A Deadly Judgment Page 3

  As she loaded my bags into the Lincoln Town Car’s trunk, she said, “I’m really honored to be driving you, Mrs. Fletcher. My mom has read every one of your books.”

  “How nice to hear.”

  “I’m hoping to be assigned as your steady daytime driver while you’re here.”

  “‘Steady daytime? driver?’ ”

  “Yes. There’ll be a nighttime driver, too.”

  “Two full-time drivers?” I said. “For me?”

  “Order of Mr. McLoon, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “I’ll have to speak with him about it,” I said, settling into the comfortable leather rear seat.

  One pleasant aspect of flying to Boston is the airport’s close proximity to the city, much like Washington, D.C.’s National Airport. We stayed left coming out of the airport and followed signs to Sumner Tunnel where Cathie paid the dollar toll. We then took the Central Artery and, shortly thereafter, pulled up in front of the Ritz-Carlton, at Arlington and Newbury in Boston’s historic Back Bay area. The ride, as short as it was, reminded me why I don’t drive, especially in Boston. Lanes don’t seem to mean much there, intersections are the scene of one driver challenging another, and entrance ramps onto parkways and expressways are more like takeoff ramps. But Cathie drove sensibly, for which I was grateful.

  I checked my watch. Eight o’clock. I was due at Malcolm’s office at nine.

  Cathie unloaded my bags beneath the fluttering blue awnings and they were taken by a young man in a snappy uniform. “They’ll be brought to your room, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. I hadn’t introduced myself and was impressed he knew who I was.

  I checked in. A few minutes later an assistant manager escorted me into an elevator operated by a young woman in uniform and wearing white gloves. At the end of a corridor on the top floor was my “room”—a large, lovely suite furnished in European style, and with a wonderful view of the Public Garden.

  “It’s absolutely beautiful,” I said, taking it in. “But much too fancy for me, I’m afraid. And expensive.”

  The manager laughed. “Mrs. Fletcher, we are delighted to have you as our guest. I understand you’ll be staying as long as a month, which makes it that much more important that you feel at home, have plenty of space, and be surrounded with nice things. Besides, Mr. McLoon’s instruction to us is that you are to be spared nothing in the way of comfort.”

  “That’s very kind of him,” I said. Evidently the fee Malcolm was being paid by the Brannigan family was big enough to support this sort of unnecessary indulgence. Vaughan Buckley was lucky. It wouldn’t cost him a cent for me to research my next novel.

  “I’ll leave you to settle in,” the manager said.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have much time for that,” I said. “I’m due at Mr. McLoon’s office in a few minutes.”

  “Of course. The Ritz-Carlton’s services are at your disposal, Mrs. Fletcher. And I’ve left my office and home numbers in case you need something special. We stand ready to provide our guests anything—as long as it’s legal.”

  I laughed, and he left me alone in the sumptuous suite.

  I’d been to the Boston Ritz-Carlton on many occasions, mostly for cocktails, dinner, and an occasional overnight stay. It’s one of the world’s premiere hotels, the oldest of all the Ritz-Carltons. That I’d be there for a month or more was both exciting and off-putting.

  I quickly freshened up, then took a fast tour of the suite before going downstairs to where Cathie waited. The furniture was mahogany—king-sized bed, elegant desk, and towering armoire. Furniture and decor defined simple European elegance. A fireplace in the living room was inviting despite the time of year. I could always crank up the air-conditioning and enjoy a fire, I decided.

  As I headed for the large window overlooking the Public Garden, I noticed a copy of that day’s Boston Globe on a coffee table in front of a couch. A front-page headline caught my eye: BAKED BEANS MURDER TRIAL TO BEGIN. I picked it up and read the first paragraph, which in the best journalistic tradition of telling readers the who, what, why, when, and where of a story, mentioned that Jack Brannigan had been murdered in that idyllic Garden. How tragic, I thought, to be brutally killed in such beautiful surroundings.

  I checked myself in a full-length mirror, took a deep breath, and headed out the door to become—to become a jury consultant, of all things.

  That’s what’s wonderful about being alive, I thought. You never know what’s around the corner.

  Jessica Fletcher—Jury Consultant.

  It made me laugh.

  Chapter Four

  Flanked by Faneuil Hall and the Financial District, Government Center has never been one of my favorite sections of Boston. Sure, it has a history: the Freedom Trail, the Old State House, and the Custom House Tower are a stone’s throw away.

  But Government Center, with its skyscrapers and nondescript streets lacks the quaintness that characterizes the rest of Boston, most of which is comprised of neighborhoods—the Italian North End; the predominantly Irish neighborhood called Southie; Back Bay, the fashionable part of town; and Beacon Hill, reminiscent of London with its pubs and narrow, brick streets. Newbury Street’s cafés and boutiques have always been high on my list of favorite areas. But I love Harvard Square, too, its coffeehouses, street musicians, and the university’s old brick buildings magical to me. Come to think of it, I can never can seem to make up my mind which part of Boston I like best.

  But I do know it isn’t Government Center.

  Boston’s business hub was bustling that Monday morning with thousands of people on their way to work, sharply dressed yuppies hurrying to their offices, cappucinos and café lattes in hand (why anyone would spend that much money for a cup of coffee is beyond my comprehension), incongruous white Nikes on their feet beneath suits and dresses, a spring in their step as they mounted another day and week in their careers. But it struck me as I stepped out of the Town Car that as busy as Government Center was that morning, everything seemed more civil than in New York. There was a certain unstated order to it, as opposed to the usual mayhem accompanying New York’s pedestrian’s rush hour.

  Malcolm’s office was located in one of the district’s skyscrapers, tall for Boston but not by New York standards. The elevator ascended quickly to the twenty-third floor where I easily found the suite, identified by an oversized brass nameplate. I opened the door, stepped into the reception area, and approached a desk. Seated behind it was an attractive middle-aged woman. The moment she saw me she jumped up, came around the desk, and extended her hand. “Mrs. Fletcher? I’m Linda, Mr. McLoon’s receptionist. We’ve been waiting for you.”

  “Am I late?”

  “Oh, no,” she replied, her smile lighting up the room. “I’m personally excited about meeting you. When Mr. McLoon said you’d agreed to join the defense team, I was—well, I was tickled. I’m a fan.”

  “That’s very kind.”

  “Are you working on a new book?”

  “Well, not exactly. I—”

  “LINDA!!!”

  The bellowing male voice rattled the speaker on her desk.

  “LINDA!!! Is Mrs. Fletcher here yet?”

  “Oh, my,” she said, scurrying behind her desk, pushing a button on the intercom, and saying, “She’s here, Mr. McLoon.”

  “Well, send her in, for gracious sake.”

  Linda managed a small smile. “Follow me,” she said.

  We walked down a long, narrow hallway to the last door on the left. Linda knocked. “Come in,” Malcolm’s voice said through the heavy wooden door.

  Malcolm was perched on the edge of his desk, his large head in a cloud of dense smoke from a long, fat black cigar clenched between his teeth. He wore a rumpled white shirt, a red-and-yellow bow tie, wrinkled gray pants, black sneakers with white socks peeking over the tops, and a green-and-blue tartan plaid jacket that made me think of my dear friend and quintessential Scotsman, Scotland Yard Inspector George Sutherland, who I immediately wished was there at my side.
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  “Our guest of honah has arrived,” Malcolm said, coming off the desk with arms open wide, fly wide open. He wrapped me in an all-encompassing, sweaty embrace, the cigar still billowing smoke. Would the smell ever come out of my suit? I wondered.

  “Guest of honor?” I said, disengaging. “I’m the one who’s honored.”

  “Nonsense. Sit down, Jessica. I want to introduce you to some good people.” He gestured to a chair in front of his desk. I nodded at the others in the room, who sat closely grouped on chairs in one comer, and took the seat Malcolm had indicated.

  “LINDA!!!” McLoon shouted into his intercom. “We need more coffee.” To me: “Still prefer tea?”

  “Yes. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Tea for Mrs. Fletcher. And rustle up some donuts. Jelly ones. Where the hell are my cigars? Did you hide ’em again?”

  “No, sir. You put them—”

  “I know, I know.” He waddled to a closet and pulled a box of cigars down from a shelf. With the one he’d been smoking still smoldering in the ashtray, he lighted another.

  I took advantage of the lull to take in his office. Obviously, an interior decorator’s hand hadn’t been utilized. The room was pure Malcolm in all his brilliant disarray. A hodgepodge of not-so-interesting art of the sort bought at flea markets to match the color of furniture hung crookedly on the walls, along with photographs of Malcolm with celebrities and politicians, also crooked—the pictures, not necessarily the politicians. A burnt-orange shag rug, decorated with multiple burn holes and reminiscent of every Holiday Inn hotel room in the 1970s, took up a portion of the floor in front of his desk. Bookcases lining one wall looked like a housing project, the books on them haphazardly stacked. The windows needed cleaning, undoubtedly because of a film of nicotine. A blue haze hung over everything.

  “Jessica, you look mahvelous,” Malcolm said, his Boston accent shining through as he plopped in his high-backed leather chair and propped his black sneakers on the desk. “Haven’t aged a day since I last saw you.”

  I indicated with my eyes that the others in the room were waiting to be introduced to me. Malcolm struggled to his feet and stood between us. “Like you to meet the other fine folks on the team, Jessica.”

  A woman went to Malcolm and whispered something in his ear, causing the corpulent attorney to pull up the zipper of his pants, never missing a verbal beat. “Jessica Fletcher, meet Rachel Cohen, my cocounsel on this case, and soon-to-be-household-name in every court of this land.”

  I took Ms. Cohen’s extended hand. She was dressed the part of the successful attorney—navy pinstripe suit with fashionable above-the-knee skirt, tailored white blouse, navy heels, expensive haircut.

  “And I present Ritchie Fleigler, the best private investigator this side of the Charles River. Maybe even beyond.” McLoon’s private investigator, Ritchie Fleigler, had ink-black hair that matched the color of his T-shirt, and that he wore shoulder length. His tight jeans were blue, his high-top sneakers white. He was well over six feet tall, which helped him carry off the look.

  “And this is my better half, Miss Georgia Bobley, my loyal and long-suffering administrative assistant.” Ms. Bobley was a short, attractive young woman with chestnut-brown hair, nervous green eyes, a cinematic smile, and a trim figure. Her clothing that day consisted of a lightweight salmon V-neck sweater over a brown blouse, pleated tan skirt, and clogs.

  I exchanged greetings with them.

  There was another person in the room, a handsome young man seated in a black vinyl chair wedged into the comer. He sat quietly, one leg crossed over the other, his attention seemingly directed to a chipped marble bust of Winston Churchill.

  “Jessica, meet William Brannigan,” McLoon said.

  The defendant.

  For some reason, having him there startled me. I assumed he was in prison. He stood, looked at me without expression, and extended his hand, which I took.

  “Hello, Mr. Brannigan,” I said. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” he said softly. “Please call me Bill.”

  “All right—Bill.”

  “Very good, then,” said Malcolm. “Everyone’s been introduced. We’ll all be spending a lot of time together over the next few months”—he glanced at me for a reaction—“and I think we’re going to make one hell of a team. We’ll be putting in long hours and late nights. But it will be justified when our efforts result in justice being served, when this fine young man, from a fine and distinguished family, unfairly accused of the dastardly act of murdering his own flesh and blood, is judged to be innocent by a jury of his peers.” He delivered his message with great dramatic flourish, drawing from his experience as an actor before becoming an attorney. I’d never seen him in action in court before, but I was getting a glimpse now. He spoke as though delivering a Shakespearean speech. Eloquent. Flowery. And loud.

  “Now, let’s get down to work,” he said. “Tomorrow, we start interviewing prospective jurors. I don’t need to remind everyone in this room how important this phase of the trial will be, certainly the most critical step of the case so fah. Jessica, I’ll explain more about the actual process over lunch.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” I said, indulging in understatement. I knew nothing abut what had become a critical part of the justice system—the selection of jurors.

  “Ritchie,” McLoon said to his investigator, “I know you’ve got to run. Keep digging and call me this afternoon.”

  “No problem,” Ritchie said, exiting the room.

  “Rachel?” Malcolm said, thumbing through an agenda book the thickness of War and Peace.

  “Yes, Malcolm?” his assistant defense counsel said, smiling at me.

  “Let’s talk. What’s the latest with you?”

  “Well, I found a tick on the dog this morning. My son, Josh, is performing in a middle school concert tonight. And my husband, Joe, is on call tonight at the hospital.”

  I was the only person in the room to laugh. I glanced at the defendant, Bill Brannigan, who was immersed in the contents of a thick manila file folder. He didn’t look up.

  “Perhaps you’d be kind enough, Rachel, to include the Brannigan case in your comments.” Malcolm said it without any hint of annoyance. “Any headway on the Cape Cod front?”

  “I’ll know more by the end of the day,” she said.

  “Then I suggest you get to work on it right now and fill us in at lunch.”

  “I’d love to join you, Malcolm, but can’t,” she said. “I’ll have to work through lunch if I’m to get out of here tonight in time to attend Josh’s concert.”

  “Of course,” said Malcolm. “Tell that little fellow of yours that if he doesn’t sing good, he’ll answer to me.”

  Now, everyone laughed, with the exception of Brannigan. It was good to see that a pleasant relationship existed between Malcolm and his assistant counsel, between everyone on McLoon’s team for that matter.

  Malcolm’s personal assistant, Georgia Bobley, left the room as Linda arrived with tea, coffee, and a dozen jelly donuts in a box, which she placed on the small conference table. Once she was gone, it left McLoon, Billy Brannigan, and me in the office.

  “All right, now, Jessica, let us spend the few hours before lunch reviewing the case for your benefit, and to give you a chance to get to know the reason for our being here, the defendant, Mr. William Brannigan.”

  “Fine,” I said, feeling very much out of my element.

  “As I’ve told you, Willie, Mrs. Fletchah is a real people person, the best I’ve ever known. She creates believable characters in her bestselling novels because she knows what makes people tick, what causes them to do things, make decisions. I’ve coaxed her to help us make sure that everyone on the jury is a people person, too. Not a police person. Not a prosecutor person. But a people person.”

  He took a long, deep drag on his cigar before continuing. “With that understood, let us proceed. Billy Brannigan has been charged with having murdered his brother, Jack
. The prosecution bases its case against our client (it felt strangely good to be included in “our client”) on William, here, having been threatened with being cut out of a family trust by the trust’s trustee, his older brother, Jack. Jack threatened that action based upon a ridiculous clause in the trust allowing William to be cut out if he was ever charged with a crime involving moral turpitude. Ever charged with! Not even convicted. An abominable perversion of everything precious about our system of justice. William Brannigan was falsely accused of attempting to rape a young woman on Cape Cod. Based upon that—and it was only her word that was taken—Jack was about to take from his younger brother the source of income that their father had wanted him to enjoy. William Brannigan is not a little bit innocent, Jessica. That is like being a little bit pregnant. You’re either pregnant or you’re not. You’re either innocent or you’re not. He is completely innocent, and the jury will not only come to realize this when I am through presenting our case, that same jury will actually feel sorry for this exemplary young man whose life is now in my hands. In our hands!”

  I wanted to applaud.

  He wasn’t finished. He came behind Brannigan, placed ham-hock hands on the young man’s shoulders, and intoned, “This is a well-respected man, Jessica, hard-worker, a family man.”

  “Yes, I’m—I’m certain he is.”

  It’s been my experience that people living off trusts generally aren’t “hard working.” Nor was I aware that Brannigan was married. But it wasn’t the time or place for me to raise those issues.

  “Bill, do you want to say anything to Mrs. Fletcher?” McLoon asked. “Naturally, I’ll go over the case with her in detail, step by step. But do you have anything to offer at this moment?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  His smile was wide and winning. What a handsome young man, I thought. Chiseled features, brilliant blue eyes, thick black hair.

  “First, I want to say I love your books, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And, I’d like to tell you a story, a chapter from my life. One day, I woke up just like you and millions of other people. Just an ordinary early spring day in Hingham, Massachusetts. Hingham’s about half an hour from Boston, Mrs. Fletcher, right on the water, a picturesque waterfront village a lot like where you come from in Maine.