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The Runaway Jury マスマーケット – インターナショナル・エディション, 1997/1/27
英語版
John Grisham
(著)
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He has waited for this moment.
He has planned his every move.
He has made it onto the jury in the most explosive trial of the century.
Now the verdict belongs to him. . . .
They are at the center of a multimillion dollar legal hurricane: twelve men and women who have been investigated, watched, manipulated, and harassed by high-priced lawyers and consultants who will stop at nothing to secure a verdict. Now that the jury must make a decision in the most explosive trial of the century, a precedent-setting lawsuit against a giant tobacco company. But only a handful of people know the truth: that this jury has a leader, and the verdict belongs to him...
He is known only as Juror #2. But he has a name, a past, and he has planned his every move with the help of a beautiful woman on the outside. Now, while a corporate empire hands in the balance, while a grieving family waits, and while lawyers are plunged into a battle for their careers, the truth about Juror #2 is about to explode, in a cross fire of greed and corruption--and with justice fighting for its life...
He has planned his every move.
He has made it onto the jury in the most explosive trial of the century.
Now the verdict belongs to him. . . .
They are at the center of a multimillion dollar legal hurricane: twelve men and women who have been investigated, watched, manipulated, and harassed by high-priced lawyers and consultants who will stop at nothing to secure a verdict. Now that the jury must make a decision in the most explosive trial of the century, a precedent-setting lawsuit against a giant tobacco company. But only a handful of people know the truth: that this jury has a leader, and the verdict belongs to him...
He is known only as Juror #2. But he has a name, a past, and he has planned his every move with the help of a beautiful woman on the outside. Now, while a corporate empire hands in the balance, while a grieving family waits, and while lawyers are plunged into a battle for their careers, the truth about Juror #2 is about to explode, in a cross fire of greed and corruption--and with justice fighting for its life...
- 本の長さ560ページ
- 言語英語
- 出版社Dell
- 発売日1997/1/27
- 寸法10.62 x 2.97 x 17.53 cm
- ISBN-100440221471
- ISBN-13978-0440221470
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"Marvelous!" --News-Tribune (Phoenix, Ariz.)
"Gripping." --The Seattle Times
"Marvelously Clever." --USA Today
"Entertainingly unpredictable!" --The New York Times
"Fascinating. . .high--powered narration." --Chicago Tribune
"His most rewarding novel to date." --Publishers Weekly
"A real page--turner!" --The Houston Chronicle
"Deserves to be a runaway success." --The Atlanta Journal and Constitution
"Ingeniously narrated." --Entertainment Weekly
レビュー
"Marvelous!"—News-Tribune, Phoenix, Arizona
"Gripping."—Seattle Times
"Marvelously Clever."—USA Today
"Entertainingly unpredictable!"—The New York Times
"Fascinating. . .high--powered narration."—Chicago Tribune
"His most rewarding novel to date."—Publishers Weekly
"A real page--turner!"—Houston Chronicle
"Deserves to be a runaway success."—Atlanta Journal and Constitution
"Ingeniously narrated."—Entertainment Weekly
"Gripping."—Seattle Times
"Marvelously Clever."—USA Today
"Entertainingly unpredictable!"—The New York Times
"Fascinating. . .high--powered narration."—Chicago Tribune
"His most rewarding novel to date."—Publishers Weekly
"A real page--turner!"—Houston Chronicle
"Deserves to be a runaway success."—Atlanta Journal and Constitution
"Ingeniously narrated."—Entertainment Weekly
抜粋
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 tag 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.
Carl pushed his button and the VW was replaced with a meaningless shot of an apartment building with peeling paint; home, somewhere in there, of Nicholas Easter. Then a flick, and back to the face.
"And so we have only the three photos of number fifty-six," Carl said with a note of frustration as he turned and glared at the photographer, one of his countless private snoops, who had explained he just couldn't catch the kid without getting caught himself. The photographer sat in a chair against the back wall, facing the long table of lawyers and paralegals and jury experts. The photographer was quite bored and ready to bolt. It was seven o'clock on a Friday night. Number fifty-six was on the wall, leaving a hundred and forty still to come. The weekend would be awful. He needed a drink.
A half-dozen lawyers in rumpled shirts and rolled-up sleeves scribbled never-ending notes, and glanced occasionally at the face of Nicholas Easter up there behind Carl. Jury experts of almost every variety--psychiatrist, sociologist, handwriting analyst, law professor, and so on--shuffled papers and thumped the inch-thick computer printouts. They weren't sure what to do with Easter. He was a liar, and he was hiding his past, but still on paper and on the wall he looked okay.
Maybe he wasn't lying. Maybe he was a student last year in some low-rent junior college in eastern Arizona, and maybe they were simply missing this.
Give the kid a break, the photographer thought, but he kept it to himself. In this room of well-educated and well-paid suits, he was the last one whose opinion would be appreciated. Wasn't his job to say a word.
Carl cleared his throat while glancing once more at the photographer, then said, "Number fifty-seven." The sweaty face of a young mother flashed on the wall, and at least two people in the room managed a chuckle. "Traci Wilkes," Carl said, as if Traci was now an old friend. Papers moved slightly around the table.
"Age thirty-three, married, mother of two, doctor's wife, two country clubs, two health clubs, a whole list of social clubs." Carl clicked off these items from memory while twirling his projector button. Traci's red face was replaced by a shot of her jogging along a sidewalk, splendidly awash in pink and black spandex and spotless Reeboks with a white sun visor sitting just above the latest in reflective sport sunglasses, her long hair in a cute perfect ponytail. She was pushing a jogging carriage with a small baby in it. Traci lived for sweat. She was tanned and fit, but not exactly as thin as might be expected. She had a few bad habits. Another shot of Traci in her black Mercedes wagon with kids and dogs looking from every window. Another of Traci loading bags of groceries into the same car, Traci with different sneakers and tight shorts and the precise appearance of one who aspired to look forever athletic. She'd been easy to follow because she was busy to the point of being frazzled, and she never stopped long enough to look around.
Carl ran through the photos of the Wilkeses' home, a massive suburban trilevel with Doctor stamped all over it. He spent little time with these, saving the best for last. Then there was Traci, once again soaked with sweat, her designer bike nearby on the grass, sitting under a tree in a park, far away from everyone, half-hidden and--smoking a cigarette!
The same photographer grinned stupidly. It was his finest work, this hundred-yard shot of the doctor'...
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 tag 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.
Carl pushed his button and the VW was replaced with a meaningless shot of an apartment building with peeling paint; home, somewhere in there, of Nicholas Easter. Then a flick, and back to the face.
"And so we have only the three photos of number fifty-six," Carl said with a note of frustration as he turned and glared at the photographer, one of his countless private snoops, who had explained he just couldn't catch the kid without getting caught himself. The photographer sat in a chair against the back wall, facing the long table of lawyers and paralegals and jury experts. The photographer was quite bored and ready to bolt. It was seven o'clock on a Friday night. Number fifty-six was on the wall, leaving a hundred and forty still to come. The weekend would be awful. He needed a drink.
A half-dozen lawyers in rumpled shirts and rolled-up sleeves scribbled never-ending notes, and glanced occasionally at the face of Nicholas Easter up there behind Carl. Jury experts of almost every variety--psychiatrist, sociologist, handwriting analyst, law professor, and so on--shuffled papers and thumped the inch-thick computer printouts. They weren't sure what to do with Easter. He was a liar, and he was hiding his past, but still on paper and on the wall he looked okay.
Maybe he wasn't lying. Maybe he was a student last year in some low-rent junior college in eastern Arizona, and maybe they were simply missing this.
Give the kid a break, the photographer thought, but he kept it to himself. In this room of well-educated and well-paid suits, he was the last one whose opinion would be appreciated. Wasn't his job to say a word.
Carl cleared his throat while glancing once more at the photographer, then said, "Number fifty-seven." The sweaty face of a young mother flashed on the wall, and at least two people in the room managed a chuckle. "Traci Wilkes," Carl said, as if Traci was now an old friend. Papers moved slightly around the table.
"Age thirty-three, married, mother of two, doctor's wife, two country clubs, two health clubs, a whole list of social clubs." Carl clicked off these items from memory while twirling his projector button. Traci's red face was replaced by a shot of her jogging along a sidewalk, splendidly awash in pink and black spandex and spotless Reeboks with a white sun visor sitting just above the latest in reflective sport sunglasses, her long hair in a cute perfect ponytail. She was pushing a jogging carriage with a small baby in it. Traci lived for sweat. She was tanned and fit, but not exactly as thin as might be expected. She had a few bad habits. Another shot of Traci in her black Mercedes wagon with kids and dogs looking from every window. Another of Traci loading bags of groceries into the same car, Traci with different sneakers and tight shorts and the precise appearance of one who aspired to look forever athletic. She'd been easy to follow because she was busy to the point of being frazzled, and she never stopped long enough to look around.
Carl ran through the photos of the Wilkeses' home, a massive suburban trilevel with Doctor stamped all over it. He spent little time with these, saving the best for last. Then there was Traci, once again soaked with sweat, her designer bike nearby on the grass, sitting under a tree in a park, far away from everyone, half-hidden and--smoking a cigarette!
The same photographer grinned stupidly. It was his finest work, this hundred-yard shot of the doctor'...
著者について
Born on February 8, 1955 in Jonesboro, Arkansas, John Grisham dreamed of being a professional baseball player. Realizing he didn't have the right stuff, he shifted gears and majored in accounting at Mississippi State University. He practiced law for nearly a decade in Southaven and served in the state House of Representatives until 1990. Inspired by the actual testimony in a rape case, Grisham got up at 5 a.m. every day to get in several hours of writing time before heading off to work. He spent three years on A Time to Kill; it was eventually bought by Wynwood press, who gave it a modest 5,000 copy printing and published it in June 1988. 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. Spending 47 weeks on The New York Times bestseller list, The Firm became the bestselling novel of 1991. Grisham lives with his wife and their two children. The family splits their time between their Victorian home on a farm in Mississippi and a plantation near Charlottesville, VA. When he's not writing, Grisham devotes time to charitable causes. 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.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
登録情報
- 出版社 : Dell (1997/1/27)
- 発売日 : 1997/1/27
- 言語 : 英語
- マスマーケット : 560ページ
- ISBN-10 : 0440221471
- ISBN-13 : 978-0440221470
- 寸法 : 10.62 x 2.97 x 17.53 cm
- Amazon 売れ筋ランキング: - 416,189位洋書 (洋書の売れ筋ランキングを見る)
- - 5,604位Suspense Thrillers
- - 93,596位Literature & Fiction (洋書)
- カスタマーレビュー:
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上位レビュー、対象国: 日本
レビューのフィルタリング中に問題が発生しました。後でもう一度試してください。
2013年11月30日に日本でレビュー済み
Amazonで購入
喫煙が原因で死亡した夫の残された妻が原告となり、煙草メーカーを相手取り訴訟するという内容である。 原告である妻の描写は殆どない、というより必要がない。 これは、懲罰的な賠償を求め、その40%を手にする原告弁護団と、其れをあらゆる手を使って阻止しようとする被告弁護団の、表裏入り乱れた壮絶な神経戦、違法な手段も辞さない戦いを描いている。 スマートに被告弁護団から莫大なお金をせしめ、其れを元手に稼ぎ、せしめたお金を返すという、スマートの上にもスマートな男女。 日本の刑事事件の陪審制度レベルの知識で読むと、目を白黒させることになる。 米国の民事訴訟の陪審制度の実態はどのようなものなのか、本当を知りたくもなる。 色々な興味を書きたてつつ、一気に読み終えることとなる、いつもながらのグリシャムの本です。 是非一読を。
2020年12月25日に日本でレビュー済み
John Grishamの小説をこうして幾冊か読んでいると、弁護士が主人公だし、裁判を取り扱っているものが多いにもかかわらず、法律の条文がほとんど出てこないことに気づく。確かに法律の条文は、一見無味乾燥に見えるし、法律を勉強したことのないものにとっては、何を言っているのかよく分からない。もちろんGrishamは弁護士なのだし、法律もよく知っているのだろうから、読者を混乱させたり、興味を失わせることを恐れているのだろう。
米国のTort(不法行為法)は、故意の不法行為、過失の不法行為、そして無過失の不法行為(厳格責任)の3つのカテゴリーに分けられているようだ。ところが日本の場合には、最後の無過失の不法行為は、製造物責任法など特別法を別として採用されていないらしい。ところで民法の第三編債権の第五章「不法行為」には、たった16しか条文がないのだが、立派な本が一冊できあがるほど重要な章である。例えば刑事では軽微な罰しか与えられなくとも、民事で多額の阻害賠償責任を負わせる場合には、この不法行為法は重要な役割を果たす。ほかの日常のさまざまな場面にかかわってくるので、これほど重要な法律はないかもしれない。
登場人物が多く、また一人の人物が偽名を使ったりするので、それもいろいろな立場の人物が行なうのだ、なかなかその整理がたいへんだった。また途中で不動産をめぐる事件があったりして、やや冗長な面があるのも否めない。でも発想の面白さ、二人組の男女が複数回陪審員になるなんて、とても考えられないのだが、Grishamはやってしまうのである。陪審員制度は刑事裁判だけに適用されるのかと思っていたのだが、民事裁判にも適用され、また原告、被告の弁護士が陪審員を選ぶことをはじめて知った。そして損害賠償額まで決定できる権限があることは、驚きであった。日本でこの制度を導入したら、どんなことが起きるだろうか。
事件は簡単で、肺がんのために夫を失った女性がビッグ4と呼ばれるたばこメーカーを訴える裁判を描いたものである。法廷内外の原告、被告の弁護団が繰り広げる駆け引き、陪審員12人のメンバーの感情の動き、そして陪審員のそれぞれの過去、やや中だるみはあっても、展開の面白さはさすがGrishamの自家薬籠中のものである。評決の発表の場面も、え、これだけ、と思わせておきながら、次ページにどんでん返しが控えているという念の入れようである。
さて最後に、登場人物の女性がニュー・ヨーク証券取引所に上場するビッグ4の株式を空売りする場面が出てくる。空売りは手慣れて洗練された投資家が使う取引手法だと紹介されている。ビッグ4の株式が下落すれば、この女性は利益を得られるのだが、評決はどのような結果なのか、そして株式はどちらへ動くのか、この場面もなかなか捨てがたい、もう少し詳しく描いてもおもしろかったのではないかな、と思う。
米国のTort(不法行為法)は、故意の不法行為、過失の不法行為、そして無過失の不法行為(厳格責任)の3つのカテゴリーに分けられているようだ。ところが日本の場合には、最後の無過失の不法行為は、製造物責任法など特別法を別として採用されていないらしい。ところで民法の第三編債権の第五章「不法行為」には、たった16しか条文がないのだが、立派な本が一冊できあがるほど重要な章である。例えば刑事では軽微な罰しか与えられなくとも、民事で多額の阻害賠償責任を負わせる場合には、この不法行為法は重要な役割を果たす。ほかの日常のさまざまな場面にかかわってくるので、これほど重要な法律はないかもしれない。
登場人物が多く、また一人の人物が偽名を使ったりするので、それもいろいろな立場の人物が行なうのだ、なかなかその整理がたいへんだった。また途中で不動産をめぐる事件があったりして、やや冗長な面があるのも否めない。でも発想の面白さ、二人組の男女が複数回陪審員になるなんて、とても考えられないのだが、Grishamはやってしまうのである。陪審員制度は刑事裁判だけに適用されるのかと思っていたのだが、民事裁判にも適用され、また原告、被告の弁護士が陪審員を選ぶことをはじめて知った。そして損害賠償額まで決定できる権限があることは、驚きであった。日本でこの制度を導入したら、どんなことが起きるだろうか。
事件は簡単で、肺がんのために夫を失った女性がビッグ4と呼ばれるたばこメーカーを訴える裁判を描いたものである。法廷内外の原告、被告の弁護団が繰り広げる駆け引き、陪審員12人のメンバーの感情の動き、そして陪審員のそれぞれの過去、やや中だるみはあっても、展開の面白さはさすがGrishamの自家薬籠中のものである。評決の発表の場面も、え、これだけ、と思わせておきながら、次ページにどんでん返しが控えているという念の入れようである。
さて最後に、登場人物の女性がニュー・ヨーク証券取引所に上場するビッグ4の株式を空売りする場面が出てくる。空売りは手慣れて洗練された投資家が使う取引手法だと紹介されている。ビッグ4の株式が下落すれば、この女性は利益を得られるのだが、評決はどのような結果なのか、そして株式はどちらへ動くのか、この場面もなかなか捨てがたい、もう少し詳しく描いてもおもしろかったのではないかな、と思う。
2004年2月26日に日本でレビュー済み
Amazonで購入
本作品の主人公である陪審員12人の名前・キャラを覚えるのが結構大変だったりします。アレこの人はどんな人だったっけ?なんて行きつ戻りつ。注目のタバコ訴訟の陪審員選定からはじまる物語は他のグリシャム作品に比して出だしちょっと平板に感じる。そうは言ってもご心配には及びません。陪審員の一人としてもぐりこんだ主人公ニコラスとそのパートナー、原告・弁護両サイドのせめぎあいで後半はぐーんとヒートアップ。映画化もされてカバー写真にジーン・ハックマンとダスティン・ホフマンが見えますが読めばスグどっちがどの役をやるのかわかります。
90年代盛り上がったタバコ訴訟の基礎的な論点は全て網羅されている故に科学医学用語なんかも多用されますがグリシャム作品ですから読みやすい。映画「インサイダー」ばりの内部告発者も出てきたりして主人公陪審員の「活躍」ぶりもさることながら弁護側・原告側論証の組み立てがとっても面白かった。おすすめ。
90年代盛り上がったタバコ訴訟の基礎的な論点は全て網羅されている故に科学医学用語なんかも多用されますがグリシャム作品ですから読みやすい。映画「インサイダー」ばりの内部告発者も出てきたりして主人公陪審員の「活躍」ぶりもさることながら弁護側・原告側論証の組み立てがとっても面白かった。おすすめ。
2016年12月8日に日本でレビュー済み
とても面白く気づいたら本の後半部分になっていた、という感じでしたね。
2021年1月7日に日本でレビュー済み
法廷劇の最たるもので、悪だくみをする弁護士を用意周到にだまして、大金を巻き上げるストーリーです。ストーリーは面白いが、多くの人を操り騙し傷つけて大儲けするという、読後感の悪い小説と思いました。
2005年3月5日に日本でレビュー済み
Amazonで購入
喫煙に因る発癌と死亡。夫は数十年の喫煙が原因で亡くなったと未亡人が起こした或るタバコ訴訟をめぐる法廷推理小説。10余名の陪審員の様々な個性や暮らしと、原告被告双方の弁護団やタバコメーカーなどの思惑、企みが、次々と展開して読み手を飽きさせず、平易な表現と巧みな構成で、通勤電車の中などでの細切れ読書でも既読ページに戻る必要を感じさせない。シカゴの大手法律事務所の弁護士だった著者の法廷ものは、アメリカの法廷実務に関する「教科書」として日本からの駐在員に紹介されるほど具体的なシーンに溢れており、本書も600ページ近い分量を苦にさせないストーリーテリングの逸作。
2005年5月17日に日本でレビュー済み
Runaway Juryというタイトルなので「逃げた陪審員」かと思って読み始めたが、だれも逃げるわけではなく「暴走陪審員」のStoryでした。その事を終わりの方に作者が説明。陪審員制度がどのように機能するのか知識がなく読み始めた時はもうひとつ理解に苦しんだが、陪審員に参加した米人の話しを聞いたあとは理解しやすくなった。
200人からの陪審員候補をふるいにかけていき、最後に12人と補欠の3人にしぼり裁判がスタートする。告訴する側と被告との間でどちらが多くの陪審員の票をとるかの闘いが始まる。そこにJury Consultantが暗躍してのかけひきが展開。被告側ConsultantのボスFitchと陪審員としてもぐりこんだNicholasとペアを組む影の女性Marleeとの息詰る闘い。果たしてMarleeとは何者か?Fitchの必死の探索が始まる。
最後の株の先物を使ったどんでん返しは見事である。
200人からの陪審員候補をふるいにかけていき、最後に12人と補欠の3人にしぼり裁判がスタートする。告訴する側と被告との間でどちらが多くの陪審員の票をとるかの闘いが始まる。そこにJury Consultantが暗躍してのかけひきが展開。被告側ConsultantのボスFitchと陪審員としてもぐりこんだNicholasとペアを組む影の女性Marleeとの息詰る闘い。果たしてMarleeとは何者か?Fitchの必死の探索が始まる。
最後の株の先物を使ったどんでん返しは見事である。
2001年1月18日に日本でレビュー済み
“Runaway”を辞書で引くと、脱走・暴騰・楽勝といった意味が並んでいる。著者は、これらの意味をすべて込めたストーリーを巧みに創り上げてしまった。
喫煙による死はタバコおよびタバコ製造企業の責任であるとする原告と、被告とされたタバコ会社との死力を尽くした法廷での論争と、法廷外での虚々実々の駆け引き、陪審制度の詳しい紹介と実際を思わせる各陪審員の心理の展開、そして最後にあかされる大仕掛け、・・・
日本でも陪審制度・参審制度の導入が論議されているおり、格好の“参考書”にもなるのではないか。
喫煙による死はタバコおよびタバコ製造企業の責任であるとする原告と、被告とされたタバコ会社との死力を尽くした法廷での論争と、法廷外での虚々実々の駆け引き、陪審制度の詳しい紹介と実際を思わせる各陪審員の心理の展開、そして最後にあかされる大仕掛け、・・・
日本でも陪審制度・参審制度の導入が論議されているおり、格好の“参考書”にもなるのではないか。
他の国からのトップレビュー
Maria Cristina
5つ星のうち5.0
The Runaway Jury
2023年8月8日にメキシコでレビュー済みAmazonで購入
Excelente narrativa, los personajes muy bien estructurados. La historia no permite que uno quiera soltar el libro. Felicidades al autor.
Bob
5つ星のうち5.0
Smoke smoke smoke that cigarette
2022年7月4日にカナダでレビュー済みAmazonで購入
We learn in the Bible that young David needed only a stone and a crude slingshot to slay the draconic giant Goliath and, let’s face it, David pulled off a quite astonishing achievement.
But battling the big guy – someone like Big Tobacco say, has almost certainly got to present an entirely different set of challenges. For example, when challenged, they don’t come to the fight alone (they go for the whole strength in numbers thing), so knocking them down … well it just don’t come easy!
In a nutshell that’s the kind of battle we’re talking about here. This “David” is a widow who decides tobacco (at least those making and selling related products) should compensate her for the death of her late husband who, she concedes did have a lethal tobacco addiction.
Now having set the stage of battle I will tell you that Grisham has penned a masterpiece that features an excellent plot bolstered by excellent characters.
I was especially impressed by Grisham’s ability to craft a jury (a critical but often not well developed element) whose members were humane, common-sense individuals who wanted only to do the right thing.
But battling the big guy – someone like Big Tobacco say, has almost certainly got to present an entirely different set of challenges. For example, when challenged, they don’t come to the fight alone (they go for the whole strength in numbers thing), so knocking them down … well it just don’t come easy!
In a nutshell that’s the kind of battle we’re talking about here. This “David” is a widow who decides tobacco (at least those making and selling related products) should compensate her for the death of her late husband who, she concedes did have a lethal tobacco addiction.
Now having set the stage of battle I will tell you that Grisham has penned a masterpiece that features an excellent plot bolstered by excellent characters.
I was especially impressed by Grisham’s ability to craft a jury (a critical but often not well developed element) whose members were humane, common-sense individuals who wanted only to do the right thing.
Mr N Newman
5つ星のうち5.0
I was gripped … but hopefully not addicted
2024年1月4日に英国でレビュー済みAmazonで購入
This is an extraordinary saga about legal action against a cigarette company. But actually it’s the entire industry that is on trial and determined not to lose. The story revolves around various stratagems to manipulate jurors. Threats, inducements. You name it. These are high stakes. If you have any faith in the integrity of jury deliberations this story will deeply disturb you. So that’s the content of the novel - Grisham crafts it superbly. It has pace, loads of great characters, and keeps you guessing. I’m breathless!
Sar.C
5つ星のうち5.0
Muy buen libro
2018年9月23日にスペインでレビュー済みAmazonで購入
El libro estaba demasiado usado, casi no de distinguían las letras en la portada, pero la historia es buena y te echas unas risas. Lo recomiendo. Mucho mejor que la película.