkins slipped in the back. They made eye contact, if only briefly. Ben knew they were both too concerned about what would happen in the next five minutes to give any thought to social niceties.
Judge Perry called the courtroom to order and brought back the jury. Ben watched as they slowly filed out of the deliberation room, one by one, solemn and serious expressions on their faces. As Christina had predicted, Carl Peabody, the Catoosa farmer, had been made foreman. He held a small folded slip of paper in his hand—a paper Ben would’ve given anything to peruse.
Just behind Peabody was juror number twelve—Mrs. Johnson—the one he’d been so worried about. He tried to make eye contact with her; he’d learned a great deal could be predicted based on jurors" willingness to look at you when they returned. He couldn’t catch her eye, though. Was she intentionally avoiding his gaze?
What did it mean?
; “Mr. Foreman, have you reached a verdict?”
Carl Peabody rose. “We have, your honor.”
“And is this the verdict of all twelve of you?”
“It is.” Twelve heads in the jury box nodded.
“Bailiff.” The bailiff took the verdict from the foreman and walked it over to the judge. Ben was moved by the ceremony of it all. It was as if they were all performers in a great passion play, going through their ritualistic motions, drawing out the suspense.
Judge Perry looked at the verdict form. Old pro that he was, his facial expression gave no hint of what it said. He passed it back to the bailiff, who returned it to the foreman.
“Mr. Foreman, please announce your verdict.”
“Yes, your honor.” Peabody glanced down at the form. “On the plaintiffs" claim against the defendant based on the cause of action of wrongful death, we find in favor …”
Why did they always pause there? Ben wondered. Was it the influence of television? Or was it the underlying knowledge each foreman possessed of how important his next few words would be to the people in the courtroom? Perhaps it was to give everyone a last chance to prepare, rather like warning someone to buckle their seat belts.
Peabody cleared his throat, then continued, “we find in favor of … the plaintiffs.”
Ben felt himself breathe, possibly for the first time since he entered the courtroom. Thank God. Thank you, God. Waves of anxiety tumbled off his shoulders like scales.
He heard a whooping sound behind him. He turned, thinking to admonish his staffers, but saw that the noise had come from the gallery. Cecily had company; most of the other parents had joined her. They were squeezing one another’s hands, grinning with satisfaction.
“On this claim,” Foreman Peabody continued, “we award actual damages in the amount of one hundred thousand dollars.”
Ben stopped breathing just as quickly as he had started. A hundred thousand dollars? Split eleven ways? That was nothing. It wouldn’t begin to pay his clients" outstanding medical bills. It wouldn’t pay his legal expenses.
He didn’t look behind him—he couldn’t bear it—but he couldn’t help but notice that the excited chatter from the gallery had been silenced.
“Furthermore,” Foreman Peabody continued, still reading, “we award punitive damages to the plaintiffs in the amount of twenty-five million dollars.”
Someone in the back screamed. The judge pounded his gavel, but it was useless. The courtroom dissolved into sheer pandemonium. All of the parents leapt to their feet. They threw their arms around one another, squeezing with all their might. Tears spilled from their eyes,
Christina rushed up behind Ben and wrapped him up in a huge bear hug. “You did it, Ben! I knew you would. I knew it!”
Over her shoulder, Ben caught a glimpse of Colby, who was understandably stoic. His eyes were going not to the jury—but to the bench. He and the judge were communicating, if only with their eyes.
Judge Perry continued pounding his gavel. “I will have order or I will have this courtroom cleared!”
Eventually the clamor quieted, although Ben could see the parents were so excited they could barely sit still.
Perry peered down at the jury. “So say you one, so say you all?”
The twelve heads in the jury box nodded. Even Mrs. Johnsons.
“Then I suppose we’ve reached the part of the trial where I’m supposed to thank you for doing such a fine service to the community and dismiss you. But I’m not going to do it.”
Ben felt his blood turn cold. What was happening here?
“I’m not going to thank you, because you don’t deserve to be thanked. You were instructed to reach a logical, fair verdict based on the evidence presented, without resort to sympathy or other emotional considerations. But you have failed to do that.”
Colby, never one to miss an opening, rose. “Your honor, I move that this court enter a judgment notwithstanding the verdict.”
Ben leapt up. “Your honor, there’s no—”
“The motion will be granted,” Perry said, before Ben could so much as finish a sentence. “I dislike taking a case away from the jury. I put it off as long as possible, hoping that when the time came the jury would take the appropriate action. But you didn’t.” He glared at the jury scornfully. “The fact is, the plaintiffs presented no credible scientific evidence to establish causation between their injuries and the alleged acts of the defendant. Despite that fact, you not only found for the plaintiffs, but awarded them a huge sum of money in punitive damages. Much as I dislike interfering, to allow a jury award of that magnitude to stand would be a gross miscarriage of justice. I therefore strike the jury’s verdict and enter judgment for the defendant.”
Christina appeared dumbstruck. “Can he do that?”
Ben didn’t respond. He knew the answer all too well. He ran toward the bench. “Your honor, please don’t do this—”
Judge Perry began stacking his papers. “Counsel, it is already done.”
“But your honor,” Ben said. “You’re making a mistake. We did present sufficient evidence—”
“It’s over, Mr. Kincaid.” Judge Perry stood up and started toward the door. “If I’ve erred, then your appeal should be successful. But I very much doubt that, don’t you?”
“Even if I was successful on appeal, they wouldn’t reinstate the jury’s verdict. They’d just give me a new trial. I can’t afford a new trial!”
“Mr. Kincaid, I’m afraid that’s simply not my concern.” Perry passed into chambers, closing the door firmly behind him.
Ben whirled around to find Colby lurking. “Ben, that’s a tough break. This is a hell of a game we play, isn’t it? You have my condolences.”
Ben’s jaw was clenched. “Tell it to the parents.”
“Now, Ben …”
“You knew he’d do this, didn’t you? You knew all along.”
Colby tilted his head to one side. “I felt confident the judge would do the right thing in the end, if it was required, yes. You tried to pull off a sneaky, Ben. You tried to do an end run around the evidence. I knew Judge Perry wouldn’t allow that.”
“And I suppose the fact that the soon-to-retire judge is desperate to get into your firm had nothing to do with it?”
Colby’s smile increased slightly. “I don’t think I’d go so far as to use the word ‘nothing.’“
Ben was desperate to tell Colby how sick he made him, but he knew this wasn’t the time. Reporters were filing into the back of the courtroom; they’d love nothing more than to report how the “sore loser” Kincaid raved like a maniac at the victorious Colby. The best thing he could do right now was get the hell out.
He grabbed his trial notebook and one of the exhibit boxes. “We’re leaving,” he told Christina.
She grabbed some of the rest of their stuff, but by that time all means of egress from the courtroom were solidly blocked. Ben felt a horrible hollowness inside as he realized he couldn’t make it out of the courtroom without talking. But it wasn’t the talk with reporters he dreaded most. That would be a piece of cake compared to …
Cecily was waiting for him. Her face was streaked with tears. Two of the other parents were helping her stand. But she was waiting for him.
THREE
Home Is the Sailor, Home from the Sea
Chapter 43
MAYBE PFIEFFER WASN’t THE physical incarnation of evil after all, Mike mused, as he entered the third day of his stakeout. He had, after all, managed to ramrod through Mike’s expense check so he could leave Tulsa. He could just imagine the reaction when his request passed through the top brass. Morelli wants to take indefinite leave to fly south and hang out around a fishing cabin. Yeah, right—will the good lieutenant be taking his tackle box, too?
Somehow, though, Pfieffer had managed to get this approved. It was funny; since Mike had gotten him involved, since he found the missing sixty million dollars that gave Mike his first real lead, he’d done everything he could to advan
ce Mike’s investigation, as if all at once he’d become a team player. He even asked to come along on this stakeout. Imagine that—Accountant by day; Danger Boy by night.
Not that Mike would mind a little company right about now. Once he’d pried out of Ronald Harris the location of the fishing cabin where Tony Montague died, he’d been determined to stake it out. Everyone involved in this case had been into fishing. Although the corporate records were incomplete, it was clear that at least some of the victims had come here on occasion—maybe all of them. It couldn’t be just a coincidence. Mike felt certain that if he staked out the place long enough, he’d stumble across someone else who was involved in this little escapade. A potential victim—or maybe the killer himself.
The problem was the waiting. In the course of his career, he’d been on a wide variety of stakeouts, of all shapes and sizes, and they all had one thing in common: intense boredom. Sure, once the perp made his move, the pace might pick up a bit. But until then, it was just one long tedious sit. And he hated sitting.
What could you do? Couldn’t listen to your Walkman; someone might get the drop on you. Couldn’t read a book, tempting though it was. His eyes had to stay on the door, and besides, it was dark outside, and the luminescent glow of an itty bitty book light would definitely attract attention. Couldn’t play solitaire, couldn’t recite poetry, couldn’t watch a ball game. All you could do was sit. Sit like a rock until you felt the moss start to creep—
Wait a minute. A shadow moved, down on the other side of the dock. Someone was moving toward the cabin.
Slowly, Mike lifted himself out of his private spot in the shadows of the brush on the opposite end of the dock. Slowly, he reminded himself. God knows he didn’t want to blow it now. Not when he’d come so far.
The silhouetted figure continued toward the cabin at top speed.
Mike crept along the dock as quietly as possible, trying not to attract any attention. His prey did not appear to have heard him; he was much too busy trying to get into the cabin. He was having trouble with the key; nervousness was making his fingers fumble. Which gave Mike just enough time to sneak up behind him.…
Silent Justice Page 42
