“No one can prove that,” Mrs. Johnson said, folding her hands.
“Who needs proof ? It’s obvious!”
“Not to me.”
“What do you think made those kids get cancer?”
“I don’t know. And nobody else does either, except the Good Lord.”
“Is that the same Good Lord who gave the kids cancer?” Mary Ann Althorp asked. “Those families have been hurt. They need our help.”
“If they need help,” Mrs. Johnson rejoined, “we can pass the hat. But I’m not going to give them millions of dollars of someone else’s money.”
Marshall threw himself back in his chair. “Isn’t there some way we can get rid of this old bat?” he asked the foreman. “What were those alternates for?”
“They can’t join the deliberations unless something happens to one of us,” Peabody explained.
“Maybe I should strangle her,” Marshall said under his breath. “That might speed things along.”
“I heard that,” Mrs. Johnson proclaimed. “And I am not amused.”
“There’s no need for unkindness,” Mrs. Cartwright said. “I’m sure we can work through this without sinking to that level.”
“Easy for you to say,” Marshall grumped. “I think you’re enjoying this. But I’ve got a business to run.”
“Let me see if I can get us back on track,” Peabody said. In fact, he was as tired of this as everyone else, but as the duly elected foreman, he felt an obligation to try to resolve the dispute. “Let’s focus on the medical testimony. Let’s see what evidence there is that the water caused those kids" cancers. I myself was very persuaded by that fella—what was his name?—Rimland, I think.”
Mrs. Johnson groaned. “Mr. Colby called him a quack.”
“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” Marshall rolled his eyes.
“Let’s look at the published report from Dr. Rimland’s study. I thought those results with the lab rats were kinda interesting.” Peabody had no real confidence that reviewing the report—or anything else—would ever change Mrs. Johnson’s mind. But he had to try something. He was the foreman, damn it. This was his watch. He had a responsibility. It wouldn’t be easy—but he was a farmer. He was used to things not being easy.
He wasn’t going to throw in the towel yet. Not without putting up one hell of a fight.
Chapter 41
WHEN BEN STEPPED OUT of the judge’s chambers, Cecily was so excited she could barely restrain herself. She jumped off the bench that had been their home base for the past two weeks and met him halfway down the corridor.
“So? What did the judge want?”
Ben hesitated before answering. “The jury sent a note back.”
Why was she having to drag this out of him? “Yes? And?”
“They say they’re deadlocked. They can’t reach a verdict.”
Cecily was unprepared for the hollow pain she felt when she heard those words. Of course, she had realized it might not be good news, but this? She would almost rather be told that the jury found for the defendant.
“Why? What’s their problem?”
“I don’t know. And I can’t ask. But they say they can’t work it out.”
“So what did the judge do?”
“Basically, he told them to get their butts back in their chairs and work harder.”
“So—he didn’t let them declare a deadlock?”
“Not yet. But eventually …”
Cecily knew what he meant; they had discussed it often enough during the past two weeks. The judge couldn’t let the jury deliberate forever; eventually he would have to declare a mistrial. Which meant all their work, all their expense, would be for nothing. Their only option would be to try again with a new jury—an option she knew Ben couldn’t afford. And the chances of another lawyer taking the case—when it had already bankrupted the first lawyer—were nonexistent.
“Surely they’ll work it out,” Cecily said, but her voice sounded weak. “Surely they’ll see things the way we do.”
Ben laid his hand gently on her shoulder and guided her back to the bench. “I hope so.”
In the jury deliberation room, the frustration levels had reached an all-time high. No one had been happy about sending the note to the judge saying they were deadlocked—but they had at least thought it would bring this misery to an end. But now they had the judge’s reply, and not only were they not off the hook, the judge was basically scolding them and telling them the work would have to continue, perhaps for weeks.
“I just can’t stand this any longer,” Mrs. Cartwright said. “I’m tired of the pictures and the transcripts. I’m tired of the charts and graphs. And most of all, I’m tired of all this bickering.”
“I’m tired of everything, too,” Mary Ann Althorp added. “I’ve missed so much school I may have to retake the whole semester in summer school.”
“Don’t tell me your sob stories, girl,” Marshall said. “I got my own business. And it’s been goin" to hell in a handbasket since I got stuck with this trial.”
“None of which gets us where we need to go,” Foreman Peabody interjected. “I think we need to reconsider the evidence and see if we can get anyone to change their mind. Should we start with the medical evidence or the damages evidence?”
“Why don’t you ask Mrs. Johnson?” Marshall huffed. “Since it’s her mind you want to change.”
Peabody smiled thinly. “What about it, Mrs. Johnson? Shall we rehash the medical evidence?”
The woman at the end of the table looked up from the papers she had been reading. For the first time, at least in several days, Peabody realized how frail she was, how delicate. And yet she had stood up to the lot of them for two weeks running. That took some serious fiber. He had to admire that, even if he did think she was dead wrong.
Mrs. Johnson cleared her throat. “Actually, I think that may not be necessary. I think … maybe … I’ve changed my mind.”
Peabody leaned forward, his eyes bulging. “You mean it? You agree that Blaylock caused the cancers?”
“To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure. But I remember what that young attorney for the plaintiffs said, and I saw it again in the jury instructions. We don’t have to say that we think that definitely did happen. We just have to find that it’s more likely than not that it did happen. And—well, I think I can do that.”
Peabody felt as if firecrackers were going off inside his head. “Then you’ll join the rest of us in a plaintiffs" verdict?”
Mrs. Johnson licked her lips. “Yes. I will.”
A cheer went up around the table. Several of them leaned forward and slapped the old lady on the back. “That’s great. Great!”
“And that just leaves the matter of damages,” Peabody said, hurriedly returning to the verdict forms. “How much shall we give the plaintiffs for their actual damages?”
Mrs. Johnson answered for all of them. “Everything. All their medical expenses.”
Peabody could not have been more pleased. He scribbled the numbers onto the verdict form. “And for punitive damages?”
“No,” Mrs. Johnson said quietly. “No punitive damages.”
“Wait a minute,” Marshall said. “These people are out a lot of money.”
“That’s not the point,” Mary Ann said. “Punitive damages are for punishment. This corporation did a wrong thing. A negligent, greedy thing. They should be punished.”
“I agree,” Mrs. Cartwright added. “We have to give them something.”
“Fine,” Mrs. Johnson said. “Give them one dollar.”
“One dollar!” Marshall practically exploded. For a moment, it had seemed as if they were close to finishing this thing once and for all. Now he realized they were still far, far apart. “That’s like an insult. It needs to be something big! We gotta send a message to corporate America. Tell "em we won’t tolerate this sort of thing.”