A Deadly Judgment (7 page)

As Jill Farkas was leaving, she stopped and said to me, “I want you to know, Jessica, how pleased I am that we’ll be working together. Malcolm explained his reasoning for asking you to join the team, and I was in complete agreement. We probably should get together a little earlier tomorrow so I can show you how I work, and to coordinate our efforts.”

“I’m free tonight,” I said. “I mean, after this television interview.”

She smiled brightly. “I think that’s a wonderful idea. Dinner?”

“I’d love it.”

I walked out of the building with Malcolm feeling very excited, like a player on a team the night before the big game. Any annoyance at having been coaxed to Boston under false pretenses had disappeared, and I looked forward to learning about jury selection that night from Jill Farkas.

Following the television interview, Malcolm’s driver dropped me at the hotel. “Don’t stay up too late with Jill,” he said. “It gets tough starting tomorrow. Welcome to the team, Jessica. Anything you want, anything you need, you call me, day or night.”

He then did something that surprised me. He kissed me on the cheek.

I stood on the sidewalk and watched him drive away. A remarkable man, I thought, so filled with energy despite being so grossly overweight, and consuming so much alcohol. Was he now heading for dinner and another round of drinks? I shuddered at the thought.

As I entered the hotel to get ready for dinner, I thought again of being on a team, of getting ready for the big game the following day. That’s when it struck me. When it’s a game, the winner gets a trophy.

In this “game,” the winner doesn’t get a trophy. In this game, the winner gets his life back.

The courthouse in which the Brannigan trial was held was one of two massive buildings on a piazza behind the Center Plaza Building. I stopped to read plaques on each: the older one was erected in 1895; the newer, taller annex went up in 1936. I entered the older building.

It occurred to me as a security guard checked my name against a list that I hadn’t been in a courthouse in years, which could be viewed as strange considering that I make my living writing about crime, particularly murder. But in my books, as in most murder mysteries, the crime is solved long before it gets to a courtroom. Of course, if I followed through on Vaughan Buckley’s suggestion to set my next novel during a trial, I’d be breaking that tradition.

A long table had been set up on either side of the room for the defense and the prosecution. When I arrived, all the other members of the defense team were present, with the exception of Malcolm McLoon. I sat next to Jill Farkas. “I can’t tell you how much I learned last night,” I said, referring to the three-hour dinner we’d enjoyed beneath the cobalt-blue Venetian crystal chandeliers and gold-filigree ceiling of the Ritz-Carlton Dining Room, surrounded by regal draperies and huge picture windows overlooking the Public Garden. With live piano music playing softly in the background, Jill Farkas and I dined on rack of lamb for two, topped off with reckless abandon by enjoying a sinful slice of Boston cream pie. She gave me a primer during dinner on the science of jury selection, how she depended entirely upon computers into which information was fed concerning demographics, neighborhood pattern of behavior, and other telltale indications of how people might react to evidence presented during a trial. I was certainly impressed, although I wondered whether all that high-tech really did a better job than the cab driver Malcolm had told me about.

 

“Where’s Malcolm?” Rachel Cohen asked, nervously looking around the spartan and severe room.

“I don’t know,” Georgia Bobley replied. “I tried him this morning, but he didn’t answer at home or the office.”

A bailiff ordered everyone to rise for the judge’s entrance. As I stood, I noticed for the first time the presence of two Court TV cameras.

The judge, whose name was Walter Wilson, struck me as being surprisingly young. I’ve always pictured judges as being older. I pegged Wilson at forty, give or take a year or two. He was very pale, and had what is commonly called a baby face. He’d prematurely lost a great deal of hair, and took considerable pains to distribute what was left by bringing it up and over the curvature of his bald pate. His face was pleasant, his mouth curving upward into the hint of a perpetual grin. From a distance, I thought his eyes were green. I was surprised by how short he was, again dealing from a stereotype of judges being tall and imposing. All I could envision for a fleeting moment was Judge Wilson batting for his college baseball team.

When everyone was seated, I glanced over at the prosecution table where District Attorney Whitney James sat with her assistant, Cliff Cecil. I then looked to where spectators would sit. That section was empty. I commented on this to Jill Farkas.

“Never during jury selection,” she replied. “Just counsel, the defendant, and the judge. And, of course the prospective jurors.”

“But what about the TV cameras?” I asked.

“Set up and ready to go once the trial starts, but there will be no filming during this phase. By the way, the judge has ruled that the jury will not be sequestered.”

“Isn’t that unusual in a murder case?” I asked, thinking of the O. J. Simpson trial.

“It’s the judge’s call,” Jill replied. “I always prefer a sequestered jury.”

Rachel Cohen and Georgia Bobley kept looking around in search of Malcolm McLoon. “Where is he?” Georgia muttered to herself.

“Is counsel ready on both sides?” Judge Wilson asked.

Rachel Cohen stood. “Your Honor, we’re waiting for Mr. McLoon.”

The judge smiled. “Ah, yes, Mr. McLoon. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“I’m sure he’s in the building, Your Honor. If we could just have a few moments—”

“The court system runs slow enough without having these kind of delays,” said the judge. “We’ll proceed without him. You’re a lawyer, Ms. Cohen. Handle it.”

Wilson instructed the bailiff to bring in the first twenty prospective jurors.

Because they sat in order of numbers they’d been assigned, those of us at counsel tables were able to match individuals with their questionnaires. The twenty men and women seemed to be a cross-section of the population, black and white, male and female, some dressed as though going to work or a party, others dressed down as though they were about to play a soft ball game. Judge Wilson welcomed them and then gave a short speech that we would hear over and over that day, repeated for each successive group of twenty:

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Let me tell you something about this case before we begin. It is a murder case involving a young man from a wealthy family, charged with killing his older brother. Those chosen to sit on this jury will not be sequestered, but will be escorted to and from this courtroom each day by members of the sheriffs department. There will be many admonitions and restrictions placed upon jurors in this case, which must be followed to the letter. Anyone breaching these rules will be subject to criminal prosecution.

“Because of the extensive media coverage of this case, I do not expect any of you to not know something about it. That, in my opinion, does not rule out any of you from serving on this jury, provided what knowledge you do possess can be put aside, and that you can come to this trial with an open mind as to the guilt or innocence of the accused.”

Wilson pointed to Billy Brannigan. “This is the accused in the case, Mr. William Brannigan. He is charged with having killed his older brother, having to do with a family trust for which his older brother was trustee. There will be a great deal of conflicting testimony and evidence, some of it complex where it involves the trust itself. But I’m certain those of you chosen to serve will have no problem in sorting out fact from fiction, and in coming to a fair and just verdict.

“Now, based upon what I have told you, and based upon what you already know about this case, is there anyone here who believes they would have a personal problem serving on this jury?”

One woman raised her hand. She started to say something but Judge Wilson cut her off. “All right, you’re excused,” he said.

Just like that. No questions asked.

“Anyone else?” Wilson asked.

Two more hands went up, and they were dismissed without comment or question.

Seventeen prospective jurors remained seated, which surprised me. It was my assumption that most people tried to get out of jury duty, something I’ve always found dismaying. But here the judge had given them an easy out, and most elected to stay. Either they were especially conscientious—or intimidated.

The judge asked a series of generic questions of the remaining prospects. Satisfied with the responses he received, he turned the questioning over to the district attorney, Whitney James, who stood and issued her own greeting. As she spoke, I took the opportunity to get a better look at her. She was certainly pretty, but not beautiful, her features interesting as opposed to classic. Her demeanor was soothing rather than strident. Of course, I knew that this was her first opportunity to impress prospective jurors. Malcolm had said she was cold as ice, but that wasn’t coming through this morning. She had chosen a neatly tailored suit the color of cranberries; a simple blouse and scarf coordinated with it nicely. A cameo pin adorned a lapel; classic black pumps completed her wardrobe. She’d put her thick brunette hair up into a chignon, and her makeup had been tastefully applied.

Using a prepared list of questions based upon each prospective juror’s questionnaire, Ms. James asked a series of probing questions. When her allotted time was up, Judge Wilson turned to us and said, “You’re up, Ms. Cohen.”

Rachel had no sooner stood and was about to approach the jurors when the courtroom doors opened and Malcolm McLoon blustered through them. By this time, I wondered whether he’d suffered such a massive hangover that he would be incapable of conducting an examination of the jurors. But as he approached the table, I was taken with the bright look in his eyes, and the obvious energy he was feeling. He wore a double-breasted buff suit, pale blue shirt, and a colorful tie of red and green. His arms were laden with file folders.

“Good morning, Mr. McLoon,” said Judge Wilson, the pique in his voice evident.

“Good morning, Your Honor,” Malcolm boomed, dropping the files on the table with great flourish. “My profound apologies to the court, sir, for my late arrival. I was unavoidably detained, the reason for it of little or no interest to this court.”

Judge Wilson leaned forward, narrowed his eyes, and said, “I’ll be the judge of that Mr. McLoon. I intend for this court to start on time each day. Please be advised of that.”

“Of course, Your Honor,” Malcolm said, adding a throaty chuckle. “It shan’t happen again, I assure.”

“No, I’m sure it won’t,” replied Wilson, sighing deeply and sitting back in his high-backed leather chair.

Rachel Cohen quickly handed Malcolm her list of questions. He scanned it quickly, cleared his throat, went to where the prospective jurors sat, and issued a loud, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.”

There were muttered responses.

As Malcolm proceeded to question the men and women, I was impressed with his mental acumen, style, and manner. He seemed to establish an immediate rapport with whatever person he was questioning. At one point, he narrowed in on a woman who’d captured my attention, too, Elizabeth Woo. I’d naturally assumed she was Oriental, as did Malcolm. But she was the picture of Ireland ; her wedding ring solved the mystery. Obviously, this freckled-face, green-eyed, redhead was married to a gentleman named Woo. Malcolm joked with her about that, which brought a mild rebuke from Judge Wilson: “Could we move on to more substantive matters, Mr. McLoon,” he said.

“Of course, Your Honor.”

Which he did, probing their attitudes and feelings about a variety of subjects. Although he’d told me not to take notes, I couldn’t help it, and noticed that Jill Farkas was doing the same.

Malcolm spent what I considered an inordinate amount of time with a young man named Thomas McEnroe, who’d listed his occupation as pottery maker.

“An interesting line of work,” Malcolm said, a big smile across his broad face. “I always admire people who are able to make a living in the arts.”

“Yes,” McEnroe replied. He was a slender, gentle person with soft brown eyes. He wore a T-shirt, blue sports jacket, jeans, and Birkenstock sandals. “I’m one of those fortunate people who is able to make a living doing what he loves most.”

“Fortunate indeed,” said Malcolm. He faced the judge. “Unfortunately, most of us in this room are unable to make the same claim.” Whitney James rolled her eyes. Judge Wilson closed his.

I glanced to my left and saw Jill Farkas write a note next to McEnroe’s name: “Probably resents the rich.”

I looked up just as Malcolm turned and stared at me. He gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head and smiled. I smiled in return. We were on the same wavelength—we liked the pottery maker, Tom McEnroe.

And so it went for the rest of the morning. By lunch, my notes indicated that only two of the remaining seventeen impressed me as possible jury candidates, at least from the defense prospective.

By day’s end, I had come up with five jurors who had my stamp of approval, including the pottery maker, an unemployed construction foreman, a businessman who owned a company that manufactured scissors and tweezers, a housewife whose two children were grown and living on their own, and who’d actually mentioned that she liked baked beans. That comment came about when Malcolm asked her what she enjoyed doing on weekends: “I enjoy being with my husband, friends, barbecuing in the backyard, hot dogs, hamburgers, baked beans, watermelon.” This time, when Malcolm looked at me, his smile was considerably broader. I had to stifle a laugh.