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![The Runaway Jury by [John Grisham]](https://m.media-amazon.com/images/I/41yJwPp4rVL._SY346_.jpg)
The Runaway Jury Kindle Edition
John Grisham (Author) See search results for this author |
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_______________________________________
When justice is for sale, every jury has a price.
In Biloxi, Mississippi, a landmark trial against a tobacco company begins.
There are hundreds of millions of dollars at stake and soon it swerves mysteriously off course. The jury is behaving strangely, and at least one juror is convinced he's being watched.
Soon they have to be sequestered. Then a tip from an anonymous young woman suggests she is able to predict the jurors' increasingly odd behaviour.
Someone has a plan. But who? And, more importantly, what do they want?
_______________________________________
‘A master at the art of deft characterisation and the skilful delivery of hair-raising crescendos' – Irish Independent
'John Grisham is the master of legal fiction' – Jodi Picoult
'The best thriller writer alive' – Ken Follett
‘John Grisham has perfected the art of cooking up convincing, fast-paced thrillers’ – Telegraph
‘Grisham is a superb, instinctive storyteller’ – The Times
‘Grisham's storytelling genius reminds us that when it comes to legal drama, the master is in a league of his own.’ – Daily Record
‘Masterful – when Grisham gets in the courtroom he lets rip, drawing scenes so real they're not just alive, they're pulsating’ – Mirror
‘A giant of the thriller genre’ – TimeOut
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherCornerstone Digital
- Publication date20 April 2010
- File size2909 KB
Product description
Review
"The King of Torts: 'Ruthless calculation and overpowering greed make the story of Clay Carter's dizzying rise to "king of torts" a cracking good tale' Sunday Times"
"The Brethren: 'A riveting tale, well up to Grisham's normal high standard, expertly read by Michael Beck' Scotsman" --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
About the Author
Reader's Biography
Michael Beck's feature film credits include The Golden Seal, The Warriors, and Xanadu. He has made numerous appearances on television, most notably in the miniseries Heaven and Hell and Holocaust, and has also performed the audio versions of the John Grisham novels The Rainmaker, A Time to Kill and The Chamber. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
From the Back Cover
In Biloxi, Mississippi, a landmark trial with hundreds of millions of dollars at stake begins routinely, then swerves mysteriously off course. The jury is behaving strangely, and at least one juror is convinced he's being watched. Soon they have to be sequestered. Then a tip from an anonymous young woman suggests she is able to predict the juror's increasingly odd behaviour.
Is the jury somehow being manipulated, or even controlled? And, more importantly, why?
Michael Beck's feature film credits include The Golden Seal, The Warriors, and Xanadu. He has made numerous appearances on television, most notably in the miniseries Heaven and Hell and Holocaust, and has also performed the audio versions of the John Grisham novels The Rainmaker, A Time to Kill and The Chamber. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
Review
"Grisham's most addictive courtroom thriller.""--Seattle Times
"
"Grisham stacks his "Jury" with suspense. . . . Don't start it unless you are prepared to stay up all night."--"Atlanta Journal-Constitution"
"Couldn't have been better . . . Carefully and persuasively detailed."--"Los Angeles Times"
"A story of genuine significance . . . entertainingly unpredictable."--"The New York Times"
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
The face of Nicholas Easter was slightly hidden by a display rack filled with slim cordless phones, and he was looking not directly at the hidden camera but somewhere off to the left, perhaps at a customer, or perhaps at a counter where a group of kids hovered over the latest electronic games from Asia. Though taken from a distance of forty yards by a man dodging rather heavy mall foot traffic, the photo was clear and revealed a nice face, clean-shaven with strong features and boyish good looks. Easter was twenty-seven, they knew that for a fact. No eyeglasses. No nose ring or weird haircut. Nothing to indicate he was one of the usual computer nerds who worked in the store at five bucks an hour. His questionnaire said he'd been there for four months, said also that he was a part-time student, though no record of enrollment had been found at any college within three hundred miles. He was lying about this, they were certain. He had to be lying. Their intelligence was too good. If the kid was a student, they'd know where, for how long, what field of study, how good were the grades, or how bad. They'd know. He was a clerk in a Computer Hut in a mall. Nothing more or less. Maybe he planned to enroll somewhere. Maybe he'd dropped out but still liked the notion of referring to himself as a part-time student. Maybe it made him feel better, gave him a sense of purpose, sounded good.
But he was not, at this moment nor at any time in the recent past, a student of any sort. So, could he be trusted? This had been thrashed about the room twice already, each time they came to Easter's name on the master list and his face hit the screen. It was a harmless lie, they'd almost decided.
He didn't smoke. The store had a strict nonsmoking rule, but he'd been seen (not photographed) eating a taco in the Food Garden with a co-worker who smoked two cigarettes with her lemonade. Easter didn't seem to mind the smoke. At least he wasn't an antismoking zealot. The face in the photo was lean and tanned and smiling slightly with lips closed. The white shirt under the red store jacket had a buttonless collar and a tasteful striped tie. He appeared neat, in shape, and the man who took the photo actually spoke with Nicholas as he pretended to shop for an obsolete gadget; said he was articulate, helpful, knowledgeable, a nice young man. His name badge labeled Easter as a Co-Manager, but two others with the same title were spotted in the store at the same time.
The day after the photo was taken, an attractive young female in jeans entered the store, and while browsing near the software actually lit up a cigarette. Nicholas Easter just happened to be the nearest clerk, or Co-Manager, or whatever he was, and he politely approached the woman and asked her to stop smoking. She pretended to be frustrated by this, even insulted, and tried to provoke him. He maintained his tactful manner, explained to her that the store had a strict no-smoking policy. She was welcome to smoke elsewhere. `Does smoking bother you?' she had asked, taking a puff. `Not really,' he had answered. `But it bothers the man who owns this store.' He then asked her once again to stop. She really wanted to purchase a new digital radio, she explained, so would it be possible for him to fetch an ashtray. Nicholas pulled an empty soft drink can from under the counter, and actually took the cigarette from her and extinguished it. They talked about radios for twenty minutes as she struggled with the selection. She flirted shamelessly, and he warmed to the occasion. After paying for the radio, she left him her phone number. He promised to call.
The episode lasted twenty-four minutes and was captured by a small recorder hidden in her purse. The tape had been played both times while his face had been projected on the wall and studied by the lawyers and their experts. Her written report of the incident was in the file, six typed pages of her observations on everything from his shoes (old Nikes) to his breath (cinnamon gum) to his vocabulary (college level) to the way he handled the cigarette. In her opinion, and she was experienced in such matters, he had never smoked.
They listened to his pleasant tone and his professional sales pitch and his charming chatter, and they liked him. He was bright and he didn't hate tobacco. He didn't fit as their model juror, but he was certainly one to watch. The problem with Easter, potential juror number fifty-six, was that they knew so little about him. Evidently, he had landed on the Gulf Coast less than a year ago, and they had no idea where he came from. His past was a complete mystery. He rented a one-bedroom eight blocks from the Biloxi courthouse - they had photos of the apartment building - and at first worked as a waiter in a casino on the beach. He rose quickly to the rank of blackjack dealer, but quit after two months.
Shortly after Mississippi legalized gambling, a dozen casinos along the Coast sprang forth overnight, and a new wave of prosperity hit hard. Job seekers came from all directions, and so it was safe to assume Nicholas Easter arrived in Biloxi for the same reason as ten thousand others. The only odd thing about his move was that he had registered to vote so quickly.
He drove a 1969 Volkswagen Beetle, and a photo of it was flashed on the wall, taking the place of his face. Big deal. He was twenty-seven, single, an alleged part-time student - the perfect type to drive such a car. No bumper stickers. Nothing to indicate political affiliation or social conscience or favorite team. No college parking sticker. Not even a faded dealer decal. The car meant nothing, as far as they were concerned. Nothing but near-poverty.
The man operating the projector and doing most of the talking was Carl Nussman, a lawyer from Chicago who no longer practiced law but instead ran his own jury consulting firm. For a small fortune, Carl Nussman and his firm could pick you the right jury. They gathered the data, took the photos, recorded the voices, sent the blondes in tight jeans into the right situations. Carl and his associates flirted around the edges of laws and ethics, but it was impossible to catch them. After all, there's nothing illegal or unethical about photographing prospective jurors. They had conducted exhaustive telephone surveys in Harrison County six months ago, then again two months ago, then a month later to gauge community sentiment about tobacco issues and formulate models of the perfect jurors. They left no photo untaken, no dirt ungathered. They had a file on every prospective juror.
--This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.Book Description
Synopsis
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Partially out of a mixture of eagerness and boredom, and partially on a hunch that someone would be waiting, Nicholas Easter slipped through the unlocked rear door of the courthouse at eight-thirty, up the seldom-used back stairs, and into the narrow hallway behind the courtroom. Most of the county offices opened at eight, so there was movement and noise to be heard on the first floor. But little on the second. He peeked into the courtroom, and found it empty of people. The briefcases had arrived and been parked haphazardly on the tables. The lawyers were probably in the back, near the coffee machine, telling jokes and preparing for battle.
He knew the turf well. Three weeks earlier, the day after he'd received his precious summons for jury duty, he had come poking around the courtroom. Finding it unused and vacant for the moment, he had explored the alleys and spaces around it; the Judge's cramped chambers; the coffee room where the lawyers gossiped while sitting on ancient tables strewn with old magazines and current newspapers; the makeshift witness rooms with folding chairs and no windows; the holding room where the handcuffed and dangerous waited for their punishment; and, of course, the jury room.
This morning, his hunch was correct. Her name was Lou Dell, a squatty woman of sixty in polyester pants and old sneakers and gray bangs in her eyes. She was sitting in the hallway by the door to the jury room, reading a battered romance and waiting for someone to enter her domain. She jumped to her feet, whipped out a sheet of paper from under her, and said, 'Good morning. Can I help you?' Her entire face was one massive smile. Her eyes glowed with mischief.
'Nicholas Easter,' he said, as he reached for her outstretched hand. She squeezed tightly, shook with a vengeance, and found his name on her paperwork. Another, larger smile, then, 'Welcome to the jury room. This your first trial?'
'Yes.'
'Come on,' she said, virtually shoving him through the door and into the room. 'Coffee and doughnuts are over here,' she said, tugging at his arm, pointing to a corner. 'I made these myself,' she said proudly, lifting a basket of oily black muffins. 'Sort of a tradition. I always bring these on the first day, call 'em my jury muffins. Take one.'
The table was covered with several varieties of doughnuts arranged neatly on trays. Two coffeepots were filled and steaming. Plates and cups, spoons and forks, sugar, cream, sweeteners of several varieties. And in the center of the table were the jury muffins. Nicholas took one because he had no choice.
'Been making them for eighteen years,' she said. 'Used to put raisins in them, but had to quit.' She rolled her eyes up at him as if the rest of the story was just too scandalous.
'Why?' he asked, because he felt compelled.
'Gave 'em gas. Sometimes every sound can be heard in the courtroom. Know what I mean?'
'I guess.'
'Coffee?'
'I can get my own.'
'Fine then.' She whirled around and pointed to a stack of papers in the center of the long table. 'There's a list of instructions from Judge Harkin. He wants every juror to take one, read it carefully, and sign at the bottom. I'll collect them later.'
'Thanks.'
'I'll be in the hall by the door if you need me. That's where I stay. They're gonna put a damned deputy with me for this one, can you believe it? Just makes me sick. Probably some clod who can't hit a barn with a shotgun. But anyway, I guess this is about the biggest one we've ever had. Civil, that is. You wouldn't believe some of the criminal ones we've had.' She took the doorknob and yanked it toward her. 'I'm out here, dear, if you need me.'
The door closed, and Nicholas gazed at the muffin. Slowly, he took a small bite. It was mostly bran and sugar, and he thought for a second about the sounds in the courtroom. He tossed it in the wastebasket and poured black coffee into a plastic cup. The plastic cups would have to go. If they planned for him to camp here for four to six weeks, then they'd have to provide real cups. And if the county could afford pretty doughnuts, then it could certainly afford bagels and croissants.
There was no decaf coffee. He made a note of this. And no hot water for tea, just in case some of his new friends weren't coffee drinkers. Lunch had better be good. He would not eat tuna salad for the next six weeks.
Twelve chairs were arranged neatly around the table, which was in the center of the room. The thick layer of dust he had noticed three weeks ago had been removed; the place was much tidier, and ready for use. On one wall was a large blackboard, with erasers and fresh chalk. Across the table, on the opposite wall, three large windows, from floor to ceiling, looked upon the courthouse lawn, still green and fresh though summer had ended over a month ago. Nicholas looked through a window and watched the foot traffic on the sidewalks.
The latest from Judge Harkin was a list of a few things to do, and many to avoid: Get organized. Elect a foreman, and if you are unable to do so, notify His Honor and he will be happy to select one. Wear the red-and-white Juror buttons at all times. Lou Dell would dispense these. Bring something to read during down-times. Do not hesitate to ask for anything. Do not discuss the case among yourselves until you are instructed to do so by His Honor. Do not discuss the case with anyone, period. Do not leave the courthouse without permission. Do not use the telephones without permission. Lunch will be catered and eaten in the jury room. A daily menu will be provided each day before the trial resumes at nine. Notify the court immediately if you or anyone you know is in any way contacted with regard to your involvement in this trial. Notify the court immediately if you see or hear or notice anything suspicious which may or may not be related to your service as a juror in this case.
Odd directions, these last two. But Nicholas knew the details of a tobacco trial in east Texas, a trial which blew up after only one week when it was discovered that mysterious agents were slinking through the small town and offering huge sums of money to relatives of jurors. The agents disappeared before they were caught, and it was never learned which side they worked for, though both made heated accusations. Cooler heads laid heavy odds that it was the work of the tobacco boys. The jury appeared to have a strong sympathy bent to it, and the defense was delighted when the mistrial was declared.
Though there was no way to prove it, Nicholas was certain Rankin Fitch was the phantom behind the payoffs. And he knew Fitch would quickly go to work on his new set of friends.
He signed the bottom of the sheet and left it on the table. There were voices in the hallway, and Lou Dell was meeting another juror. The door opened with a kick and a thud, and Mr. Herman Grimes entered first with his walking stick tapping along in front of him. His wife was close behind, not touching him but instantly inspecting the room and describing it under her breath. 'Long room, twenty-five by fifteen, length in front of you, width from left to right, long table running lengthwise in center with chairs around it, nearest chair to you is eight feet.' He froze as he gathered this in, his head moving in whatever direction she was describing. Behind her, Lou Dell stood in the doorway with hands on hips and just dying to feed the blind man a muffin.
Nicholas took a few steps and introduced himself. He grabbed Herman's outstretched hand and they exchanged pleasantries. He said hello to Mrs. Grimes, then led Herman to the food and coffee where he poured him a cup and stirred in sugar and cream. He described the doughnuts and the muffins, a preemptive strike against Lou Dell, who lingered near the door. Herman was not hungry.
'My favorite uncle is blind,' Nicholas said for the benefit of all three. 'I'd consider it an honor if you'd allow me to assist you during the trial.'
'I'm perfectly capable of handling myself,' Herman said with a trace of indignation, but his wife couldn't conceal a warm smile. Then she winked and nodded.
'I'm sure you are,' Nicholas said. 'But I know there are lots of little things. I just want to help.'
'Thank you,' he said after a brief pause.
'Thank you, sir,' his wife said.
'I'll be outside in the hallway if you need anything,' Lou Dell said.
'What time should I come get him?' Mrs. Grimes asked.
'Five. If sooner, I'll call.' Lou Dell was closing the door as she rattled off instructions.
Herman's eyes were covered with dark glasses. His hair was brown, thick, well greased, and barely yielding to gray.
'There's a bit of paperwork,' Nicholas said when they were alone. 'Take a seat there in front of you and I'll go over it.' Herman felt the table, set down his coffee, then groped for a chair. He outlined it with his fingertips, got his bearings, and sat down. Nicholas took an instruction sheet and began reading.
After spending fortunes on the selection, the opinions came cheap. Everybody had one. The experts for the defense congratulated themselves on picking such a fine jury, though most of the puffing and posturing was done for the benefit of the legion of lawyers working round the clock. Durr Cable had seen worse juries, but he'd seen much friendlier ones too. He'd also learned many years ago that it was virtually impossible to predict what any jury would do. Fitch was happy, or as happy as he could allow himself, though that didn't stop his bitching and snarling about everything. Four smokers were on the jury. Fitch clung to the unspoken belief that the Gulf Coast, with its topless joints and casinos and proximity to New Orleans, was not a bad place to be right now because of its tolerance for vice.
On the other side of the street, Wendall Rohr and his trial counsel declared themselves satisfied with the composition of the jury. They were especially delighted with the unexpected addition of Mr. Herman Grimes, the first blind juror in the history of anyone's memory. Mr. Grimes had insisted on being evaluated just the same as those 'with sight,' and had threatened legal action if treated differently. His hair-trigger reliance on lawsuits greatly warmed the hearts of Rohr and company, and his handicap was a plaintiff's lawyer's dream. The defense had objected on all imaginable grounds, including the inability to see the forthcoming exhibits. Judge Harkin had allowed the lawyers to quietly quiz Mr. Grimes about this, and he assured them he could see the exhibits if the exhibits could be sufficiently described in writing. His Honor then decided that a separate court reporter would be used to type descriptions of the exhibits. A disc could then be fed into Mr. Grimes' braille computer, and he could read at night. This made Mr. Grimes very happy, and he quit talking about discrimination suits. The defense softened a bit, especially when it learned that he had once smoked for many years and had no problems being around people who continued the habit.
So, both sides were cautiously pleased with their jury. No radicals had been seated. No bad attitudes had been detected. All twelve had high school diplomas, two had college degrees, and another three had accumulated credits. Easter's written answers admitted completion of high school, but his college studies were still a mystery.
And as both sides prepared for the first full day of real trial activities, they quietly pondered the great question, the one they loved to guess about. As they looked at the seating charts and studied the faces for the millionth time, they asked over and over, 'Who will be the leader?'
Every jury has a leader, and that's where you find your verdict. Will he emerge quickly? Or will she lie back and take charge during deliberations? Not even the jurors knew at this point.
At ten sharp, Judge Harkin studied the packed courtroom and decided everyone was in place. He pecked his gavel lightly and the whispers ceased. Everyone was ready. He nodded at Pete, his ancient bailiff in a faded brown uniform, and said simply, 'Bring in the jury.' All eyes watched the door beside the jury box. Lou Dell appeared first, leading her flock like a mother hen, then the chosen twelve filed in and went to their assigned seats. The three alternates took their positions in folding chairs. After a moment of settling in - adjusting seat cushions and hem lengths and placing purses and paperbacks on the floor - the jurors grew still and of course noticed that they were being gawked at.
'Good morning,' His Honor said with a loud voice and a large smile. Most of them nodded back.
'I trust you've found the jury room and gotten yourselves organized.' A pause, as he lifted for some reason the fifteen signed forms Lou Dell had dispensed then collected. 'Do we have a foreman?' he asked.
The twelve nodded in unison.
'Good. Who is it?'
'It's me, Your Honor,' Herman Grimes said from the first row, and for a quick second the defense, all its lawyers and jury consultants and corporate representatives, suffered a collective chest pain. Then they breathed, slowly, but never allowing the slightest indication that they had anything but the greatest love and affection for the blind juror who was now the foreman. Perhaps the other eleven just felt sorry for the old boy.
'Very well,' His Honor said, relieved that his jury was able to reach this routine selection without apparent acrimony. He'd seen much worse. One jury, half white and half black, had been unable to elect a foreman. They later brawled over the lunch menu.
'I trust you've read my written instructions,' he continued, then launched into a detailed lecture in which he repeated twice everything he'd already put in print.
Nicholas Easter sat on the front row, second seat from the left. He froze his face into a mask of noncommitment, and as Harkin droned on he began to take in the rest of the players. With little movement of the head, he cut his eyes around the courtroom. The lawyers, packed around their tables like vultures ready to pounce on roadkill, were, without exception, staring unabashedly at the jurors. Surely they'd tire of this, and soon.
On the second row behind the defense sat Rankin Fitch, his fat face and sinister goatee looking straight into the shoulders of the man in front of him. He was trying to ignore Harkin's admonitions and pretending to be wholly unconcerned about the jury, but Nicholas knew better. Fitch missed nothing.
Fourteen months earlier, Nicholas had seen him in the Cimmino courtroom in Allentown, Pennsylvania, looking then much the same as he looked now - thick and shadowy. And he'd seen him on the sidewalk outside the courthouse in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, during the Glavine trial. Two sightings of Fitch were enough. Nicholas knew that Fitch now knew that he'd never attended college at North Texas State. He knew Fitch was more concerned about him than about any of the other jurors, and with very good reason.
Behind Fitch were two rows of suits, sharply dressed clones with scowling faces, and Nicholas knew these to be the worried boys from Wall Street. According to the morning paper, the market had chosen not to react to the jury's composition. Pynex was holding steady at eighty bucks a share. He couldn't help but smile. If he suddenly jumped to his feet and shouted, 'I think the plaintiff should get millions!' the suits would bolt for the door and Pynex would drop ten points by lunch.
The other three - Trellco, Smith Greer, and ConPack - were also trading evenly.
On the front rows were little pockets of distressed souls who Nicholas was certain had to be the jury experts. Now that the selecting was done, they moved to the next phase - the watching. It fell to their miserable lot to hear every word of every witness and predict how the jury absorbed the testimony. The strategy was that if a particular witness made a feeble or even damaging impression on the jury, then he or she could be yanked off the stand and sent home. Perhaps another, stronger witness could then be used to repair the damage. Nicholas wasn't sure about this. He'd read a lot about jury consultants, even attended a seminar in St. Louis where trial lawyers told war stories about big verdicts, but he still wasn't convinced these 'cutting edge' experts were little more than con artists.
They claimed to evaluate jurors just by watching their bodily reactions, however slight, to what was said. Nicholas managed another smile. What if he stuck his finger up his nose and left it there for five minutes? How would that little expression of body language be interpreted?
--This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.From the Publisher
From the Inside Flap
Product details
- ASIN : B003IDMUXG
- Publisher : Cornerstone Digital; 1st edition (20 April 2010)
- Language : English
- File size : 2909 KB
- Text-to-Speech : Enabled
- Screen Reader : Supported
- Enhanced typesetting : Enabled
- X-Ray : Enabled
- Word Wise : Enabled
- Print length : 498 pages
- Best Sellers Rank: 7,326 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)
- 14 in U.S. Short Stories
- 110 in Legal Thrillers (Kindle Store)
- 198 in Legal Thrillers (Books)
- Customer reviews:
About the author

Long before his name became synonymous with the modern legal thriller, he was working 60-70 hours a week at a small Southaven, Mississippi, law practice, squeezing in time before going to the office and during courtroom recesses to work on his hobby—writing his first novel.
Born on February 8, 1955 in Jonesboro, Arkansas, to a construction worker and a homemaker, John Grisham as a child dreamed of being a professional baseball player. Realizing he didn’t have the right stuff for a pro career, he shifted gears and majored in accounting at Mississippi State University. After graduating from law school at Ole Miss in 1981, he went on to practice law for nearly a decade in Southaven, specializing in criminal defense and personal injury litigation. In 1983, he was elected to the state House of Representatives and served until 1990.
One day at the DeSoto County courthouse, Grisham overheard the harrowing testimony of a twelve-year-old rape victim and was inspired to start a novel exploring what would have happened if the girl’s father had murdered her assailants. Getting up at 5 a.m. every day to get in several hours of writing time before heading off to work, Grisham spent three years on A Time to Kill and finished it in 1987. Initially rejected by many publishers, it was eventually bought by Wynwood Press, who gave it a modest 5,000 copy printing and published it in June 1988.
That might have put an end to Grisham’s hobby. However, he had already begun his next book, and it would quickly turn that hobby into a new full-time career—and spark one of publishing’s greatest success stories. The day after Grisham completed A Time to Kill, he began work on another novel, the story of a hotshot young attorney lured to an apparently perfect law firm that was not what it appeared. When he sold the film rights to The Firm to Paramount Pictures for $600,000, Grisham suddenly became a hot property among publishers, and book rights were bought by Doubleday. Spending 47 weeks on The New York Times bestseller list, The Firm became the bestselling novel of 1991.
The successes of The Pelican Brief, which hit number one on the New York Times bestseller list, and The Client, which debuted at number one, confirmed Grisham’s reputation as the master of the legal thriller. Grisham’s success even renewed interest in A Time to Kill, which was republished in hardcover by Doubleday and then in paperback by Dell. This time around, it was a bestseller.
Since first publishing A Time to Kill in 1988, Grisham has written at least one book a year (his other works are The Firm, The Pelican Brief, The Client, The Chamber, The Rainmaker, The Runaway Jury, The Partner, The Street Lawyer, The Testament, The Brethren, A Painted House, Skipping Christmas, The Summons, The King of Torts, Bleachers, The Last Juror, The Broker, Playing for Pizza, The Appeal, The Associate, The Confession, The Litigators, Calico Joe, The Racketeer, Sycamore Row, Gray Mountain, Rogue Lawyer, The Whistler, Camino Island, The Rooster Bar, The Reckoning, and The Guardians) and all of them have become international bestsellers. There are currently more than 350 million John Grisham books in print worldwide, which have been translated into 45 languages. Nine of his novels have been turned into films (The Firm, The Pelican Brief, The Client, A Time to Kill, The Rainmaker, The Chamber, A Painted House, The Runaway Jury, and Skipping Christmas), as was an original screenplay, The Gingerbread Man. The Innocent Man (October 2006) marked his first foray into non-fiction, and Ford County (November 2009) was his first short story collection. In addition, Grisham has written seven novels for young adults, all in the Theodore Boone series: Kid Lawyer, The Abduction, The Accused, The Activist, The Fugitive, The Scandal, and The Accomplice.
Grisham took time off from writing for several months in 1996 to return, after a five-year hiatus, to the courtroom. He was honoring a commitment made before he had retired from the law to become a full-time writer: representing the family of a railroad brakeman killed when he was pinned between two cars. Preparing his case with the same passion and dedication as his books’ protagonists, Grisham successfully argued his clients’ case, earning them a jury award of $683,500—the biggest verdict of his career.
When he’s not writing, Grisham devotes time to charitable causes, including most recently his Rebuild The Coast Fund, which raised 8.8 million dollars for Gulf Coast relief in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. He also keeps up with his greatest passion: baseball. The man who dreamed of being a professional baseball player now serves as the local Little League commissioner. The six ballfields he built on his property have played host to over 350 kids on 26 Little League teams.
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A conglomerate of giant Tobacco Manufacturers is determined that one of their number, being sued for damages by a middle-aged woman, widowed, she claims, through her late husband’s lethal tobacco addiction, is found ‘not guilty’ - otherwise they all fall together. Thus the stakes are not only higher than usual, but readily available, and liberally provided.
Notwithstanding Judge Hardin’s daily reminders of the jury’s obligations to talk to no one about the trial, several of them are being subjected to some form of blackmail or bribery. Where money is no object, and in the belief that “every man has his price”, finding weak points and playing on them, is a walkover.
However, not all interested parties are without opposing ambitions. Some cannot be bought, and some are cunning enough and manipulative enough to stay one step ahead of our known villains.
On the prosecution you have wendall rohr, on the defence durwood cable who is being directed by a ruthless consultant rankin fitch.
What they don't know is there are two players looking to coax the jury to swing the verdict, who are they and why are they doing this and which way will the case go.