n Tuesday morning, Nicholas arrived at the jury room early, as Lou Dell was brewing the first pot of decaf and carefully arranging the daily platter of fresh rolls and doughnuts. A collection of sparkling new cups and saucers sat near the food. Nicholas claimed to hate coffee from a plastic cup, and fortunately two of his colleagues held similar prejudices. A list of requests had been quickly acceded to by His Honor.

Lou Dell hastily finished her business when he entered the room. He smiled and greeted her pleasantly, but she held a grudge from their earlier skirmishes. He poured coffee and opened a newspaper.

As Nicholas expected, Retired Colonel Frank Her-rera arrived shortly after eight, almost a full hour before they were due, clutching two newspapers, one The Wall Street Journal. He wanted the room to himself, but managed a smile at Easter.

“Mornin', Colonel,” Nicholas said warmly. “You're here early.”

“So are you.”

“Yeah, I couldn't sleep. Found myself dreaming of nicotine and black lungs.” Nicholas studied the sports page.

Herrera stirred his coffee and sat down across the table. “I smoked for ten years in the Army,” he said, sitting stiffly, shoulders square, chin up, always ready to bolt to attention. “But I had the good sense to quit.”

“Some people can't, I guess. Like Jacob Wood.”

The Colonel grunted with disgust, and opened a newspaper. For him, the kicking of a bad habit was nothing but a simple act of willpower. Get the head straight, and the body can do anything.

Nicholas turned a page, said, “Why'd you quit?”

“Because it's bad for you. Doesn't take a genius, you know. Cigarettes are deadly. Everybody knows that.”

If Herrera had been so blunt on at least two of the pretrial questionnaires, he wouldn't be sitting where he was now. Nicholas remembered the questions well. The fact that Herrera felt so strongly probably meant only one thing: He wanted to be on the jury. He was retired military, probably bored with golf, tired of his wife, looking for something to do, and obviously carrying a grudge about something.

“So you think cigarettes should be outlawed?” Nicholas asked. The question was one he'd posed to the mirror a thousand times, and he had all the right comebacks to all the possible answers.

Herrera slowly placed the newspaper on the table and took a long drink of black coffee. "No. I think people should have more sense than to smoke three

packs a day for almost thirty years. What the hell do you expect? Perfect health?" His tone was sarcastic, and left no doubt that he'd walked into jury service with his mind made up.

“When did you become convinced of this?”

“Are you dense? It ain't that hard to figure out.”

“Maybe that's your opinion. But you certainly should've expressed yourself during voir dire.”

“What's voir dire?”

“The jury selection process. We were asked questions covering these very matters. I don't recall you saying a word.”

“Never felt like it.”

“You should have.”

Herrera's cheeks flushed red, but he hesitated for a second. This guy Easter after all knew the law, or at least knew more than the rest of them. Maybe he had done something wrong. Maybe there was a way Easter could report him and get him bumped from the jury. Maybe he would be held in contempt, sent to jail, or fined.

And then another thought hit him. They weren't supposed to be discussing the case, right? So how could Easter report anything to the Judge? Seemed like Easter would risk getting in trouble himself if he went and repeated anything he heard in the jury room. Herrera relaxed a bit. “Lemme guess. You're gonna push hard for a big verdict, lots of punitives and stuff like that.”

“No, Mr. Herrera. Unlike you, I haven't made up my mind. I think we've listened to three witnesses, all for the plaintiff, so there are many yet to come. I think I'll wait until all the evidence is in, from both sides, then I'll try to sort things out. I thought that's what we promised to do.”

“Yeah, well, me too. I can be persuaded, you know.” He suddenly had an interest in the editorials. The door burst open, and Mr. Herman Grimes entered with his walking stick tapping away in front of him. Lou Dell and Mrs. Grimes followed. Nicholas, as usual, rose to prepare his foreman's coffee, a ritual now.

FITCH STARED at his phones until nine. She'd mentioned a possible call today.

Not only did she play games, but evidently she was not above lying. He had no desire to be stared at again, so he locked his door and walked to the viewing room where two of his jury experts were sitting in the dark, staring at a crooked scene on the wall, waiting for the courtroom adjustment. Someone had kicked McAdoo's briefcase, and the camera was off by ten feet. Jurors one, two, seven, and eight were out of the picture, and only half of Millie Du-pree and Rikki Coleman behind her were visible.

The jury had been seated for two minutes, and so McAdoo was pinned to his seat and couldn't use his cellphone. He didn't know some bigfoot under the table had kicked the wrong briefcase. Fitch swore at the screen, then returned to his office where he scribbled a note. He gave it to a well-dressed errand boy, who dashed up the street, entered the courtroom like one of a hundred young associates or paralegals, and slipped the note to the defense table.

The camera inched to the left, and the full jury came into view. McAdoo pushed a bit too hard and cut off half of Jerry Fernandez and Angel Weese, juror number six. Fitch cursed again. He'd wait until the morning recess and get McAdoo on the phone.

* * *

DR. BRONSKY was rested and ready for another day of thoughtful discourse on the ravages of tobacco smoke. Having discussed the carcinogens in tobacco smoke, and the nicotine, he was ready to move to the next compounds of medical interest: irritants.

Rohr served up the fat pitches, Bronsky swung from the heels. Tobacco smoke contains a variety of compounds-ammonia, volatile acids, aldehydes, phenols, and ketones-and these have an irritant effect on the mucous membrane. Bronsky once again left the witness stand and walked to a fresh cutaway diagram of the upper torso and head of a human. This showed the jury the respiratory tract, the throat, the bronchial tubes, and the lungs. In this area of the body, tobacco smoke stimulates secretion of mucus. At the same time, it delays the removal of the mucus by retarding the action of the ciliated lining of the bronchial tubes.

Bronsky had been remarkably adept at keeping the medical jargon on a level reachable by the average layman, and he slowed a notch to explain what happens to the bronchial tubes when smoke is inhaled. Two other large, colorful diagrams were mounted in front of the bench, and Bronsky went to work with his pointer. He explained to the jury that the bronchial tubes are lined with a membrane equipped with fine, hairlike fibers called cilia, which move together in waves and control the movement of the mucus on the surface of the membrane. This movement of the cilia acts to free the lungs from virtually all the dust and germs that are inhaled.

Smoking, of course, wreaks havoc with this process. Once Bronsky and Rohr were as certain as they

could be that the jurors understood how things were supposed to work, they quickly moved forward to explain just precisely how smoking irritated the filtering process and caused all sorts of damage in the respiratory system.

They went on about mucus and membranes and cilia.

The first visible yawn came from Jerry Fernandez in the back row. He'd spent his Monday night at one of the casinos watching the football game and drinking more than he'd planned. He smoked two packs a day, and he was well aware that the habit was unhealthy. Still, he needed one now.

More yawns followed, and at eleven-thirty, Judge Harkin sent them out for a badly needed two-hour lunch.

The stroll through downtown Biloxi had been Nicholas' idea, one he'd put in a letter to the Judge on Monday. It seemed absurd to keep them confined to a small room all day with no hope of fresh air. It wasn't as if their lives were in jeopardy, or that they'd be assailed by unknown conspirators if let loose on the sidewalks. Just simply put Madam Lou Dell and Willis the guard with another lethargic deputy, give them a route, say, six or eight city blocks, forbid the jurors from speaking to anyone, as usual, and, well, turn them loose for thirty minutes after lunch so the food could settle. It seemed like a harmless idea, and in fact upon further reflection Judge Harkin embraced it as his own.

Nicholas, however, had shown the letter to Lou Dell, and so when lunch was being finished, she was explaining that a walk was planned, thanks to Mr. Easter, who had written the Judge. It seemed such a humble idea to receive such unbridled admiration.

The temperature was in the low eighties, the air clear and fresh, the trees trying their best to turn colors. Lou Dell and Willis led the way while the four smokers-Fernandez, Poodle, Stella Hulic, and Angel Weese-hung at the back thoroughly enjoying the deep inhaling and long exhaling. To hell with Bronsky and his mucus and his membranes, and to hell with Fricke and his gross pictures of Mr. Wood's sticky black lungs. They were outdoors now. The light, salt air, and conditions were perfect for a smoke.

Fitch sent Doyle and a local operative named Joe Boy to take pictures from a distance.

BRONSKY WORE THIN as the afternoon progressed. He lost his talent for keeping things simple, and the jurors lost their struggle to stay tuned. The fancy and obviously expensive charts and diagrams ran together, as did the body parts and compounds and poisons. The opinions of superbly trained and hideously expensive jury consultants were not needed to know that the jurors were bored, that Rohr was engaging in a practice lawyers simply can't avoid-overkill.

His Honor adjourned early, at four, his reason being that two hours were needed to hear some motions and other things not involving the jury. He discharged the jurors with the same dire warnings, admonitions they now had memorized and barely heard. They were delighted to escape.

Lonnie Shaver was particularly thrilled to leave early. He drove straight to his supermarket, ten minutes away, parked in his special place in the rear, and made a quick entrance through the stockroom, secretly hoping to catch a wayward sacker napping

by the lettuce. His office was upstairs above the dairy and meats, and from behind a two-way mirror he could see most of the floor.

Lonnie was the only black manager in a chain of seventeen stores. He earned forty thousand dollars a year, with health insurance and an average pension plan, and was due for a raise in three months. He'd also been led to believe he'd be promoted to the level of a district supervisor, assuming his tenure as manager produced satisfactory results. The company was anxious to promote a black, he'd been told, but, of course, none of these commitments were in writing.

His office was always open, and usually occupied with any one of a half-dozen subordinates. An assistant manager greeted him, then nodded toward a door. “We have guests,” he said, with a frown.

Lonnie hesitated and looked at the closed door, which led to a large room used for everything- birthday parties, staff meetings, visits from bosses. “Who is it?” he asked.

“Home office. They want to see you.”

Lonnie rapped on the door, entering as he knocked. It was, after all, his office. Three men with their sleeves rolled up to their elbows sat at the end of the table, amid a pile of papers and printouts. They stood awkwardly.

“Lonnie, good to see you,” said Troy Hadley, son of one of the owners, and the only face Lonnie recognized. They shook hands as Hadley made hasty introductions. The other two men were Ken and Ben; Lonnie wouldn't remember their last names until later. It had been planned that Lonnie would sit at the end of the table, in the chair eagerly va-

cated by the young Hadley, with Ken on one side and Ben on the other.

Troy started the conversation, and he sounded somewhat nervous. “How's jury duty?”

“A pain.”

“Right. Look, Lonnie, the reason we're here is that Ken and Ben are from an outfit called SuperHouse, a large chain out of Charlotte, and, well, for lots of reasons, my dad and my uncle have decided to sell out to SuperHouse. The whole chain. All seventeen stores and the three warehouses.”

Lonnie noticed that Ken and Ben were watching him breathe, so he took the news with a straight face, everf offered a very slight shrug, as if to say, “So what?” He was, however, finding it hard to swallow. “Why?” he managed to ask.

“Lots of reasons, but I'll give you the top two. My dad is sixty-eight, and Al, as you know, just had surgery. That's number one. Number two is the fact that SuperHouse is offering a very fair price.” He rubbed his hands together as if he couldn't wait to spend the new money. “It's just time to sell, Lonnie, pure and simple.”

“I'm surprised, I never-”

“You're right. Forty years in the business, from a mom-and-pop fruit stand to a company in five states with sixty million in sales last year. Hard to believe they're throwing in the towel.” Troy was not the least bit convincing in his effort at sentiment. Lonnie knew why. He was a witless dunce, a rich kid who played golf every day while trying to project the image of a hard-charging, ass-kicking corporate honcho. His father and his uncle -were selling now because in a few short years Troy would take the

reins and forty years of toil and prudence would get spent on racing boats and beach property.

There was a pause as Ben and Ken continued staring at Lonnie. One was in his mid-forties with a bad haircut and a pocket liner stuffed with cheap ballpoints. Maybe he was Ben. The other was a little younger, a slim-faced, executive type with better clothes and hard eyes. Lonnie looked at them, and it was obvious it was his turn to say something.

“Will this store be closed?” he asked, almost in defeat.

Troy jumped at the question. “In other words, what happens to you? Well, let me assure you, Lonnie, that I've said all the right things about you, all the truth, and I've recommended that you be kept here in the same position.” Either Ben or Ken nodded very slightly. Troy was reaching for his coat. “But that's not my business anymore. I'm gonna step outside for a bit while you guys talk things over.” Like a flash, Troy was out of the room.

For some reason his departure brought smiles to Ken and Ben. Lonnie asked, “Do you guys have business cards?”

“Sure,” both said, and they pulled cards from pockets and slid them to the end of the table. Ben was the older, Ken the younger.

Ken was also in charge of this meeting. He began, "Just a bit about our company. We're out of Charlotte, with eighty stores, in the Carolinas and Georgia. SuperHouse is a division of Listing Foods, a conglomerate based in Scarsdale with about two billion in sales last year. A public company, traded on NASDAQ. You've probably heard of it. I'm Vice President for Operations' for SuperHouse, Ben here is regional VP. We're expanding south and west, and

Hadley Brothers looked attractive. That's why we're here."

“So you're keeping the store?”

“Yes, for now, anyway.” He glanced at Ben, as if there was a lot more to the answer.

“And what about me?” Lonnie asked.

They actually squirmed, almost in tandem, and Ben removed a ballpoint from his collection. Ken did the talking. “Well, you have to understand, Mr. Shaver-”

“Please call me Lonnie.”

“Sure, Lonnie, there are always shakeups along the line when acquisitions occur. Just part of the business. Jobs are lost, jobs are created, jobs are transferred.”

“What about my job?” Lonnie pressed. He sensed the worst and was anxious to get it over with.

Ken deliberately picked up a sheet of paper and gave the appearance of reading something. “Well,” he said, ruffling the paper, “you have a solid file.”

“And very strong recommendations,” Ben added helpfully.

“We would like to keep you in place, for now anyway.”

“For now? What does that mean?”

Ken slowly returned the paper to the table, and leaned forward on both elbows. “Let's be perfectly candid, Lonnie. We see a future for you with our company.”

“And it's a much better company than the one you're with now,” Ben added, the tag-team working to perfection. “We offer higher salaries, better benefits, stock options, the works.”

"Lonnie, Ben and I are ashamed to admit that our •company does not have an African-American in a

management position. We, along with our bosses, would like for this to change, immediately. We want it to change with you."

Lonnie studied their faces, and suppressed a thousand questions. In the span of a minute, he'd gone from the brink of unemployment to the prospect of advancement. “I don't have a college degree. There's a limit to-”

“There are no limits,” Ken said. “You have two years of junior college, and, if necessary, you can finish your studies. Our company will cover the cost of college.”

Lonnie had to smile, as much from relief as from good fortune. He decided to proceed cautiously. He was dealing with strangers. “I'm listening,” he said.

Ken had all the answers. “We've studied the personnel at Hadley Brothers, and, well, let's say most of the upper- and mid-management people will soon be looking for work elsewhere. We spotted you, and another young manager from Mobile. We'd like for both of you to come to Charlotte as soon as possible and spend a few days with us. You'll meet our people, learn abbut our company, and we'll talk about the future. I must warn you, though, you can't spend the rest of your life here in Biloxi if you want to advance. You must be willing to move around.”

“I'm willing.”

“We thought so. When can we fly you up?”

The image of Lou Dell closing the door on them flashed before his eyes, and he frowned. He breathed deeply, and said with great frustration, “Well, I'm tied up in court right now. Jury duty. I'm sure Troy told you.”

Ken and Ben appeared to be confused by this. “It's just a couple of days, isn't it?”

“No. The trial's scheduled for a month, and we're in week two.”

“A month?” Ben asked, on cue. “What kind of trial is it?”

“The widow of a dead smoker is suing a tobacco company.”

Their reactions were almost identical and left no doubt how they personally felt about such lawsuits.

“I tried to get out of it,” Lonnie said in an effort to smooth things.

“A product liability suit?” Ken asked, thoroughly disgusted.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“For another three weeks?” Ben asked.

“That's what they say. I can't believe I got stuck,” he said, his words trailing away.

There was a long pause in which Ben opened a fresh pack of Bristols and lit one. “Lawsuits,” he said bitterly. “We get sued every week by some poor clod who trips and falls and then blames it on the vinegar or the grapes. Last month a bottle of carbonated water exploded at a private party in Rocky Mount. Guess who sold 'em the water? Guess who got sued last week for ten million? Us and the bottler. Product liability.” A long puff, then a quick chew on a thumbnail. Ben was steaming. “Gotta seventy-year-old woman in Athens claiming she wrenched her back when she allegedly reached up high to get a can of furniture polish. Her lawyer says she's entitled to a coupla mill.”

Ken stared at Ben as if he wanted him to shut up, but Ben evidently exploded easily when the topic was broached. “Stinkin' lawyers,” he said, smoke pouring from his nostrils. "We paid over three million last year for liability insurance, money just

thrown away because of all the hungry lawyers circling above."

Ken said, “That's enough.”

“Sorry.”

“What about the weekends?” Lonnie asked anxiously. “I'm free from Friday afternoon until late Sunday.”

“I was just thinking of that. Tell you what we'll do. We'll send one of our planes to get you Saturday morning. We'll fly you and your wife to Charlotte, give you the grand tour of the home office, and we'll introduce you to our bosses. Most of these guys work Saturdays anyway. Can you do it this weekend?”

“Sure.”

“Done. I'll arrange the plane.”

^You sure there's no conflict with the trial?" Ben asked.

“None that I can foresee.”