The Runaway Jury by John Grisham

Coleman to chat with over coffee and croissants Friday morning. She was thirty and cute, married with two young children, and worked as a records administrator in aprivate hospital in Gulfport. She was a health nut who avoided caffeine, alcohol, and, of course, nicotine. Her flaxen hair was short, cut like a boy’s, and her pretty blue eyes looked even cuter behind designer frames. She was sitting in a corner, sipping an orange juice and reading
USA Today
, when Nicholas zeroed in and said, “Good morning. I don’t think we officially met yesterday.”
    She smiled, something she did easily, and offered a hand. “Rikki Coleman.”
    “Nicholas Easter. Nice to meet you.”
    “Thanks for lunch yesterday,” she said with a quick laugh.
    “Don’t mention it. Can I sit down?” he asked, nodding at a folding chair next to her.
    “Sure.” She laid the paper in her lap.
    All twelve jurors were accounted for, and most were engaged in quiet pockets of early morning chatter. Herman Grimes sat alone at the table, in his beloved head chair, holding his coffee with both hands and no doubt listening for wayward words about the trial. Lonnie Shaver also sat alone at the table, his eyes poring over computer printouts from his supermarket. Jerry Fernandez had gone down the hall for a quick smoke with the Poodle.
    “So how’s jury service?” Nicholas asked.
    “Overrated.”
    “Did anyone attempt to bribe you last night?”
    “No. You?”
    “No. It’s too bad, because Judge Harkin will be terribly disappointed if no one tries to bribe us.”
    “Why does he go on about this unauthorized contact?”
    Nicholas leaned forward a bit, though not too close. She leaned too and cast a wary eye at theForeman as if he could see them. They enjoyed the closeness and privacy of their little chat, the way two physically attractive people are sometimes drawn to one another. Just a little harmless flirting. “It’s happened before. Several times,” he said, almost in a whisper. Laughter erupted by the coffeepots as Mrs. Gladys Card and Mrs. Stella Hulic found something funny in the local paper.
    “What’s happened before?” Rikki asked.
    “Contaminated juries in tobacco cases. In fact, it almost always happens, usually at the hands of the defense.”
    “I don’t understand,” she said, believing all and wanting much more information from the guy with two years of law school under his belt.
    “There have been several of these cases around the country, and the tobacco industry has yet to get hit with a verdict. They pay millions for defense because they can’t afford to lose the first time. One big plaintiff’s verdict, and the floodgates open.” He paused, looked around, and sipped his coffee. “So, they use all sorts of dirty tricks.”
    “Such as?”
    “Such as offering money to family members of jurors. Such as spreading rumors in the community that the deceased, whoever he was, had four girlfriends, beat his wife, stole from his friends, went to church only for funerals, and had a homosexual son.”
    She frowned in disbelief, so he continued. “It’s true, and it’s well known in legal circles. Judge Harkin knows it, I’m sure, that’s why we’re getting the warnings.”
    “Can’t they be stopped?”
    “Not yet. They’re very smart, and shrewd, andcrooked, and they leave no trail. Plus, they have millions.” He paused as she studied him. “They watched you before jury selection.”
    “No!”
    “Of course they did. It’s standard procedure in big trials. The law forbids them to directly contact any prospective juror before selection, so they do everything else. They probably photographed your house, car, kids, husband, place of employment. They might have talked to co-workers, or eavesdropped on conversations at the office or wherever you eat lunch. You never know.”
    She set her orange juice on a windowsill. “That sounds illegal, or unethical, or something.”
    “Something. But they got by with it because