A Deadly Judgment Read online

  “And it’s been a pleasure to be here, see your town, sample your iced tea which, I agree, deserves a prize. Great to get away for a day.”

  “I imagine.”

  Jed arrived, and Vaughan climbed into his minivan.

  “We’ll talk soon,” he said to me.

  “Count on it. Safe home. Best to Olga. And to Sadie and Rose.”

  I watched them pull away, went to the patio to pick up the empty glasses, settled in front of the computer in my office, and started working on a plot for my next book, which had nothing to do with murder trials and the law. Fact was, I didn’t want to devote months to sitting through a trial in order to gain knowledge of how it works despite Vaughan’s urging me to do it. Besides, how would I arrange to attend such a trial?”

  No, not for me, I decided as I tried to concoct a plot based upon what are basically six standard approaches for a murder mystery—a hard-boiled private eye? A spy this time, or a rogue cop? A flat-out tale of horror? Maybe something in a Gothic setting. No cozy mystery this time around; my last two had been small-scale with all the suspects ending up together in a house with failed electricity.

  A murder trial?

  I gave up at midnight, climbed into bed, and thought about Vaughan’s visit and his idea for my next book.

  A trial?

  No.

  Sorry, Vaughan.

  Lights out.

  Chapter Two

  I’m an earlier riser, but was awake even earlier than usual the following morning. I followed my usual routine: put on a robe and picked up the New York Times and the Cabot Cove Spotlight from the foot of my driveway. The Spotlight was a weekly, published on Thursday. This was Friday, its delivery day. I turned on the drip coffeemaker I’d set up the night before, got the fans going to draw in the cool morning air, and went to the patio to inspect my dozens of potted red geraniums. They didn’t look too good to me, wilted, less than radiant, weak. I’d been delinquent in my watering, and rectified that immediately. Geraniums represent a passion of mine. I’d actually wanted to hold a pot of them at my wedding, but was told by friends and family that it would have been inappropriate. I shouldn’t have listened to them. My dear husband, now deceased, knew my love of the red flower and showered me on every anniversary with pots of them.

  As I was pouring coffee into an insulated carafe to keep it from steeping longer than necessary, the phone rang. I picked it up in the kitchen. “Hello,” I said.

  “Hello there, dear Jessica. Have I caught you at a bad moment?”

  “No. Who is this?” The laugh was deep and rumbling, a laugh I now recognized. “Malcolm? Malcolm McLoon?”

  “Of course. It hasn’t been that long, has it?” he asked in his characteristic loud, deep, stentorian voice that mirrored his physical presence.

  “Five years?” I said.

  “Oh, my, Jessica, if it’s that long, we’re both growing older at a rate faster than we wish.”

  Malcolm McLoon was in his late sixties, and everything about him was grandiose—long, flowing white hair, huge potbelly—a frustrated Shakespearean actor, fond of limp, floppy multicolored bow ties and whimsical suits, usually white or cream-colored, summer or winter. His reputation for being fond of the bottle rivaled his fame as one of the most successful, and controversial criminal defense attorneys in America. He’d handled dozens of high-profile cases since leaving Cabot Cove twenty years ago, and had won the majority of them, despite what critics pointed to as a gratingly pompous and obnoxiously flagrant style. They were right, of course. But there was another side of him that I’d gotten to know, a gentle charm, a man who would give you the shirt off his back provided you wore shirts with a collar size of twenty, and a size sixty suit.

  “How are you, Malcolm?”

  “Couldn’t be better, Jessica. Tip-top. And how are you, young lady?”

  “Just fine. I enjoyed the glorious spring we had, and so far the summer’s been kind to me. Even getting in a little fishing. How do you like that?”

  “I like it very much, indeed,” he said. “Working on anything these days? A new book?”

  “Funny you should ask,” I said. “I had breakfast with my publisher yesterday to discuss what’s next. Nothing decided yet. He wants me to—”

  A murder trial? Malcolm McLoon? Interesting timing.

  “I call with a proposition, dear lady.”

  “A decent one, I trust.”

  “Am I capable of any other kind? How would you like to work with me on my next case?”

  Was this what they meant by serendipity?

  “I don’t understand.” I said.

  “Allow me to explain. I’ve been retained by the Brannigan family of Boston. You’ve heard of them, of course. Brannigan’s Bean Pot? The best baked beans this side of the Charles River. Hmmm, hmm good.”

  “Of course I’m familiar with the name and the product. And I agree. They are the best baked beans—in a can. But you haven’t tasted baked beans until you’ve tasted mine. I’ve perfected a wonderful recipe.”

  “Perhaps you’ll do me the honor of cooking up a batch in my kitchen while you’re here.”

  “While I’m there?”

  “Yes.” He said it as though I should have known all along why I would be in Boston. “Unfortunately, Jessica, it seems the Brannigan family troubles have gained in more notoriety these days than their baked beans.”

  I understood what he was saying. I’d followed recent media coverage of the murder of Jack Brannigan by his brother, William. “I can’t think of anything more tragic than one family member killing another,” I said.

  “Billy Brannigan is an innocent man, Jessica. Being accused of murdering his brother, and being convicted of it, are two very different things. Truth is, he didn’t do it. As his defense counsel, I’m confident I will successfully make that point to a jury of his peers.”

  “Congratulations on being chosen to defend him, Malcolm. From what I’ve read, it will be a difficult case to try.”

  “Not for this lawyer,” he said. I smiled as he continued. “You are your usual gracious self to offer your congratulations, but I didn’t call to elicit them, although there are those who label me a braggart and wouldn’t put it past me to do just such a thing. But you know the real Malcolm, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do,” I said, my grin widening. “What can I do for you?”

  “I want you to come to Boston for the summer ...,” he sang. It was a line from a popular song I hear while waiting in my dentist’s office, or flipping through the light FM channels on the radio.

  “You’re in good voice,” I said. “But maybe I’d understand better if you talked, rather than sang.”

  “I wish to hire you as my jury consultant, to help me choose a jury I can count on to see things my way.”

  That’s one way of putting it, I thought. As much as I believe in our system of jurisprudence and its advocacy system—certainly better and fairer than any other system in the world—I always cringe when I think of how attorneys from both sides try to stack a jury with men and women with a predisposition to lean in one direction or the other. Jury consultants had become, from what I’d read, integral parts of major cases, applying psychological insight and demographic patterns to choosing who serves on a jury, and who doesn’t. They’re professionals with special skills, and command large fees.

  So why was he asking me to be a jury consultant?

  “Why would you want me to be a jury consultant?” I asked. “I have no experience in such things.”

  “Oh, but you do, dear Jessica. You have great insight into people. All the reviews of your books pick up on that. You create characters like none other. What you have is every defense lawyer’s dream, an intuitive feel for people, what they really think and feel, their hidden prejudices, dark secrets, and—say you’ll do it.”

  “Malcolm, I am sincerely flattered by your offer and high opinion of me. But I really don’t think that—”

  I thought about blueberry pancakes w
ith Vaughan.

  “Let me sleep on it, Malcolm. Can I give you a call tomorrow?”

  “I knew you’d do it.”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “Call collect. First thing in the morning. I’ve virtually been sleeping in my office getting ready for this trial. How wonderful it will be to have you on the case. Name your price. First-class all the way. The best suite at the Ritz-Carlton. A limousine. Caviar and champagne along with the morning paper each day. A new wardrobe if you wish. Nothing will be too good for my—”

  “Jury consultant?”

  “Yes. My jury consultant. I’ll have all arrangements made when you call in the morning.”

  “I didn’t say I would, Malcolm.”

  “Legal Sea Foods.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Dinner at Legal Sea Food in Cambridge. A splendid restaurant. Let me see, the second night we can—”

  “I’ll call in the morning. Give me your office number in case I’ve misplaced it.”

  After he did, I asked, “How long do you estimate I would have to be in Boston?”

  “Five, six weeks. I intend to push the defense case along quickly, although you never know with the prosecution. If they move as slowly as they did in the Simpson case, it might be even longer.”

  “That’s a long time for me to be away. I have to start my next novel.”

  A murder trial. Jury consultant. An insider learning how it works.

  “You’ll hear from me in the morning. Tomorrow’s Saturday, you know.”

  “Eight days a week when I’m into a trial, Jessica. I can’t tell you how delighted I am that you’ve agreed to be one of my jury consultants.”

  “ ‘One of?’”

  “I’ll explain when you’re here.”

  “I didn’t say I—”

  “Enjoy your day, Jessica. Start packing. McLoon and Fletcher are about to turn the Boston legal system on its ear. Has a nice ring to it. McLoon and Fletcher. You should consider law school. You’d make a good attorney.”

  After a restless night, I took a chance and called the number Malcolm had given me at seven Saturday morning. He answered on the first ring.

  “When do I start?” I asked cheerfully.

  “Tomorrow too soon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Monday?”

  “All right.”

  “Good. Monday morning at my office. I’ve already made your reservation at the Ritz starting tomorrow. Come a day early if you change your mind. Relax. Sightsee.”

  “I’ll see you on Monday. Nine o’clock?”

  “I’ll have a driver pick you up at the Ritz at eight-thirty.”

  “All right,” I said. “Are you still in the same office in Government Center?”

  “Same one. See you then.”

  The contemplation of staying at the Ritz-Carlton was delicious. It’s always been my hotel of choice when in Boston, my hotel of choice in many other cities.

  I’d considered mentioning to Malcolm that the real reason I’d accepted his proposition was to soak up the atmosphere of a murder trial in preparation for my next murder mystery for Buckley House, but I didn’t know how he’d respond to that. If there’s one thing I abhor, it’s when someone takes advantage of another under false pretenses.

  I decided to not call Vaughan Buckley in New York to tell him of my plans. I wrote a short note informing him that I’d be in Boston for a shopping and theater spree, and would be in touch when I returned, adding,

  “The more I think about your suggestion to set my next book during a murder trial, the more appealing it becomes. More later. Hope your flight back with Jed was smooth and pleasant. Jess.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed,” I said as I stirred an oversized pot of baked beans that had been simmering all morning on my stove, “I am a big, grown-up girl. I know precisely what I’m getting into, and have decided to do it after careful consideration.”

  “Sorry,” Cabot Cove’s sheriff, Morton Metzger, said from my kitchen table, “but it just don’t seem like something you’d do, Jess.”

  “Why? Because I’ve never been a jury consultant before? I’ve never been lots of things before, but that doesn’t mean I’m not willing to try them.”

  “But this is different,” he said, spearing a piece of melon. “This involves that crazy coot, Malcolm McLoon.” He chuckled. “Aptly named, I’d say. McLoon. Crazy as one.”

  “Oh, Mort, Malcolm is just—well, he’s just different. You have to admit he’s a brilliant trial attorney.”

  “And a drunk and womanizer. I read the papers.”

  The supermarket checkout papers, I thought, not voicing it.

  “I remember back to when he was trying cases right here in Cabot Cove. Damn fool got Judge Mallory so mad one day he threw McLoon in jail himself. Remember?”

  “Yes, I do. He’s been jailed by other judges, too, for contempt.”

  “There you go. Take my advice, call the fat buffoon back and tell him to get anther jury consultant.” He guffawed. “Jury consultant. Just a fancy name for somebody paid lots ’a money to help get guilty people off.”

  “Taste?” I held out a wooden spoon with beans on it.

  “Good as usual,” he said, “but could use a mite more garlic.”

  “I already have two cloves in,” I said. Our sheriff was known for his love of garlic. “Is it true you put garlic on cornflakes?” I asked.

  “Not true,” he said, finishing the melon. “Sure you won’t reconsider?” he asked.

  “About going to Boston. No. I’m going.”

  “Maybe Seth’ll have better luck talkin’ sense to you.”

  “I doubt it.”

  I wiped my hands on my apron, turned, and leaned against the counter. “There’s more to my going to Boston than I’ve told you.”

  “Really? And what might that be?”

  “Don’t make me sound like a criminal. When my publisher, Vaughan Buckley, visited me Thursday, he told me he wants my next book to be based upon a murder trial. I said I didn’t agree because I don’t know how they work. Then, Malcolm called the next day and offered me this role as his—one of his jury consultants. How about that for timing? Serendipitous, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Sounds more like a coincidence to me.”

  “That, too.”

  “Hot as heck in here, Jess,” he said, wiping his brow. “Why on earth you slavin’ over a hot stove in the middle ’a summer?”

  “Thinking of Brannigan’s canned beans whetted my appetite for the real thing. Can you stay for lunch? Seth will be here shortly.”

  “Does he know about this silly trip you’re taking to Boston?”

  “Yes. I called him this morning to renew some prescriptions to bring with me. Told him the news. He was delighted.” I smiled and transferred the beans into a glazed ceramic pot I reserve exclusively for them.

  “Smells good, Jess. How ’bout some iced tea?”

  “Brewing on the back patio. Ready in a minute.”

  “Got to call the station house and tell ’em I’ll be back after lunch. Set another place at the table for me. Maybe Seth’ll get through to you. He knows McLoon and his reputation.”

  “I’ll be delighted to hear whatever he has to say.”

  Which wasn’t much.

  Seth Hazlitt, my very good friend and Cabot Cove’s leading physician, mentioned Malcolm McLoon’s unsavory personal reputation, and questioned whether I could afford to be away from Cabot Cove for so long. I explained how the trial would serve as research for my next book.

  “Makes sense to me, Jessica,” he said. “Please pass the beans and the corn bread. Beans are excellent, ‘though there’s a touch too much garlic in ’em.”

  Chapter Three

  The moment Seth and Mort left, I went into high gear to prepare for my extended stay in Boston. I didn’t know how I would manage it in the brief time available to me between that afternoon and Monday, but whenever my energy level flagged, the thought of being in B
oston injected a shot of Adrenalin.

  I’m an unabashed Boston lover. To me, it’s the closest thing America has to a European city, which is how I usually describe it to people who’ve never been there. It’s the most civil of cities, quaint, charming, superb food, plenty of culture and intellectually stimulating.

  Each September, the city’s population swells by a quarter of a million—students and professors. Harvard University, Boston University, Boston College, Simmons, Northeast, Massachusetts Institute of Technology—they’re all here. And if you love politics and sports, look no further. Heated conversation about either can be found virtually everywhere; Bostonians not only love to talk about their elected officials and athletic heroes or scapegoats, they have strong opinions, and are willing to give them to you at the drop of a lobster. Bostonians love to talk. Period. About anything.

  Of course, I have ties to Boston beyond those of a tourist, including fond memories of having been a student at Boston University where I studied English, and of living there as a young adult while working for a fine publishing house as an entry-level editor. Nothing but pleasant thoughts to fuel my preparation for a month or more in what many call Beantown.

  Jed Richardson flew me to Logan Airport in his Cessna 310H twin-engine aircraft, the same one he’d used to ferry Vaughan Buckley back home. Much of the smooth, quick flight that crystal-clear early Monday morning was taken up with Jed’s questions about whether he should consider writing a book for Buckley House. I certainty encouraged him, and offered ongoing advice if he decided to do it.

  As I left the general aviation building where Jed had let me off and walked in the direction of waiting cabs, my heavy luggage on a rolling cart provided by the airport, a young woman in a black uniform approached. She carried a sign that read FLETCHER.

  “Are you looking for me?” I asked.

  “Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m here to drive you to the hotel.”

  “But I thought I was being picked up at the hotel.”

  “Mr. McLoon changed his mind when he learned you’d be flying in this morning. My name’s Cathie. Let me help you with your luggage.”