Free The Runaway Jury by John Grisham Page B

announced the noon recess at twelve-ten, and the courtroom sat still as the jurors filed out. Lou Dell met them in the narrow hallway and couldn’t wait to shuffle them to the jury room. “Just have a seat,” she said, “and lunch will be here in a moment. Coffee’s fresh.” Once all twelve were in the room, she shut them in and left to check on the three alternates, who were kept separated in a smaller room down the hall. With all fifteen in place, she returned to her post and glared at Willis, the mentally deficient deputy assigned to stand nearby with a loaded gun on his belt and protect somebody.
    The jurors slowly scattered about the jury room, some stretching or yawning, others continuing formal introductions—most making small talk about the weather. For some, the movements and small talk were stiff; demeanor to be expected from people suddenly thrown into a room with perfect strangers. With nothing to do but eat, the noon meal loomed asa major event. What were they going to be fed? Surely, the food would be decent.
    Herman Grimes took a seat at the head of the table, fitting for the foreman, he thought, and was soon chatting away with Millie Dupree, a kindly soul of fifty who actually knew another blind person. Nicholas Easter introduced himself to Lonnie Shaver, the only black male on the jury, and a man who clearly did not want to serve. Shaver managed a grocery store for a large regional chain, and was the highest-ranking black in the company. He was wiry and nervous, and found it difficult to relax. The idea of spending the next four weeks away from the store was frightening.
    Twenty minutes passed, and no lunch appeared. At exactly twelve-thirty, Nicholas said from across the room, “Hey, Herman, where’s our lunch?”
    “I’m just the foreman,” Herman replied with a smile as the room was suddenly quiet.
    Nicholas walked to the door, opened it, and summoned Lou Dell. “We’re hungry,” he said.
    She slowly lowered her paperback, looked at the eleven other faces, and said, “It’s on the way.”
    “Where is it coming from?” he demanded.
    “O’Reilly’s Deli. Just around the corner.” Lou Dell didn’t appreciate the questions.
    “Listen, we’re penned up in here like a bunch of house pets,” Nicholas said. “We can’t leave like normal people to go eat. I don’t understand why we can’t be trusted to walk down the street and enjoy a nice lunch, but the Judge has spoken.” Nicholas took a step closer and glared down at the gray bangs hanging over Lou Dell’s eyes. “Lunch is not going to be a hassle every day, okay?”
    “Okay.”
    “I suggest you get on the phone and find out where our lunch is, or I’ll discuss it with Judge Harkin.”
    “Okay.”
    The door closed, and Nicholas walked to the coffeepot.
    “That was a bit harsh, don’t you think?” asked Millie Dupree. The others were listening.
    “Maybe, and if it was, then I’ll apologize. But if we don’t get things straight up front, then they’ll forget about us.”
    “It’s not her fault,” Herman said.
    “Her job is to take care of us.” Nicholas walked to the table and sat near Herman. “Do you realize that in virtually every other trial they allow the jurors to leave like normal people and go eat? Why do you think we wear these Juror buttons?” The others moved closer to the table.
    “How do you know?” asked Millie Dupree from directly across the table.
    Nicholas shrugged as if he knew plenty but maybe couldn’t talk about it. “I know a little about the system.”
    “And how’s that?” Herman asked.
    Nicholas paused for effect, then said, “I had two years of law school.” He took a long sip of coffee as the others weighed this engaging bit of background.
    Easter’s stature among his peers rose immediately. He’d already proved himself to be friendly and helpful, courteous and bright. Now, though, he was silently elevated because he knew the law.
    No food had arrived by twelve forty-five.