A Deadly Judgment (24 page)

“But I thought it might be nice to—”

“Please, Seth. Come now.”

Seth arrived within minutes.

“Gorry, Jess, what happened to your face?” he asked the minute he stepped into the suite.

“A long story, Seth. Wait for the others to arrive so I don’t have to repeat it.”

I introduced him to Patty Zeltner, whose previous calm had disappeared at having this stranger enter the picture. But after I explained who Seth was, and he’d chatted pleasantly with her for a few minutes, she visibly relaxed again, enough to make herself another drink from the last miniature bottle of vodka.

“You say you reached McLoon at home,” Seth said.

“Yes. He’s on his way. I think he’s bringing some others from the defense team with him.”

“What’s all this about, Jessica?”

“Again, let’s wait for the others. Tell me about dinner with Jill Farkas.”

“Charming lady. Extremely intelligent. Pretty, too, wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh, yes. Very pretty.”

“Was it a nice restaurant?”

“Ayuh. Unusual. We started with—”

“Would you like me to go into the next room?” Patty asked.

“No need,” I said. “Just personal gossip.”

The desk called to say Mr. McLoon and two others were there to see me.

“Send them up,” I said.

Malcolm, Georgia Bobley, and Rachel Cohen came in together. “Ritchie will be along shortly,” Malcolm said. “Now, why are we here?”

“You remember Dr. Hazlitt,” I said.

“Certainly do. How are you this fine evening, Doctor?”

“Just fine, Mr. McLoon. And you?”

“Curious,” Malcolm replied.

“Jessica!” Rachel said. “What happened to your face?”

“Looks like it’s storytelling time.” They listened with shock and horror to the play-by-play of my near miss on the streets of Cambridge. Patty Zeltner sat quietly in a comer, her drink in hand. When I’d finished, all eyes went to her. I introduced her, and after cursory greetings were exchanged, I launched into what she’d told me at the gallery, and why I’d brought her to the hotel.

As Malcolm began questioning her, he became the trial attorney, the suite his courtroom. He started gently, and supportively. But then his questions sharpened, challenging much of what she said.

“I told Ms. Zeltner she should go to the police with this,” I said during a break in Malcolm’s unofficial cross-examination.

“No,” he responded, shaking his large head and slowly pacing the room. “Not the police.”

“Judge Wilson?” Rachel Cohen asked.

“Yes. But first I want to speak with our distinguished district attorney, Ms. James. I’m not quite sure how to approach her, but I’ll have a strategy by morning.”

“And what do I do?” Patty Zeltner asked.

“You just sit tight, little lady,” Malcolm said. “Is she staying here with you tonight, Jessica?”

“I suppose so. I thought I might see if the hotel has a vacancy.” I smiled at Patty: “I’m sure you’d prefer your own private space.”

Malcolm indicated he wanted to speak privately, and ushered me into the bedroom.

“Yes?” I asked once the door was closed.

“I’d rather she stay here,” he said. “If her story holds up, this case is over and Billy Brannigan’s a free man. I don’t want happening to her what happened to Cynthia Warren.”

“I understand,” I said. “The only problem is that she sets me on edge.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know, her manner, personality, things she said.”

“You’re afraid of her, aren’t you?”

“To be honest? Yes.”

“Why? She says her boyfriend and partner did the killing. Not her.”

“As I said, Malcolm, there’s something about her. One minute she’s a frightened and frail butterfly. The next minute she’s calm, cool, and collected, and drinking vodka from my mini-bar.”

He laughed. “You just don’t want to pay for her drinks.”

“You know me better than that.”

“Why not have your fat physician friend, Hazlitt, stay with you?”

“Fat physician—?”

“Every other fat person is fat to me, Jessica. I’m a large man.”

“Oh.”

“Ritchie will be here any moment. He carries.”

“A gun?”

“Yes. A perk of being private investigator. I’ll tell him to bunk in with you, sleep on the couch. Hell, he can sleep on the floor.”

“No, Malcolm.”

“Why not?”

“Because I wanted Ritchie to spend the night checking on a few things for me.”

“What sort of things?”

“Just to put my mind at rest. I also have an assignment for Georgia, if it’s all right with you. Nothing for you to be concerned about. You have enough on your mind. Based upon what you’ve learned here tonight, what do you intend to do besides approaching Ms. James?”

“Depends on how she reacts. I know this, Jessica. There won’t be a court session tomorrow, unless it involves your Ms. Zeltner, and anybody else you come up with to support her story.”

“Don’t count on that.”

“The way you’ve been going, I wouldn’t be surprised if you walked into Wilson’s chambers tomorrow with Jack Brannigan’s murderer by one ear, Cynthia Warren’s murderer by another, and whoever killed our two alternate jurors dragged behind you in chains.”

“Maybe we should get back to the others,” I said.

“Probably so.”

“Malcolm.”

“Yes?”

“Would it be possible to have an all-points bulletin put out on Gina Simone?”

“Why?”

“Because I think she’s a crucial link to Jack Brannigan’s murder. She’s in Fort Lauderdale.”

“I can call the DA’s office and request she be brought back as a material witness. But I’ll have to give a credible reason for a judge to get up in the middle of the night to issue a warrant.”

“Motive. And opportunity.”

“Are you saying Gina Simone killed Jack Brannigan?”

“I’m saying she had the motive, and the opportunity.”

“What was her motive?”

“Money.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I’ve been following it.”

“Following what?”

“The money trail. Let’s get back. And don’t worry about me. I’ll take your advice and have Dr. Hazlitt keep an eye on us tonight. So? Can I use Ritchie and Georgia tonight to look into a few things for me?”

“They’re at your disposal, Jessica. We all are.”

We met in Judge Walter Wilson’s chambers at four the next afternoon. Because there were so many of us, one of the judge’s clerks had to bring in additional chairs.

Present from the prosecution were District Attorney Whitney James and her assistant, Cliff Cecil.

The defense was represented by Malcolm McLoon, Rachel Cohen, Georgia Bobley, Jill Farkas, and me.

The two alternate jurors, Harry LeClaire and Thomas McEnroe, were there.

So was the accused, Billy Brannigan.

Judge Wilson entered the room and took his seat behind his large desk without as much as a nod at any of us. His face was grim, angry, serious. He glanced at the contents of a folder on the desk, looked up, and said, “In all my years as a prosecutor, and as a judge, I have never seen such a serious breach of the law as represented by the two jurors seated before me today.”

He glared at LeClaire and McEnroe.

“Your Honor, I want a lawyer,” LeClaire said.

“Yes, Mr. LeClaire, I would think you would. Both you and Mr. McEnroe lied to this court when you claimed to have no connection with any figure in this case.”

LeClaire started to speak but Wilson cut him off.

“You, Mr. LeClaire, had borrowed large sums of money from the victim in this case, Jack Brannigan. You were intimately involved with who was to be a prime witness, Cynthia Warren, who was murdered. You were also intimately involved with her friend, a Miss Gina Simone, who had accused the defendant of having attempted to rape her, thus setting up what the prosecution proffered as the motive for the crime. You, sir—and I use that term very loosely—are a disgrace to the American system of jurisprudence!”

“I want a lawyer,” LeClaire repeated.

Wilson ignored him. “And you, Mr. McEnroe, are no better. You intimately knew Ms. Warren, who was to be a witness, in this case.” The judge glanced down at his notes. “And according to information I’ve received as recently as early this morning—very early this morning—there is the strong possibility that you were responsible for Cynthia Warren’s death.”

McEnroe focused on his shoetops. When he looked up, he said in a soft voice, “That’s not true, Your Honor. Who’s accusing me of that. Patty?”

Malcolm stood. “Your Honor, this might be a good time to bring in Ms. Zeltner.”

He’d no sooner said it than one of Judge Wilson’s clerks opened the door to allow Ritchie Fleigler to enter. Malcolm quickly said, “Your Honor, this is my investigator, Mr. Fleigler. Excuse the interruption.”

Ritchie sat between Malcolm and me.

“Well?” I whispered to him.

“She’s back,” he whispered in response.

“The other thing?”

“Bingo.” He placed two rental car receipts on top of a one-page report Georgia Bobley had handed me before the judge’s arrival.

I suppressed a smile because it would have been the only smile in the room.

“May we bring Ms. Zeltner in?” Malcolm asked.

“Yes,” the judge growled.

Patty was escorted into the chambers and asked to sit in a chair in front of the judge. She was back in her nervous mode.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Zeltner,” Wilson said icily.

“Hello,” she said in a barely audible voice.

Wilson looked at Malcolm. “Care to explain this woman’s relation to the Brannigan case, counselor?”

“No, Your Honor. I think Mrs. Fletcher is the one to do that.”

I looked at Malcolm with wide eyes. I hadn’t expected this. I’d filled him in on everything I knew.

“Why?” the judge asked.

“Because she’s the person who brought all this to light, Your Honor. She knows the details better than anyone, including me.”

Judge Wilson looked at me and said, “Mrs. Fletcher, I’m anxious to hear what you have to say.”

“I’d like this on the record, Judge,” DA James said.

“Denied. I want to hear what’s going on off the record before I decide how to proceed. Mrs. Fletcher.”

I drew a deep breath, stood, and rested my hands on the table. “Your Honor, I am obviously not an attorney. I write books for a living.”

“I’m well aware of that, Mrs. Fletcher. And very good ones, I might add.”

“Thank you. Your Honor, Ms. Zeltner contacted me because she was frightened for her life. She told me that she was convinced that Mr. McEnroe here, her partner in their art gallery, had murdered Cynthia Warren. Mr. McEnroe had been one of Ms. Warren’s many lovers, and she’d promised to invest a considerable sum of money in the gallery in order to force Ms. Zeltner out, and to become Mr. McEnroe’s partner.”

Thom McEnroe turned in his chair and stared at Patty. “Are you crazy?” he said.

She avoided his eyes.

“Go on, Mrs. Fletcher,” the judge said. “You’re doing fine, considering you’re not a lawyer. Maybe because you’re not a lawyer. Continue.”

Malcolm grunted.

“I would like to ask Mr. Warren Parker to be present,” I said.

“Warren Parker?” Judge Wilson said, his tone indicating he knew who he was. I looked to Whitney James, who appeared to be surprised, and uncomfortable. “For what purpose, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Your Honor, I insist upon being represented by my lawyer,” Harry LeClaire said.

“You’ll have plenty of time for that, Mr. LeClaire. You aren’t being asked to testify here this afternoon, to say anything. When you and Mr. McEnroe are charged with having lied to this court during voir dire, you can have all the lawyers you want. For now, be quiet. You might learn what your attorneys will face on your behalf.”

“Your Honor,” I said, “Mr. Warren Parker has evidence vital to this case, and we contend that this evidence will prove our defendant, Mr. William Brannigan, to be innocent.” I couldn’t believe I was saying such things as “we contend,” and, “our defendant” with such ease in front of the judge. I glanced at Rachel Cohen, who smiled and gave me a little thumbs-up.

Warren Parker greeted Judge Wilson with a big smile, and did the same to District Attorney Whitney James, who turned away. Parker was the picture of a man at ease. He sat next to Patty Zeltner, crossed one leg over the other, ran his fingers along the razor crease of the top pant leg, and said, “Lovely room.”

“Mr. Parker,” Wilson said, “Mrs. Fletcher has asked that you be present during this hearing.”

Whitney James stood. “Your Honor, that is exactly the point. This is a hearing, and should be on the record.”

“I disagree, Ms. James. Go on, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Mr. Parker, did you tell me that a woman named Gina Simone lied in her claim that Billy Brannigan attempted to rape her?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And did you tell our investigator last night that Ms. Simone had been paid to make that false charge?”

“Right again.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Positive. Ms. Simone and I have been—” He flashed his dazzling smile again. “Let’s just say that Ms. Simone and I have shared occasional pillow talk.”

“And what was said on that pillow, Mr. Parker?” I asked.

“She admitted to me that she’d been paid to come up with the false charge against Billy Brannigan.”

“And did she say
who
paid her?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“She was paid by this gentleman here.” He turned and looked at Harry LeClaire.

LeClaire said nothing. No call for an attorney, no protest of any kind.