A Deadly Judgment Read online

  “I hit the snooze button three times before getting out of bed that morning, got into the shower, and was out the door pretty quick. I drove to the Cape and worked hard all day, ate lunch like everybody else.”

  I was wrong, I thought. The trust hadn’t stripped him of a work ethic as trusts often do.

  “But then the routine of my day changed. Of my life. I learned my brother had been killed. I jumped in my car the next morning and was heading for his home—the radio had news about his murder, which was really upsetting; I wasn’t sure I was capable of driving safety—when several police cars pulled alongside me and I was arrested for Jack’s murder.”

  “As Malcolm knows,” I said, “I’m not a lawyer, and don’t know very much about the law aside from what I’ve had to learn for my books. But my understanding is that when you’re indicted for murder, bail is out of the question. Yet, you’re sitting here.”

  Malcolm laughed. “I can be very persuasive, Jessica. Perhaps you remember that from my younger days.”

  “Oh, yes, I certainly do. Still—”

  “My family’s name helped,” Brannigan said, looking down as though embarrassed. “Bail was a million dollars.”

  “Wow,” was all I could say.

  “I just wanted to humanize the circumstances for you, Mrs. Fletcher. And I appreciate any help you can give to clear my name, and hopefully to find Jack’s real killer.”

  “I’m here to help Bill,” I replied. “I’ll do my best. And my name is Jessica, or Jess if you prefer.”

  The intercom buzzed. “WHAT?” McLoon bellowed.

  “Court TV is on the phone, Mr. McLoon,” Georgia Bobley said. “He said you told him to call at ten.”

  Malcolm checked his watch. “Punctual, isn’t he? Put him through.”

  “Court TV?” I asked.

  Malcolm ignored me and picked up the phone. “McLoon here. Yes. Of course. Yes. She’s sitting here as we speak. Right. My pleasure. That will be fine. Thank you.”

  He hung up.

  “Court TV?” I repeated.

  “These damn journalists think they’re bigger than God, Jessica. They want to have a camera crew live in my house for a few days to record my comings and goings.” He laughed loudly. “Here’s McLoon throwing his alarm clock across the room. Here he is drinking his fourth cup of good scotch whiskey. Here he is brushing his dentures. Give them an inch, Jessica, they’ll take a mile. Where were we?”

  “Malcolm, does the press—does Court TV know by any chance that I’m a jury consultant on this case?” I asked.

  “Know? About you? What were we talking about?”

  “I’m talking about Court TV,” I said. “I heard you say that ‘she’s sitting here as we speak.’ As far as I can see, I’m the only she in this room.”

  “Yes. How they got wind of it I’ll never know.”

  “Did you tell them?” I asked.

  “Might have. No matter. Cameras in the courtroom won’t bother me. Shouldn’t bother you, either.”

  “Are you allowing the camera crew into your home, Malcolm?”

  “Had to. No choice.”

  I looked at my nails and smiled. No doubt about it. Malcolm McLoon had treaded upon my dubious fame to help entice Court TV to cover the Brannigan trial.

  I felt distinctly used.

  I thought of walking out of the office.

  On the other hand, I was using him. I agreed to become a jury consultant only to learn how a murder trial works to accommodate Vaughan Buckley.

  “There’ll be cameras following us everywhere, Jessica. Hanging outside the courtroom three deep. But I know you’re a trouper, an old pro when it comes to media attention.”

  “I’ll manage,” I said.

  “Damn, it’s coming up on ten-fifteen,” he said, getting up from his chair. “Must run, dear lady. Have an appointment to get fitted for a couple of new suits. Georgia says this outfit has to go.”

  I silently agreed with her.

  “Know where Seaside Restaurant is, Jessica? In Faneiul Hall?”

  “No, but I certainly know how to get to Faneuil Hall.’

  “I’ll have Georgia contact your driver to meet you downstairs at quarter of twelve.”

  “That’s not necessary, Malcolm. It’s only five minutes from here, and it’s a beautiful day.”

  “Seaside’s a fine little eating establishment. Good food, not a media hangout. Meet you there at noon. In the meantime, stay right here. Here’s a list of the names of the prospective jurors we’ll be questioning tomorrow. All two-hundred twenty-five of them.”

  He handed me a neon-orange folder. “Get a feel for them, Jess. Willie, you come with me. I need your advice on buying suits. Relax, Jessica. And welcome to Boston. You have the town at your disposal. Whatever you want. Name the restaurant to Georgia and she’ll make the reservation. Of course, a car will be at your disposal. How was your ride over here this morning?”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “Courteous driver?”

  “Very.”

  “Remember his name?”

  “Yes. Her name is Cathie. Can’t remember her last name, but I’ll bet it’s Irish. Pretty girl.”

  Into the intercom: “GEORGIA! Call the limo company. Tell them we want Cathie what’s-her-name to drive Mrs. Fletcher for the duration.”

  “During the day,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Cathie told me I have a daytime driver, and a nighttime driver.”

  “That’s right. Nothing too good for my favorite jury consultant.” He kissed me on the cheek. “Glad to have you on board, Jessica. Damn, you look good. I’d propose if I didn’t already have a few former wives on the payroll.”

  To Brannigan: “Don’t you worry about a thing, Willie. With Malcolm McLoon and Jessica Fletcher on your side, it won’t be long before the world knows that you are an innocent man. Till lunch, Jessica.

  “Till lunch, Malcolm.”

  Chapter Five

  I left McLoon’s office a few minutes before noon and rode the elevator to the lobby. Waiting there were two TV camera crews and a few print reporters. My initial reaction was that they were standing by for the arrival of some big-shot political or business leader. Then ,I realized they were waiting for me.

  “Mrs. Fletcher,” they said in unison, encircling me. I suppose my puzzled expression made the point that I didn’t know why they wanted to talk to me.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, Hap Gormley from the Herald. Ready to begin jury selection tomorrow?”

  I started to reply, then realized not only would it be inappropriate to comment about a murder case, I didn’t know enough to say anything intelligent.

  “Regina Wells, Court TV, Mrs. Fletcher. Can I set up an interview with you later today?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Peg Johnson, the Globe. Why did Mr. McLoon ask you to be one of his jury consultants? You’re a writer. Have you ever taken part in jury selection before?”

  I thought of what Malcolm had told me: I created good characters because I was intuitive about people.

  But I kept that to myself. “Excuse me,” I said, heading for the building’s front door.

  I made it to the street and had taken a few steps in the direction of Faneuil Hall when Ms. Wells from Court TV caught up. “Please, Mrs. Fletcher, a pretrial interview. Mr. McLoon’s been very cooperative. We’ll be living in his house for a few days.”

  “Ms. Wells, I really don’t think I’m free to comment to the press.”

  “We’re not ‘the press,’ ” she said. “We’re Court TV. We cover the trial from gavel to gavel. We always do interviews with the major players. You’re certainly one of them.”

  “Maybe another time,” I said.

  She kept pace with me. I stopped again, looked at her, and said, “Did Court TV plan to cover the Brannigan trial from gavel to gavel before I agreed to help Mr. McLoon select a jury?”

  “Honestly? No. There are two other high-profile trials starting tomorrow—one
in California, one in Florida. It was a toss-up between the three until we were informed you’d be taking part in the Brannigan trial.”

  “I see.”

  “Mr. McLoon lobbied hard to have us cover it. What do you think of him?”

  “Malcolm McLoon? A delightful man and good friend. I hate to be rude, but I’m running late for lunch with him.”

  “At Seaside?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s a TV crew already in there.”

  “In the restaurant?”

  “Yes. They’re covering it.”

  “ ‘Covering it?’ Covering lunch?”

  She laughed. “The Brannigan trial is big news in Boston, Mrs. Fletcher. Big news nationwide because we’re carrying it.” She handed me a business card and said, “We’ll be seeing lots of each other over the next few months. This is all new to you. Once you’re in the swing, you’ll have time for interviews. Won’t hurt the sale of your books, either. Enjoy lunch.”

  “Sorry I’m late,” I told Malcolm after I’d joined him at a large comer table.

  “Not to worry, dear lady,” he said. A pretty young waitress waited for our orders. “The usual for me, Heather,” Malcolm said. “You, Jessica?”

  “May I see a menu?” I.asked.

  “No drink? You’re with Mr. McLoon,” Heather said.

  Our waitress, who I now knew was Heather, smiled and cocked her head.

  “Club soda and lime, please,” I said.

  I looked across the room to a raised platform on which a television camera manned by two young men was positioned. “You’re quite the celebrity these days,” I said.

  “Damn vultures,” McLoon said, nodding in the direction of the camera.

  “I’d say you’re enjoying it.” I kept my tone pleasant.

  “Goes with the territory.”

  Heather delivered our drinks; Malcolm’s glass was oversized and filled with a potent-looking brown liquid. He raised it to me. “Here’s to a successful defense of Billy Brannigan.”

  As I touched my rim to his, a strobe light went off. We both turned to face a photographer, who immediately knocked off another shot.

  “Malcolm, I think we have to talk,” I said into his ear.

  Another flash from the strobe.

  “Could we have some privacy?” I said to the photographer.

  I was answered by a woman carrying a pad and pen, who stepped from behind the photographer. “Just a few questions,” she said.

  “Not now,” McLoon said, waving a fat hand at her.

  “Please, the press section is over there,” the manager of the restaurant said to the reporter and photographer, guiding them in the direction of the TV camera.

  “Good publicity for the restaurant,” Malcolm said. “The owner’s a friend of mine.”

  “I’m not sure I’m up to all this media attention, Malcolm.”

  “Ignore ’em,” Jessica. “Let’s get down to business.”

  “Maybe we should get down to business in your office. Have a sandwich sent up and—”

  Malcolm indicated why that wasn’t a good idea by motioning for Heather to replenish his empty drink. She already had it in-hand, immediately set in front of him, and handed me a menu. I said after a quick perusal, “I’ll have a cup of lobster bisque and a spinach salad.”

  Malcolm downed half of his second drink, wiped his fleshy mouth with a cloth napkin tucked into his shirt collar, and asked in a low, gravelly voice, “Did you go over the list of jurors?”

  “Yes.”

  “Based upon what I’ve seen, I’d say we’ve got a good pool to select from. Agree?”

  “I don’t know. As I told you, I’ve never been involved in selecting a jury. Maybe this was a mistake, asking me to help you.”

  “Nonsense. Besides, you’ll be working with one of the best jury selection experts in the country.”

  “I will?”

  “Jill Farkas. Know her?”

  “No.”

  “You’ll meet her this afternoon. Good thing Brannigan has plenty of money. She costs a bloody fortune.”

  Heather served me a steaming bowl of lobster bisque with huge chunks of half-submerged lobster, and a salad of fresh greens covered with real bacon bits. She placed Malcolm’s third drink in front of him. The momentary lull in the conversation gave me a few seconds to further evaluate my reason for being there. If Malcolm had hired a high-priced professional jury consultant, and had lobbied to have Court TV cover the trial, then my presence was solely to add name appeal. I wasn’t America’s most famous writer, but I had enjoyed considerable media exposure over the years. Besides, I was a writer of murder mysteries, which undoubtedly added a certain additional appeal.

  “Malcolm,” I said, “I—”

  “How’s the soup?”

  “I haven’t tasted it yet.”

  “Better do so before it gets cold. While you enjoy it, let me give you a fast course in picking juries, Malcolm McLoon style. The first thing—”

  “Malcolm, could we first talk about my role here?”

  “That’s what I’m doing. Here’s the way I want you to approach it.”

  “Malcolm—”

  “I’ve got this high-priced pro on the team, but I trust gut instincts more. Your gut instincts. I want you to watch closely, Jessica, take everything in, even the smallest details. Pay attention to their body language while they’re being interviewed. Their facial expressions. Whether they wince at something I ask them, or smile, or frown. I’ll worry about what they say. You worry about how they say it. Together, maybe we can get a useful handle on what they’re really all about, their general background, prejudices, myths, beliefs, hates, and loves—just like the characters in your books. Three-dimensional characters.”

  “But these are real people, not characters,” I said.

  “Exactly. I need a jury of real people, men and women who didn’t finish college, better yet, who never stepped foot in a university. No more education than a two-year community college. Lower middle class. Irish if possible.” He laughed. “And, of course, loving baked beans, preferably the Brannigan Bean Pot style.”

  The bisque had cooled but was delicious. I realized Malcolm was not about to discuss what was really on my mind—why I was there in Boston—so I asked, “How does jury selection work?”

  “Starts tomorrow, Jessica. The lawyers from both sides will be in the courtroom to ask questions of each prospective juror. They come in in bunches, a dozen or so at a time.”

  “What kind of questions will you ask?”

  “The best are open-ended,” he said. “Gets ‘em to talk freely about themselves.’ While they do that, you and Jill Farkas and others on the team interpret what they say. We already know where they live, their phone numbers, what they do for a living from the questionnaires. What I really need, Jessica, is for you to be my cab driver.”

  “Your what?” I swallowed a spoonful of soup and laughed. “I don’t even drive.”

  “I know that, Jessica. Philip Corboy, the famous trial attorney, once told me how he goes about picking a jury. He had this cab driver friend who’d been driving for thirty-five years. Knew every street, every neighborhood. Knew the city like nobody else. You drive a cab for thirty-five years, or tend bar that long, you develop a damn good insight into what makes people tick. Corboy would go over the juror questionnaires with his cabbie friend, who’d say, ‘Drop this one. Half the people living on that street are cops.’ Or, he’d tell Corboy, ‘Lots of prejudice against Hispanics in that neighborhood. Your client’s Hispanic, right? Don’t pick anybody from that neighborhood.’

  “See? This cab driver added another dimension to what little information Corboy already had about the prospective jurors. Now, I know you don’t live in Boston, and don’t know what a cab driver would know. But you’ve been creating characters for as many years as he’d been driving a cab. And you solve puzzles in every one of your books. That’s what I want you to do for me. Solve the puzzle of which twelve peo
ple will give us the best shake.”

  “Be your cab driver.”

  “Yup. Be my cab driver. They say all great authors are great observers. Take it all in, their appearance, mannerisms, idiosyncrasies, choice of clothes. Listen closely, but don’t take notes. If you’re busy taking notes, you might miss something. Jot things down between panels.”

  “All right. I should tell you, Malcolm, that I have a reason for being here besides wanting to help you select a jury. You see, my publisher visited me in Cabot Cove and—”

  “Well, well, look who’s here,” he said.

  I looked toward the restaurant’s entrance where a half-dozen people waited to be seated. “Who?” I asked.

  “See that elegant lady in the pink-and-white suit?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s Whitney James, the DA prosecuting the Brannigan case.”

  “She’s beautiful,” I said.

  “Cold as ice. Good litigator.”

  We watched as the TV camera turned in Whitney James’s direction, and the reporter and photographer made their way to her. Malcolm guffawed. “Looks like Ms. James doesn’t mind a little publicity herself. Only reason she’s here. Not her kind of place for lunch.” To Heather, who stood at Malcolm’s side: “Corned beef hash on top ’a greens, my dear. And do this again.” He pointed to his empty glass.

  “White wine,” a male voice said.

  Standing behind Malcolm was a tall, handsome sixty-something gentleman whose weather-beaten face contrasted with his wardrobe-double-breasted blue blazer with gold buttons, white shirt, and bright red tie dotted with tiny blue sailboats. His salt-and-pepper beard and mustache were neatly trimmed. I had the immediate impression that his deeply tanned and creased face had been fashioned sipping cocktails on long sailboats and yachts, not clamming at dusk from a small Boston Whaler off Cape Cod.

  “Hello, Malcolm. How do you do it? Always a pretty woman at your side.” The man’s voice came through his nose, making it sound as though speaking was an unpleasant chore; I felt that if he were able to hire someone to speak for him, he’d do it.