A Deadly Judgment (6 page)

“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 people 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.

“Hello, Warren,” said Malcolm, reaching up to shake a limp hand. “Join us?”

“Thank you, no. But you can introduce me to Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Sure. Jessica, meet Warren Parker, man-about-town, friend to the rich and famous, one of Boston’s most prominent socialites.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Parker,” I said.

“My wife is your biggest fan, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“That’s very nice to hear.”

“How did my favorite barrister, here, coax you into abandoning your word processor for the life of jury consultant?”

“Malcolm is, among other things, extremely persuasive,” I answered.

The small laugh that came through his lank lips was as strained as his voice. “So I’ve noticed,” he said. “Whitney found it fascinating when she heard.”

“She’s over there being interviewed,” Malcolm said.

“I know,” said Parker.

“Poisoning the public about Billy Brannigan,” Malcolm said grumpily, sounding for the first time as though the alcohol he’d consumed had had an effect on him. He finished what was in his glass.

“I’d better rescue her,” Parker said. “A pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Fletcher. My wife will be thrilled that I did.” He made his way in Whitney James’s direction, his gait casual, one shoulder dropped slightly lower than the other in what I describe as socialite slouch.

“What does Mr. Warren Parker do for a living?” I asked Malcolm.

“Dates rich, attractive, powerful women—when his wife is at their summer place on the Cape, which is most of the year. He’s good at it.”

“Interesting way to make a living,” I said.

“Actually, he’s a financier. With two character flaws.”

“Oh? What are they?”

“Dating Whitney James?”

“That’s only one,” I said.

“And he hates baked beans. Where the hell is my corned beef? You’d think all they serve in this establishment is whiskey.”

I was apprehensive about meeting Malcolm’s paid professional jury consultant, Jill Farkas. She was a professional; I was a rank amateur treading on her turf.

But my fears were unfounded, at least initially. Ms. Farkas was a handsome, gracious woman partial to tailored brown suits. Her blond hair, streaked with silver, was carefully coiffed. She spoke in modulated tones. My reading of our first meeting said she didn’t resent my presence. Of course, I knew that could change once we disagreed on prospective jurors. But no sense worrying about it now. Tomorrow, when jury selection was to start, was time enough.

Billy Brannigan’s defense team gathered around the small conference table in Malcolm’s office. Brannigan chose to sit in a chair apart from the group.

“Okay,” Malcolm said, having removed his plaid jacket and loosened his tie. “What do we have?” He directed it his assistant defense counsel, Rachel Cohen.

“I tried all morning to get hold of Cynthia Warren, but no luck.”

“Cynthia Warren?” I asked.

“Billy’s alibi,” Malcolm said, looking at his client. Brannigan didn’t react.

“Where do you think she’s gone?” Malcolm asked.

“Probably hasn’t gone anywhere, Malcolm,” Rachel replied. “She knows she isn’t scheduled to testify for at least a week, so there’s no reason for her to be on tap. Maybe it would make sense if we—”

She was interrupted by the sound of the receptionist’s voice over the intercom. “For you, Rachel,” Linda said. “Your baby-sitter.”

“Damn,” Rachel said, jumping up and fairly running from the room.

I couldn’t help but smile. Her dual role as attorney and mother certainly kept her hopping.

“Everybody had a chance to go over the juror questionnaires?” McLoon asked.

“We nodded.

“McLoon looked at his investigator, Ritchie Fleigler. “What have you dug up on the detectives?” he asked.

Fleigler chuckled. “Detective John Sullivan isn’t going to be happy with what I’ve come up with,” he said.

“Why?” McLoon asked.

“Seems he once worked as a Chippendale dancer in New York.”

“What in hell is a Chippendale dancer?” McLoon asked.

“Like female strippers, only the men strip and dance for women.”

“That so?” McLoon said, leaning back, a wicked grin on his face. “One of Boston’s homicide detectives used to take his clothes off in public?”

“Just for a couple of months,” Fleigler said.

“One day is enough,” said McLoon. “What else?”

“Here’s the best part,” said Fleigler. “It seems John Sullivan, now Detective John Sullivan, got fired from his gig as a dancer for allegedly fondling one of his female customers.”

“Music to my ears,” McLoon said. “It’s all documented?”

“I have it right here,” Ritchie said, patting a file folder.

McLoon now turned his attention to his personal assistant, Georgia Bobley. “Are all the logistics in place?” he asked.

“Excuse me,” said Fleigler, “but I have more.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“I have a friend over at the coroner’s office.”

“A female friend, I presume,” said McLoon.

Fleigler smiled. “Of course. Anyway, she tells me they’ve lost some paperwork. Or maybe I should say they’ve lost
the
paperwork.”

“On this case?” McLoon asked.

“Yup. The original of the coroner’s report seems to have disappeared.”

McLoon, who’d been making notes on a yellow legal pad, grunted, “Good.”

Rachel Cohen returned, looking as though she’d been crying. “Malcolm, I have to go,” she said. “Ashley needs stitches. She took a fall, tripped on the stairs at school. The teacher says it’s a pretty bad cut. I’ll have to get her to a plastic surgeon.”

I looked at Malcolm to see whether yet another intrusion into his assistant counsel’s workday had annoyed him. It evidently hadn’t because he smiled and said, “Do what you have to do for that pretty little thing, and give her a big kiss. Tell her Uncle Malcolm says she’s got bad timing.”

“Thanks, Malcolm,” Rachel said. “You’re a sweetheart. Sorry about this. I’ll be back as soon as I get things squared away with the doctor.”

McLoon consulted something he’d written on a second pad. Before he could verbalize it, Billy Brannigan spoke. “I remember once when I fell at the playground,” he said softly. “I must have been around seven but I’ll never forget it. It wasn’t so bad, the cut that is, but nobody could find my mother, so a teacher’s aide and my brother took me to the hospital. I didn’t see my mom until that night and could never understand where she’d been. I was lucky to have my brother, Jack, to take care of me that day. We were real tight growing up, and he’s always been there for me. That’s why I couldn’t understand when he wanted to cut me out of the trust.”

“I don’t want to hear that kind of talk from you again,” Malcolm said, slapping his beefy hands on the table with such force that it caused everyone to sit up straight. “The prosecution claims that’s your motive for killing your brother. Let’s not have anybody in this room even think it, let alone talk about it.”

Billy slumped in his chair like a child who’d been scolded by a parent, and turned away.

I wished Billy Brannigan had said more because I was curious about his growing up in a very rich family. I said, “Sometimes it’s the mental things that leave bigger scars than all the cuts and bruises.”

McLoon ignored my comment. “Okay,” he said, “where were we? I figure jury selection to take about a week. Ritchie, I want you to—”

“Don’t forget the TV interview, Malcolm,” Georgia Bobley interrupted.

“What time is that?” Malcolm asked.

“Five,” she replied.

Malcolm said to me, “I want you with me on this interview, Jessica. Sort of your coming-out party. Don’t worry, you won’t have to say much. I’ll do most of the talking.”

We all chuckled. Malcolm wasn’t telling us anything we didn’t already know.

I started to protest being part of the interview, but he immediately went on to give Ritchie Fleigler a series of instructions about how to investigate the background of certain jurors culled from the list.

He then turned to Jill Farkas: “Anybody get the ax so far?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, explaining why she wanted to dismiss seven people from the prospective juror list, all having to do with their employment. In two cases, they worked for companies that had failed business dealings with Brannigan’s Bean Pot. One of them worked for the district attorney’s brother’s law firm. The rest were connected in some tangential way with law enforcement.

When Jill finished her report, she looked up, smiled, and said, “That’s the easy part. Tomorrow is another story.”

Malcolm ended the meeting: “Time for Jessica and me to get to the interview. I’m sure I’ll be up all night, as usual, but I want you to get some sleep. It’s like the advice I gave my daughter when she was pregnant: ‘Get some sleep during those nine months because after that, you’ll never sleep again.’ See you all in court.”