A Deadly Judgment (3 page)

“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.

“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—”

“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.”

“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,

“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. Mc
Loon.
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.”

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 Boston 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.”

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.