umper, the courtroom deputy who took the note from Marlee thirteen days earlier and handed it to Fitch, was approached during lunch and offered five thousand dollars cash to call in sick with stomach cramps or diarrhea or some such affliction, and travel in plain clothes with Pang to New Orleans for a night of food, fun, perhaps a call girl if Jumper was so inclined. Pang needed only a few hours of light work from him. Jumper needed the money.

They left Biloxi around twelve-thirty in a rented van. By the time they arrived in New Orleans two hours later, Jumper had been convinced to temporarily retire his uniform and work for Arlington West Associates for a while. Pang offered him twenty-five thousand dollars for six months' work, nine thousand more than he was presently earning for an entire year.

They checked into their rooms at the St. Regis, two single rooms on each side of Fitch, who'd been able to extort only four from the hotel. Holly's room

was down the hall. Dubaz, Joe Boy, and Dante were four blocks away in the Royal Sonesta. Juniper was first parked on a bar stool in the lounge, where he had a view of the front entrance of the hotel.

The waiting began. There was no sign of her as the afternoon dragged toward dark, and no one was surprised. Jumper was moved four times, and swiftly tired of shadow work.

Fitch left his room a few minutes before seven and rode the elevator to the roof. His table was in a corner with a nice view of the Quarter. Holly and Dubaz were at a table ten feet away, both well dressed and seemingly oblivious to everyone. Dante and a hired escort in a black mini-skirt had another table. Joe Boy would take the pictures.

At seven-thirty, she appeared from nowhere. Neither Jumper nor Pang reported seeing her anywhere near the front lobby. She simply emerged through the open French doors on the roof and was at Fitch's table in an instant. He later speculated that she did what they had done-got a room at the hotel under another name and used the stairs. She was dressed in slacks and jacket, and very pretty-dark short hair, brown eyes, strong chin and cheeks, very little makeup but then little was needed. He guessed her age to be between twenty-eight and thirty-two. She sat quickly, so fast in fact that Fitch didn't get the chance to offer her a chair. She sat directly across from him with her back to the other tables.

“A pleasure to meet you,” he said softly, glancing around at the other tables to see if anyone was listening.

“Yes, a real pleasure,” she replied, leaning on her elbows.

The waiter appeared with rapid efficiency and

asked if she wanted something to drink. No, she did not. The waiter had been bribed with hard cash to carefully remove anything she touched with her fingers-glasses, plates, silver, ashtrays, anything. He would not get the chance.

“Are you hungry?” Fitch asked, sipping a mineral water.

“No. I'm in a hurry.”

“Why?”

“Because the longer I sit here the more photos your goons can take.”

“I came alone.”

“Of course you did. How'd you like the red socks?” A jazz band began across the roof, but she ignored it. Her eyes never left Fitch's.

Fitch rolled his head back and offered a snort. It was still difficult to believe he was chatting with the lover of one of his jurors. He'd had indirect contact with jurors before, several times in different forms, but never this close.

And she came to him!

“Where's he from?” Fitch asked.

“What difference does it make? He's here.”

“Is he your husband?”

“No.”

“Boyfriend?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“You present a lot of questions, young lady. And you expect me to ask them.”

“He's an acquaintance.”

“When did he assume the name Nicholas Easter?”

“What difference does it make? That's his legal name. He's a legal resident of Mississippi, a registered voter. He can change his name once a month if he wants.”

She kept her hands tucked together under her chin. He knew she would not make the mistake of leaving prints. “What about you?” Fitch asked.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you're not registered to vote in Mississippi.”

“How do you know?”

“Because we checked. Assuming, of course, your real name is Marlee, and that it's spelled properly.”

“You're assuming too much.”

“It's my job. Are you from the Coast?”

“XT ”

No.

Joe Boy leaned down low between two plastic boxwoods just long enough to take six shots of the side of her face. A decent view would require a tightrope act on top of the brick banister, eighteen floors above Canal. He'd stay in the greenery and hope for something better when she left.

Fitch rattled the ice in his glass. “So why are we here?” he asked.

“One meeting leads to another.”

“And where do all the meetings lead us?”

“To the verdict.”

“For a fee, I'm sure.”

“Fee has an awfully small ring to it. Are you recording this?” She knew perfectly well Fitch was recording every sound.

“Of course not.”

He could play the tape in his sleep for all she cared. He had nothing to gain by sharing it with anyone. He carried too much baggage to run to the cops or to the Judge, and that didn't fit into his modus operandi anyway. The thought of blackmailing her with the authorities never occurred to Fitch, and she knew this too.

He could take all the photos he wanted, and he and his thugs scattered around the hotel could follow and watch and listen. She'd play along for a while, dodging and darting and making them work for their money. They'd find nothing.

“Let's not talk about money now, okay, Fitch?”

“We'll talk about whatever you want to talk about. This is your show.”

“Why'd you break into his apartment?”

“That's just what we do.”

“How do you read Herman Grimes?” she asked.

“Why do you ask me? You know exactly what's happening in the jury room.”

“I want to see how smart you are. I'm interested in knowing if you're getting your money's worth from all those jury experts and lawyers.”

“I've never lost, so I always get my money's worth.”

“So what about Herman?”

Fitch thought for a second and motioned for another glass of water. “He'll have a lot to do with the verdict because he is a man of strong opinions. Right now, he's open-minded. He absorbs every word in court and probably knows more than every other juror, with the exception, of course, of your friend. Am I right?”

“You're pretty close.”

“That's good to hear. How often do you chat with your friend?”

“Occasionally. Herman objected to the strike this morning, did you know that?”

“No.”

“He was the only one of the fourteen.”

“Why'd they strike?”

“Conditions. Phones, TV, beer, sex, church, the usual yearnings of mankind.” “Who led the strike?” “Same one who's been leading from day one.”

te-r tt

I see.

“That's why I'm here, Fitch. If my friend was not in control, I'd have nothing to offer.”

“And what are you offering?”

“I said we wouldn't talk about money now.”

The waiter set the fresh glass in front of Fitch and again asked Marlee if she wanted something to drink. “Yes, a diet cola in a plastic cup, please.”

“We, uh, well, we don't have any plastic cups,” the waiter said with a puzzled look at Fitch.

“Then forget it,” she said, grinning at Fitch.

Fitch decided to press on. “What's the mood of the jury right now?”

“Getting bored. Herrera's a big fan. Thinks trial lawyers are dirt and severe restrictions should be placed on frivolous lawsuits.”

“My hero. Can he convince his pals?”

“No. He has no pals. He is despised by all, definitely the most disliked member of the panel.”

“Who's the friendliest girl?”

“Millie is everybody's mother, but she won't be a factor. Rikki is cute and popular, and very health conscious. She's trouble for you.”

“That's no surprise.”

“Do you want a surprise, Fitch?”

“Yeah, surprise me.”

“Which juror has actually started smoking cigarettes since the trial started?”

Fitch squinted and cocked his head a little to the left. Did he hear her correctly? “Started smoking?”

“Yep.”

“I give up.”

“Easter. Surprised?”

“Your friend.”

“Yeah. Look, Fitch, gotta run. I'll call you tomorrow.” She was on her feet and gone, disappearing as quickly as she'd come.

Dante with the hired woman reacted before Fitch, who was stunned for a second with the speed of her departure. Dante radioed Pang in the lobby, who saw her exit the elevator and leave the hotel. Jumper tracked her on foot for two blocks before losing her in a crowded alley.

For an hour they watched the streets and parking garages and hotel lobbies and bars but did not see her. Fitch was in his room at the St. Regis when the call came from Dubaz, who'd been dispatched to the airport. She was waiting for a commuter flight that left in an hour and a half and landed in Mobile at ten-fifty. Don't follow her, Fitch instructed him, then called two standbys in Biloxi, who raced to the airport in Mobile.

Marlee lived in a rented condo facing the Back Bay of Biloxi. When she was twenty minutes from home, she called the Biloxi police by dialing 911 on her cellphone and explained to the dispatcher that a Ford Taurus with two thugs in it was following her, had been in fact since she left Mobile, that they were stalkers of some odious variety and she was fearful for her life. With the dispatcher coordinating movements, Marlee did a series of turns through a quiet subdivision and abruptly stopped at an all-night gas station. As she filled her tank, a police car pulled behind the Taurus, which was trying to hide around the corner of a closed dry cleaner. The two thugs

were ordered out, then marched across.the parking lot to face the woman they'd been stalking.

Marlee performed superbly as the terrified victim. The cops got angrier the more she cried. Fitch's goons were hauled away to jail.

AT TEN, Chuck, the large deputy with a sullen attitude, unfolded a chair at the end of the hallway near his room, and set up watch for the night. It was Wednesday, the second night of sequestration, and time to breach security. As planned, Nicholas phoned Chuck's room at eleven-fifteen. The instant he left his post to answer it, Jerry and Nicholas slipped from their rooms and walked casually through the exit door near Lou Dell's room. Lou Dell was in bed sound asleep. And though Willis had slept most of the day in court, he too was under the covers, snoring furiously.

Avoiding the front lobby, they eased through the shadows and found the taxi waiting precisely as instructed. Fifteen minutes later they entered the Nugget Casino on Biloxi Beach. They drank three beers in the sports bar as Jerry lost a hundred dollars on a hockey game. They flirted with two married women whose husbands were either winning or losing a fortune at the crap tables. The flirting took a turn toward serious, and at 1 A.M. Nicholas left the bar to play five-dollar blackjack and drink decaf coffee. He played and waited and watched as the crowd dwindled.

Marlee slipped into the chair next to him and said nothing. Nicholas pushed a short stack of chips in front of her. A drunk college boy was the only other player. “Upstairs,” she whispered between hands as the dealer turned to talk to the pit boss.

They met on an outdoor mezzanine with a view of the parking lot and the ocean in the distance. November had arrived and the air was light and cool. There was no one else around. They kissed and huddled together on a bench. She replayed her trip to New Orleans; every detail, every word. They laughed at the two boys from Mobile who were now in the county jail. She'd call Fitch after daybreak and get his men released.

They talked business briefly because Nicholas wanted to return to the bar and collect Jerry before he drank too much and lost all his money or got caught with somebody's wife.

They each had slim pocket cellphones which could not be completely secured. New codes and passwords were exchanged.

Nicholas kissed her good-bye and left her alone on the mezzanine.

WEND ALL ROHR had a hunch the jury was tired of listening to researchers tout their findings and lecture from their charts and graphs. His consultants were telling him the jurors had heard enough about lung cancer and smoking, that they had probably been convinced before the trial started that cigarettes were addictive and dangerous. He was confident he had established a strong causal relationship between the Bristols and the tumors that killed Jacob Wood, and it was now time to ice the case. Thursday morning he announced that the plaintiff would like to call Lawrence Krigler as its next witness. A noticeable tension seized the defense table for the moment it took to call Mr. Krigler from somewhere in the rear. Another plaintiff's lawyer.

John Riley Milton from Denver, rose and smiled sweetly at the jury.

Lawrence Krigler was in his late sixties, tanned and fit, well dressed and quick in step. He was the first witness without Doctor stuck to the front of his name since the video of Jacob Wood. He lived now in Florida, where he'd retired after he left Pynex. John Riley Milton rushed him through the preliminaries because the juicy stuff was just around the corner.

An engineering graduate of North Carolina State, he'd worked for Pynex for thirty years before leaving in the midst of a lawsuit thirteen years earlier. He'd sued Pynex. The company'd countersued him. They settled out of court with terms being nondisclosed.

When he was first hired, the company, then called Union Tobacco, or simply U-Tab, had shipped him to Cuba to study tobacco production down there. He'd worked in production ever since, or at least until the day he left. He'd studied the tobacco leaf and a thousand ways to grow it more efficiently. He considered himself an expert in this field, though he was not testifying as an expert and would not offer opinions. Only facts.

In 1969, he completed a three-year, in-house study on the feasibility of growing an experimental tobacco leaf known only as Raleigh 4. It had one third the nicotine of regular tobacco. Krigler concluded, with a wealth of research to support him, that Raleigh 4 could be grown and produced as efficiently as all other tobaccos then grown and produced by U-Tab.

It was a monumental work, one he was quite proud of, and he was devastated when his study was at first ignored by higher-ups within his company.

He slogged his way through the entrenched bureaucracy above him, with disheartening results. No one seemed to care about this new strain of tobacco with much less nicotine.

Then he learned that he was very wrong. His bosses cared a great deal about nicotine levels. In the summer of 1971 he got his hands on an intercompany memo instructing upper management to quietly do whatever possible to discredit Krigler's work with Raleigh 4. His own people were silently knifing him in the back. He kept his cool, told no one he had the memo, and began a clandestine project to learn the reasons for the conspiracy against him.

At this point in his testimony, John Riley Milton introduced into evidence two exhibits-the thick study Krigler completed in 1969, and the 1971 memo.

The answer became crystal clear, and it was something he'd come to suspect. U-Tab could not afford to produce a leaf with markedly lower nicotine, because nicotine meant profits. The industry had known since the late thirties that nicotine was physically addictive.

“How do you know the industry knew?” Milton asked, very deliberately. With the exception of the defense lawyers, who were doing their best to appear bored and indifferent, the entire courtroom was listening with rapt attention.

“It's common knowledge within the industry,” Krigler answered. “There was a secret study in the late 1930s, paid for by a tobacco company, and the result was clear proof that the nicotine in cigarettes is addictive.”

“Have you seen this report?”

“No. As you might guess, it has been well concealed.” Krigler paused and looked at the defense table. The bombshell was coming, and he was thoroughly enjoying the moment. “But I saw a memo-”

“Objection!” Cable shouted as he rose. “This witness cannot state what he may or may not have seen in a written document. The reasons are plentiful and are set out more fully in the brief we filed on this point.”

The brief was eighty pages long and had been argued over for a month now. Judge Harkin had already ruled, in writing. “Your objection is noted, Mr. Cable. Mr. Krigler, you may continue.”

“In the winter of 1973, I saw a one-page memo summarizing the nicotine study from the 1930s. The memo had been copied many times, was very old, and had been slightly altered.”

“Altered in what way?”

“The date had been deleted, as had the name of the person sending it.”

“To whom was it sent?”

“It was addressed to Sander S. Fraley, who at that time was the president of Allegheny Growers, the predecessor of a company now called ConPack.”

“A tobacco company.”

“Yes, basically. It calls itself a consumer products company, but the bulk of its business is manufacturing cigarettes.”

“When did he serve as president?”

“From 1931 to 1942.”

“Is it then safe to assume the memo was sent prior to 1942?”

“Yes. Mr. Fraley died in 1942.”

“Where were you when you saw this memo?”

"At a Pynex facility in Richmond. When Pynex

was still Union Tobacco, its corporate headquarters were in Richmond. In 1979, it changed its name and moved to New Jersey. But the buildings are still in use in Richmond, and that's where I worked until I left. Most of the company's old records are there, and a person I know showed me the memo."

“Who was this person?”

“He was a friend, and he's now dead. I promised him I'd never reveal his identity.”

“Did you actually hold the memo?”

“Yes. In fact, I made a copy of it.”

“And where is your copy?”

“It didn't last long. The day after I locked it in my desk drawer, I was called out of town on business. While I was out, someone went through my desk and removed a number of things, including my copy of the memo.”

“Do you recall what the memo said?”

“I remember very well. Keep in mind, for a long time I'd been digging for some confirmation of what I suspected. Seeing the memo was an unforgettable moment.”

“What did it say?”

“Three paragraphs, maybe four, brief and to the point. The writer explained that he had just read the nicotine report that was secretly shown to him by the head of research at Allegheny Growers, a person who went unnamed in the memo. In his opinion, the study proved conclusively and beyond any doubt that nicotine is addictive. As I recall, this was the gist of the first two paragraphs.”

“And the next paragraph?”

"The writer suggested to Fraley that the company take a serious look at increasing the nicotine levels

in its cigarettes. More nicotine meant more smokers, which meant more sales and more profits."

Krigler delivered his lines with a fine flair for the dramatic, and every ear soaked up his words. The jurors, for the first time in days, watched every move the witness made. The word “profits” floated over the courtroom and hung like a dirty fog.

John Riley Milton paused for a bit, then said, “Now, let's keep this straight. The memo was prepared by someone at another company, and sent to the president of that company, right?”

“That's correct.”

“A company that was then and is now a competitor of Pynex?”

“That's correct.”

“How did the memo find its way to Pynex in 1973?”

“I never found out. But Pynex certainly knew about the study. In fact, the entire tobacco industry knew about the study by the early 1970s, if not sooner.”

“How do you know this?”

“I worked in the industry for thirty years, remember. And I spent my career in production. I talked to a lot of people, especially my counterparts at other companies. Let's just say that the tobacco companies at times can stick together.”

“Did you ever attempt to obtain another copy of the memo from your friend?”

“I tried. It didn't work. Let's leave it at that.”

EXCEPT for the usual fifteen-minute coffee break at ten-thirty, Krigler testified nonstop for the three-hour morning session. His testimony passed by as if it were only a matter of minutes, and was a crucial

moment in the trial. The drama of an ex-employee spilling dirty secrets was played to perfection. The jurors even ignored their customary longings for lunch. The lawyers watched the jurors more closely than ever, and the Judge seemed to write down every word the witness said.

The reporters were unusually reverent; the jury consultants unusually attentive. The watchdogs from Wall Street counted the minutes until they could bolt from the room and make breathless phone calls to New York. The bored local lawyers hanging around the courtroom would talk about the testimony for years. Even Lou Dell stopped her knitting on the front row.

Fitch watched and listened from the viewing room next to his office. Krigler had been scheduled to testify early next week, and then there'd been the chance that he wouldn't testify at all. Fitch was one of the few people still alive who'd actually seen the memo, and Krigler had described it with amazing recollection. It was clear to everyone, even Fitch, that the witness was telling the truth.

One of Fitch's first assignments nine years ago when he'd first been hired by the Big Four was to track down every copy of the memo, and destroy each one. He was still working on it.

Neither Cable nor any defense lawyer retained by Fitch so far had seen the memo.

The admissibility of its existence in court had caused a small war. The rules of evidence normally prevent such verbal descriptions of lost documents, for obvious reasons. The best evidence is the document itself. But, as with every area of the law, there are exceptions and exceptions to the exceptions, and Rohr et al. had done a masterful job of convincing

Judge Harkin that the jury should hear Krigler's description of what was, in effect, a lost document.

Cable's cross-examination that afternoon would be brutal, but the damage was done. Fitch skipped lunch and locked himself in his office.

IN THE JURY ROOM, the atmosphere over lunch was remarkably different. The ordinary drivel about football and recipes was replaced by a virtual silence. As a deliberative body, the jury had been lulled into stupor with two weeks of tedious scientific testimony from experts who were being paid large sums of money to travel to Biloxi and lecture. Now the jury had been shaken back to life with Krigler's sensational inside dirt.

They ate less and stared more. Most wanted to ease into another room with their favorite friend and replay what they'd just heard. Did they hear it right? Did everyone understand what the man just said? They intentionally kept nicotine high so people got hooked!

They managed to do just that. The smokers, only three now since Stella had departed, though Easter was a semi-smoker because he preferred to spend time with Jerry and Poodle and Angel Weese, ate quickly then excused themselves. They all sat on folding chairs, staring and puffing at the open window. With the weighted nicotine, the cigarettes felt a bit heavier. But when Nicholas said so, no one laughed.

Mrs. Gladys Card and Millie Dupree managed to leave for the rest room at the same moment. They took a long pee then spent fifteen minutes washing their hands and speaking to each other in front of the mirror. They were joined in mid-conversation by

Loreen Duke, who leaned by the towel dispenser and quickly threw in her amazement and disgust with tobacco companies.

After the table was cleared, Lonnie Shaver opened his laptop two chairs down from Herman, who had his braille machine plugged in and was typing away. The Colonel said to Herman, “Don't guess you need a translator for that testimony, do you?” To which Herman replied with a grunt and said, “Pretty amazing, I'd say.” That was the nearest Herman Grimes came to discussing any aspect of the case.

Lonnie Shaver was not amazed or impressed by anything.

Phillip Savelle had politely asked for and received permission from Judge Harkin to spend part of his lunch break doing yoga under a large oak tree behind the courthouse. He was escorted by a deputy to the oak tree, where he removed his shirt, socks, and shoes, then sat on the soft grass and creased himself into a pretzel. When he began chanting, the deputy slid away to a nearby concrete bench and lowered his face so no one would recognize him.

CABLE SAID HELLO to Krigler as if the two were old friends. Krigler smiled and said “Good afternoon, Mr. Cable,” with an abundance of confidence. Seven months earlier, in Rohr's office, Cable and company had spent three days taking a video deposition of Krigler. The video had been watched and studied by no fewer than two dozen lawyers and several jury experts and even two psychiatrists. Krigler was telling the truth, but the truth needed to be blurred at this point. This was a cross-examination, a crucial one, so to hell with the truth. The witness had to be discredited!

After hundreds of hours of plotting, a strategy had been developed. Cable began by asking Krigler if he was angry with his former employer.

“Yes,” he answered.

“Do you hate the company?”

“The company is an entity. How do you hate a thing?”

“Do you hate war?”

“Never been.”

“Do you hate child abuse?”

“I'm sure it's sickening, but luckily I've never had any connection with it.”

“Do you hate violence?”

“I'm sure it's awful, but, again, I've been lucky.”

“So you don't hate anything?”

“Broccoli.”

A gentle laugh came from all quarters of the courtroom, and Cable knew he had his hands full.

“You don't hate Pynex?”

“XT ”

No.

“Do you hate anyone who works there?”

“No. I dislike some of them.”

“Did you hate anyone who worked there when you worked there?”

“No. I had some enemies, but I don't remember hating anyone.”

“What about the people against whom you directed your lawsuit?”

“No. Again, they were enemies, but they were just doing their jobs.”

“So you love your enemies?”

“Not really. I know I'm supposed to try, but it sure is difficult. I don't recall saying I loved them.”

Cable had hoped to score a minor point by injecting the possibility of retribution or revenge on the

part of Krigler. Maybe if he used the word “hate” enough, it might stick with some of the jurors.

“What is your motive for testifying here?”

“That's a complicated question.”

“Is it money?”

“No.”

“Are you being paid by Mr. Rohr or anyone working for the plaintiff to come and testify?”

“No. They've agreed to reimburse me for my travel expenses, but that's all.”

The last thing Cable wanted was an open door for Krigler to expound upon his reasons for testifying. He had touched on them briefly during Milton's direct examination, and he'd spent five hours detailing them during the video deposition. It was crucial to keep him occupied with other matters.

“Have you ever smoked cigarettes, Mr. Krigler?”

“Yes. Unfortunately I smoked for twenty years.”

“So you wished you'd never smoked?”

“Of course.”

“When did you start?”

“When I went to work for the company, 1952. Back then they encouraged all their employees to smoke cigarettes. They still do.”

“Do you believe you damaged your health by smoking for twenty years?”

“Of course. I feel lucky I'm not dead, like Mr. Wood.”

“When did you quit?”

“In 1973. After I learned the truth about nicotine.”

“Do you feel your present health has been diminished in some way because you smoked for twenty years?”

“Of course.”

“In your opinion, was the company responsible in any way for your decision to smoke cigarettes?”

“Yes. As I said, it was encouraged. Everybody else smoked. We could purchase cigarettes at half price in the company store. Every meeting began with a bowl of cigarettes passed around. It was very much a part of the culture.”

“Were your offices ventilated?”

“No.”

“How bad was the secondhand smoke?”

“Very bad. There was always a blue fog hanging not far over your head.”

“So you blame the company today because you're not as healthy as you think you should be?”

“The company had a lot to do with it. Fortunately, I was able to kick the habit. It wasn't easy.”

“And you hold a grudge against the company for this?”

“Let's just say I wish I'd gone to work in another industry when I finished college.”

“Industry? Do you carry a grudge against the entire industry?”

“I'm not a fan of the tobacco industry.”

“Is that why you're here?”

“No.”

Cable flipped his notes and quickly changed direction. “Now, you had a sister at one time, didn't you, Mr. Krigler?”

“I did.”

“What happened to her?”

“She died in 1970.”

“How'd she die?”

“Lung cancer. She smoked two packs a day for about twenty-three years. Smoking killed her, Mr. Cable, if that's what you want.”

“Were you close to her?” Cable asked with enough compassion to deflect some of the ill will for bringing up the tragedy in the first place.

“We were very close. She was my only sibling.”

“And you took her death very hard?”

“I did. She was a very special person, and I still miss her.”

“I'm sorry to bring this up, Mr. Krigler, but it is relevant.”

“Your compassion is overwhelming, Mr. Cable, but there's nothing relevant about it.”

“How did she feel about your smoking?”

“She didn't like it. As she was dying she begged me to stop. Is that what you want to hear, Mr. Cable?”

“Only if it's the truth.”

“Oh it's true, Mr. Cable. The day before she died I promised I would quit smoking. And I did, though it took me three long years to do it. I was hooked, you see, Mr. Cable, as was my sister, because the company that manufactured the cigarettes that killed her, and could've killed me, intentionally kept the nicotine at a high level.”

“Now-”

“Don't interrupt me, Mr. Cable. Nicotine in itself is not a carcinogen, you know that, it's just a poison, a poison that gets you addicted so the carcinogens can one day take care of you. That's why cigarettes are inherently dangerous.”

Cable watched him with complete composure. “Are you finished?”

“I'm ready for the next question. But don't interrupt me again.”

“Certainly, and I apologize. Now, when did you first become convinced that cigarettes were inherently dangerous?”

“I don't know exactly. It's been known for some time, you know. It did not then and does not now take a genius to figure it out. But I'd say at some point in the early seventies, after I finished my study, after my sister had died, and shortly before I saw the infamous memo.”

“In 1973?”

“Somewhere in there.”

“When did your employment with Pynex cease? What year?”

“In 1982.”

“So you continued working for a company which made products you considered to be inherently dangerous?”

“I did.”

“What was your salary in 1982?”

“Ninety thousand dollars a year.”

Cable paused and walked to his table where he was handed yet another yellow legal pad which he studied for a second as he bit a stem of his reading glasses, then he returned to the lectern and asked Krigler why he'd sued the company in 1982. Krigler didn't appreciate the question, and looked at Rohr and Milton for help. Cable pursued details of the events leading up to the litigation, hopelessly complicated and personal litigation, and the testimony slowed to a virtual halt. Rohr objected and Milton objected, and Cable acted as if he couldn't understand why in the world they'd object. The lawyers met at the sidebar to haggle in private in front of Judge Harkin, and Krigler grew weary of the witness stand.

Cable hammered away at Rrigler's performance record during his last ten years with Pynex, and

hinted strongly that other witnesses might be called to contradict him.

The ploy almost worked. Unable to shake the damaging aspects of Krigler's testimony, the defense chose instead to blow smoke at the jury. If a witness is unshakable, then beat him up with insignificant details.

The ploy was explained to the jury, however, by young Nicholas Easter, who'd had two years of law school and chose to remind his colleagues of his experiences during a late afternoon coffee break. Over Herman's objections, Nicholas voiced his resentment at Cable for throwing mud and trying to confuse the jury. “He thinks we're stupid,” he said bitterly.