The Runaway Jury by John Grisham Read Free Book Online

and an interest in horticulture. Some things were impossible to uncover.
    The one bedroom was consumed almost entirely with a king-size mattress, lying directly on the floor with nothing under it, another purchase from the flea market. A series of cardboard boxes served as the chest of drawers. Clothing littered the floor.
    It was a temporary home, with the look of a place one might use for a month or two before leaving town in the middle of the night; which was exactly what he had in mind. He’d lived there for six months already, and the apartment number was his official address, at least the one used when he registered to vote and obtained his Mississippi driver’s license. He had nicer quarters four miles away, but couldn’t run the risk of being seen there.
    So he lived happily in poverty, just another broke student with no assets and few responsibilities. He was almost certain Fitch’s snoops had not entered his apartment, but he took no chances. The place was cheap, but carefully arranged. Nothing revealing could be found.
    At eight, he finished the questionnaire and proofed it one last time. The one in the Cimmino case had been written in longhand, in a different style altogether. After months of practicing hisprinting he was certain he would not be detected. There had been three hundred potential jurors then, and almost two hundred now, and why would anyone suspect that he would be in both pools?
    From behind a pillowcase stretched over the kitchen window, he quickly checked the parking lot below for photographers or other intruders. He’d seen one three weeks ago sitting low behind the wheel of a pickup.
    No snoops today. He locked his apartment door and left on foot.
    GLORIA LANE was much more efficient with her herding on the second day. The remaining 148 prospective jurors were seated on the right side, packed tightly twelve to a row, twelve deep with four in the aisle. They were easier to handle when seated on one side of the courtroom. The questionnaires were gathered as they entered, then quickly copied and given to each side. By ten, the answers were being analyzed by jury consultants locked away in windowless rooms.
    Across the aisle, a well-mannered throng of financial boys, reporters, the curious, and other miscellaneous spectators sat and stared at the crowds of lawyers, who sat and studied the faces of the jurors. Fitch had quietly moved to the front row, nearer to his defense team, with a nicely dressed flunkie on each side just waiting for his latest command.
    Judge Harkin was a man on a mission on Tuesday, and took less than an hour to complete the nonmedical hardships. Six more were excused, leaving 142 on the panel.
    Finally, it was showtime. Wendall Rohr, wearing apparently the same gray checkered sports coat,white vest, and red-and-yellow bow tie, stood and walked to the railing to address his audience. He cracked his knuckles loudly, opened his hands, and displayed a dark, broad grin. “Welcome,” he said dramatically, as if what was about to follow was an event the memory of which they would cherish forever. He introduced himself, the members of his team who would be participating in the trial, and then he asked the plaintiff, Celeste Wood, to stand. He managed to use the word “widow” twice as he displayed her to the prospects. A petite woman of fifty-five, she wore a plain black dress, dark hose, dark shoes that could not be seen below the railing, and she offered a painfully proper little smile as if she had yet to exit the mourning stage, though her husband had been dead for four years. In fact, she’d almost remarried, an event Wendall got canceled at the last moment, as soon as he learned of it. It’s okay to love the guy, he had explained to her, but do so quietly and you can’t marry him until after the trial. The sympathy factor. You’re supposed to be suffering, he had explained.
    Fitch knew about the aborted nuptials, and he also knew there was little chance of getting