The Runaway Jury by John Grisham Page A

you had no idea they were doing it.”
    “But you knew?”
    “Yep. I saw a photographer in a car outside my apartment. And they sent a woman into the store where I work to pick a fight over our no-smoking policy. I knew exactly what they were doing.”
    “But you said direct contact was prohibited.”
    “Yes, but I didn’t say they played fair. Just the opposite. They’ll break any rule to win.”
    “Why didn’t you tell the Judge?”
    “Because it was harmless, and because I knew what they were doing. Now that I’m on the jury, I’m watching every move.”
    With her curiosity piqued, Nicholas thought it best to save more dirt for later. He glanced at his watch and abruptly stood. “I think I’ll run to the boys’ room before we get back in the box.”
    Lou Dell burst into the room, rattling the door on its hinges. “Time to go,” she said firmly, not unlike acounselor at camp with much less authority than she assumed.
    The crowd had thinned to about half of yesterday’s number. Nicholas scanned the spectators as the jurors sat and adjusted themselves on the worn cushions. Fitch, predictably, was sitting in the same spot, now with his head partially behind a newspaper as if he couldn’t care less about the jury; couldn’t give a damn what Easter was wearing. He’d stare later. The reporters had all but vanished, though they’d trickle in during the day. The Wall Street types looked to be thoroughly bored already; all were young, fresh college grads sent South because they were rookies and their bosses had better things to do. Mrs. Herman Grimes held her same position, and Nicholas wondered if she’d be there every day, hearing everything and ever ready to help her husband cast his lot.
    Nicholas fully expected to see the man who’d entered his apartment, maybe not today, but at some point during the trial. The man was not in the courtroom at the moment.
    “Good morning,” Judge Harkin said warmly to the jury when everyone was still. Smiles everywhere: from the Judge, the clerks—even the lawyers, who had stopped their huddling and whispering long enough to look at the jury with phony grins. “I trust everyone is well today.” He paused and waited for fifteen faces to nod awkwardly. “Good. Madam Clerk has informed me that everyone is ready for a full day.” It was hard to picture Lou Dell as Madam anything.
    His Honor then lifted a sheet of paper which contained a list of questions the jurors would learn to hate. He cleared his voice and stopped smiling.“Now, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. I’m about to ask you a series of questions, very important questions, and I want you to respond if you feel the slightest need to. Also, I’d like to remind you that your failure to respond, if a response is in order, could be deemed by me as an act of contempt, punishable by a jail term.”
    He allowed this grievous warning to float around the courtroom; the jurors felt guilty just for receiving it. Convinced he’d found his mark, he then started the questions: Did anyone attempt to discuss this trial with you? Did you receive any unusual phone calls since we adjourned yesterday? Did you see any strangers watching you or any members of your family? Did you hear any rumors or gossip about any of the parties in the trial? Any of the lawyers? Any of the witnesses? Did any person contact any of your friends or family members in an effort to discuss this trial? Did any friend or family member attempt to discuss this trial with you since yesterday’s adjournment? Did you see or receive any piece of written material which in any way mentioned anything to do with this trial?
    Between each question in this script, the Judge would stop, look hopefully at each juror, then seemingly with disappointment, return to his list.
    What struck the jurors as odd was the air of expectation surrounding the questions. The lawyers hung on every word, certain that damning responses were forthcoming from the panel. The clerks,