The Runaway Jury by John Grisham Page B

usually busy shuffling papers or exhibits or doing a dozen things unrelated to the trial, were completely still and watching to see which juror would confess. The Judge’s glowering face and arched eyebrows after each question challenged theintegrity of every juror, and he took their silence as nothing short of deceit.
    When he finished, he quietly said, “Thank you,” and the courtroom seemed to breathe. The jurors felt assaulted. His Honor sipped coffee from a tall cup and smiled at Wendall Rohr. “Call your next witness, Counselor.”
    Rohr stood, a large brown stain in the center of his wrinkled white shirt, bow tie as crooked as ever, shoes scuffed and getting dirtier by the day. He nodded and smiled warmly at the jurors, and they couldn’t help but smile at him.
    Rohr had a jury consultant assigned to record everything the jurors wore. If one of the five men happened to wear cowboy boots one day, then Rohr had an old pair at the ready. Two pairs actually—pointed toe or round. He was prepared to wear sneakers if the time was right. He’d done so once before when sneakers appeared in the jury box. The Judge, not Harkin, had complained in chambers. Rohr had a foot ailment, he’d explained, and had produced a letter from his podiatrist. He could wear starched khakis, knit ties, polyester sports coats, cowboy belts, white socks, penny loafers (either shined or battered). His eclectic wardrobe was designed to connect with those now forced to sit nearby and listen to him for six hours a day.
    “We’d like to call Dr. Milton Fricke,” he announced.
    Dr. Fricke was sworn and seated and the bailiff adjusted his microphone. It was soon learned that his résumé could be measured by the pound—lots of degrees from many schools, hundreds of published articles, seventeen books, years of teaching experience, decades of research into the effects of tobaccosmoke. He was a small man with a perfectly round face with black horn-rimmed glasses; he looked like a genius. It took Rohr almost an hour to cover his astounding collection of credentials. When Fricke was finally tendered as an expert, Durr Cable wanted no part of him. “We stipulate that Dr. Fricke is qualified in his field,” Cable said, in what sounded like a major understatement.
    His field had been narrowed over the years, so that Dr. Fricke now spent ten hours a day studying the effects of tobacco smoke on the human body. He was the director of the Smoke Free Research Institute in Rochester, New York. The jury soon learned that he had been hired by Rohr before Jacob Wood died, and that he had been present during an autopsy performed on Mr. Wood four hours after his death. And that he had taken some photos of the autopsy.
    Rohr emphasized the existence of the photos, leaving no doubt that the jurors would see them eventually. But Rohr was not ready yet. He needed to spend time with this extraordinary expert on the chemistry and pharmacology of smoking. Fricke proved quite the professor. He treaded cautiously through ponderous medical and scientific studies, weeding out the big words and giving the jurors what they could understand. He was relaxed and thoroughly confident.
    When His Honor announced the lunch recess, Rohr informed the court that Dr. Fricke would be on the stand for the remainder of the day.
    Lunch was waiting in the jury room, with Mr. O’Reilly himself in charge of its presentation and readily offering apologies for what had happened the day before.
    “These are paper plates and plastic forks,” Nicholas said as they took their seats around the table. He did not sit. Mr. O’Reilly looked at Lou Dell, who said, “So?”
    “So, we specifically said we wanted to eat on real china with real forks. Didn’t we say that?” His voice was rising, and a few of the jurors looked away. They just wanted to eat.
    “What’s wrong with paper plates?” Lou Dell asked nervously, her bangs shaking.
    “They soak up grease, okay? They get spongy and leave