"Why isn't it true?"
"Because the issue is addiction, and the addict cannot make choices. And kids become addicted much quicker than adults."
Rohr for once avoided the natural lawyerly compulsion of overkill. Robilio was efficient with words, and the strain of being clear and being heard tired him after an hour and a half. Rohr tendered him to Cable for cross-examination, and Judge Harkin, who needed coffee, called a recess.
Hoppy Dupree made his first visit to the trial Monday morning, slipping into the courtroom midway through Robilio's testimony. Millie caught his eye during a lull, and was thrilled he would stop by. His sudden interest in the trial was odd, though. He'd talked of nothing else for four hours last night.
After a twenty-minute coffee break, Cable stepped to the lectern and tore into Robilio. His tone was strident, almost mean, as if he viewed the witness as a traitor to the cause, a turncoat. Cable scored immediately with the revelation that Robilio was being paid to testify, and that he had sought out the plaintiff's lawyers. He was also on retainer in two other tobacco cases.
"Yes, I'm being paid to be here, Mr. Cable, same as you," Robilio said, delivering the typical expert's response. But the stain of money slightly tainted his character.
Cable got him to confess that he started smoking when he was almost twenty-five, married, with two children, hardly a teenager who could've been seduced by slick work from Madison Avenue. Robilio had a temper, a fact proven to all the lawyers during a two-day marathon deposition five months earlier, and Cable was determined to exploit it. His questions were sharp, rapid, and designed to provoke.
"How many children do you have?" Cable asked.
"Three."
"Did any of them ever smoke cigarettes regularly?"
"Yes."
"How many?"
"Three."
"How old were they when they started?"
"It varies."
"On the average?"
"Late teens."
"Which ads do you blame for getting them hooked on cigarettes?"
"I don't recall exactly."
"You can't tell the jury which ads were responsible for getting your own kids hooked on cigarettes?"
"There were so many ads. Still are. It would be impossible to pinpoint one or two or five that worked."
"So it was the ads?"
"I'm sure the ads were effective. Still are."
"So it was somebody else's fault?"
"I didn't encourage their smoking."
"Are you sure? You're telling this jury that your own children, the children of a man whose job for twenty years was to encourage the world to smoke, began smoking because of slick advertising?"
"I'm sure the ads helped. They were designed to."
"Did you smoke in the home, in front of your children?"
"Yes."
"Did your wife?"
"Yes."
"Did you ever tell a guest he couldn't smoke in your home?"
"No. Not then."
"Safe to say, then, that the environment of your home was smoker friendly?"
"Yes. Then."
"But your children started smoking because of devious advertising? Is that what you're telling this jury?"
Robilio took a deep breath, counted slowly to five, then said, "I wish I'd done a lot of things differently, Mr. Cable. I wish I'd never picked up the first cigarette."
"Did your children stop smoking?"
"Two of them did. With great difficulty. The third has been trying to quit for ten years now."
Cable had asked the last question on an impulse, and wished for a second he hadn't. Time to move on. He shifted gears. "Mr. Robilio, are you aware of efforts by the tobacco industry to curb teenage smoking?"
Robilio chuckled, which sounded like a gargle when amplified through his little mike. "No serious efforts," he said.
"Forty million dollars last year to Smoke Free Kids?"
"Sounds like something they'd do. Makes 'em seem warm and fuzzy, doesn't it?"
"Are you aware that the industry is on record supporting legislation to restrict vending machines in areas where kids congregate?"
"I think I've heard of that. Sounds lovely, doesn't it?"
"Are you aware that the industry last year gave ten million dollars to California for a statewide kindergarten program designed to warn youngsters about underage smoking?"
"No. What about overage smoking? Did they tell the little fellas that it was okay to smoke after their eighteenth birthdays? Probably did."
Cable had a checklist, and seemed content to fire off the questions while ignoring the answers.
"Are you aware that the industry supports a bill in Texas to ban smoking in all fast-food establishments, places frequented by teenagers?"
"Yeah, and do you know why they do things like that? I'll tell you why. So they can hire people like you to tell jurors like these about it. That's the only reason-it sounds good in court."
"Are you aware that the industry is on record supporting legislation which imposes criminal penalties against convenience stores which sell tobacco products to minors?"
"Yeah, I think I heard that one too. It's window dressing. They'll drop a few bucks here and there to preen and posture and buy respectability. They'll do this because they know the truth, and the truth is that two billion dollars a year in advertising will guarantee addiction by the next generation. And you're a fool if you don't believe this."
Judge Harkin leaned forward. "Mr. Robilio, that is uncalled for. Don't do it again. I want it stricken from the record."
"Sorry, Your Honor. And sorry to you, Mr. Cable. You're just doing your job. It's your client I can't stand."
Cable was thrown off track. He offered up a lame "Why?" and wished immediately he'd kept his mouth shut.
"Because they're so devious. These tobacco people are bright, intelligent, educated, ruthless, and they'll look you in the face and tell you with all sincerity that cigarettes are not addictive. And they know it's a lie."
"No further questions," Cable said, halfway to his table.
GARDNER WAS A TOWN of eighteen thousand an hour from Lubbock. Pamela Blanchard lived in the old section of town, two blocks off Main Street in a house built at the turn of the century and nicely renovated. Brilliant red and gold maple trees covered the front lawn. Children roamed the street on bikes and skateboards.
By ten Monday, Fitch knew the following: She was married to the president of a local bank, a man who'd been married once before and whose wife had died ten years ago. He was not the father of Nicholas Easter or Jeff or whoever the hell he was. The bank had almost collapsed during the oil bust of the early eighties, and many locals were still afraid to use it. Pamela's husband was a native of the town. She was not. She may have come from Lubbock, or maybe it was Amarillo. They got married in Mexico eight years ago, and the local weekly barely recorded it. No wedding picture. Just an announcement next to the obituaries that N. Forrest Blanchard, Jr., had married Pamela Kerr. After a brief honeymoon in Cozumel, they would reside in Gardner.
The best source in town was a private investigator named Rafe who'd been a cop for twenty years and claimed to know everyone. Rafe, after being paid a sizable retainer in cash, worked without sleep Sunday night. No sleep, but plenty of bourbon, and by dawn he reeked of sour mash. Dante and Joe Boy worked beside him, in his grungy office on Main, and repeatedly declined the whiskey.