A Deadly Judgment (8 page)

The fifth acceptable juror was a young woman who was an actress, turned waitress. She indicated it was her dream to complete the circle and become an actress again.

Toward the end of the afternoon, Judge Wilson summoned Malcolm and Whitney James into his chambers. Before he did, he informed the rest of us that court was in recess until nine the following morning.

Rachel Cohen left the courthouse immediately—something to do with a problem at home. Georgia Bobley said she was heading back to the office to take care of some administrative problems. I didn’t know where Billy Brannigan was; he seemed to have disappeared once court was let out.

I sat outside in the marble hallway and waited for Malcolm to emerge. When he did, he came through the large leather doors with such force that I thought they might come off their hinges. He was obviously angry. I got up and said, “What’s next?”

“What’s next is a drink. Come on.”

“The press is waiting outside,” I said, falling in step with him. “You promised them a press conference.”

“The hell with them,” he said. “I have nothing to say.”

With Malcolm parting the press like Moses parting the Red Sea, I followed him down to where our chauffeur-driven car waited. “You seem upset,” I said.

“You bet I am. That damn Whitney James is showing her true colors already.” He fell silent for the rest of the ride, and I didn’t intrude upon it.

We pulled up in front of the Union Oyster House, the oldest continuous service restaurant in the United States. I’d been there before, but it had been a while ago. By the time we entered, Malcolm seemed to have regained some of his good nature. He greeted people as we proceeded to a table in the comer on which a card had been placed: RESERVED. “My table,” Malcolm said, holding out a chair for me. “My own little comer of the world.”

“You seem to have little corners of your own all over town,” I said.

“Makes me happy,” he said, calling for a waiter. “A couple of dozen oysters, and my usual. You, Jess?”

“Mineral water with lime,” I said.

The place was filling up, a series of old small rooms now bustling with businessmen and women, and tourists enjoyed freshly shucked oysters and beer or cocktails.

With our drinks served, I asked Malcolm what had upset him.

“Whitney is using her preemptive rights to dismiss four out of the five jurors you and I agree on.”

“What a shame. Which one will she accept?”

“The pottery maker, McEnroe.”

“I noticed Jill Farkas write a note about him,” I said. “She thinks he might harbor resentment for the rich.”

“Malcolm shook his large, leonine head. “I like him. You like him. That’s enough for me.”

If time does, indeed, go by quickly when you’re having fun, the week of jury selection should have progressed at a snail’s pace. It was hard work, attempting to look into the minds and hearts of a couple of hundred men and women in whose hands Billy Brannigan’s life would be placed.

But the week did go by quickly. There was spirited debate between defense and prosecution over some of the individuals, but in most cases the prospective jurors came and went until, at some time Friday afternoon, a panel of twelve acceptable to both sides had been chosen, along with six alternates. The trial itself would commence at nine Monday morning.

The strengths and weaknesses of Billy Brannigan’s defense team, headed by the flamboyant and larger-than-life Malcolm McLoon, came to the surface during that week. As brilliant an attorney as Malcolm was—and that was evident during his questioning of the prospective jurors—he would never win any awards for organization. He shot from the hip at every turn, which brought a series of objections from Whitney James, as well as from Judge Wilson. None of this fazed Malcolm. Instead, it seemed to spur him on to greater eloquence, obviously reveling in the combat, something all successful trial attorneys must enjoy if they are to face the battle day after day, year after year, case after case.

But it made me uncomfortable as I went about my chore of evaluating responses to questions from Malcolm and Whitney James. What began to bother me was the whole process of jury selection was not, it seemed to this layperson, predicated upon finding twelve open-minded, fair, and impartial men and women. Instead, the game was to pick as many jurors who might have a predisposition to favor acquittal. Whitney James, of course, was looking for twelve men and women who would come into the court wanting to hang Billy Brannigan.

But that was too esoteric for me to deal with. Great legal scholars. I suppose, have debated that aspect of our legal system for centuries.

The only tangible conflict I experienced began to emerge the second day of jury selection, and it came from a not unexpected source, Malcolm’s highly-paid professional consultant, Jill Farkas. I certainly was willing, even anxious to defer to her expertise. But there were a few times when I genuinely and fervently disagreed with her. Because I was there at Malcolm’s behest, I felt it was my duty to present my opinions to him, which didn’t always set well with Ms. Farkas. Although she tried to present a quiet, reasoned, and professional demeanor, I could sense her growing irritation when we debated our respective views.

I tried to leave behind the pressures and intensity of each court day, to compartmentalize it. Once I left the courtroom, I was free to do what I wished, and made it a point to avoid anything having to do with the trial. That is, when Malcolm and the press, allowed me to do that.

Reporters were everywhere, Malcolm complained a great deal about them, but also seemed to bask in their harsh lights. He also seemed determined to include me in his life, night and day. I managed to avoid accompanying him on most of his nightly sojourns, taking every opportunity to slip away to my sumptuous suite in the Ritz to soak in a hot tub, read a good book, and get to bed early.

But I couldn’t do it every night without seeming rude.

Malcolm’s evenings were spent at tables reserved for him in favored watering holes where he held court with friends and cronies, well-wishers, critics, reporters, detractors, politicians, and cab drivers.

Judging from Malcolm’s schedule during the week, I assumed we’d be working right through the weekend. But to my surprise when court ended Friday afternoon, he announced that our only weekend commitment was a meeting on Saturday afternoon in his office, which he promised wouldn’t last more than an hour. Aside from that, Malcolm urged us to enjoy Saturday and Sunday in order to be fresh on Monday morning.

The major source of concern at the Saturday meeting was the whereabouts of Cynthia Warren, the young lady from Cape Cod who, according to Billy Brannigan, could provide an alibi for him the night his brother, Jack, was murdered. Ritchie Fleigler, Malcolm’s investigator, said he’d gone to the Cape in search of Ms. Warren but found no one at home.

“Probably off on a brief vacation,” Rachel Cohen offered.

“Hell of a time to take a vacation,” Malcolm said. “The faster we get her on the stand once we start our case, the quicker this thing can be wrapped up. Keep after her, Ritchie,” he said. “Unless the prosecution throws us a curve, I don’t see their case going more than a week. I want her ready the minute we take over.”

I returned to the Ritz-Carlton immediately after the meeting and called Mort Metzger and Seth Hazlitt in Cabot Cove. They’d been reading newspaper articles about the trial and my role in it, and Seth had subscribed to Court TV just to see me on television.

“I don’t think you’ll see much of me,” I said.

“‘course I will. They always show the defendant’s reactions. You’ll be sittin’ right there with him, won’t you?”

“I suppose so.”

“Boston Globe
says you and this professional consultant, Farkas is her name, aren’t getting along too good,” Seth said.

“That’s not true, Seth. She’s a very nice woman, and knows a great deal.”

“Well, all I can say, Jessica, is that it still doesn’t make any sense to me to have you selection’ jurors in a murder case. That’s a big burden.”

“I’m well aware of that,” I said, feeling the weight of it. “I have to go. Mort says I should try to use my influence to keep cameras out of courtrooms.”

“Did he now? How do you feel about it?”

“Too early to have an opinion. I suppose I’ll develop one as the trial progresses. Good talking to you, Seth. I’ll stay in touch.”

I spent the rest of Saturday playing tourist, strolling the crazy-quilt, bumpy brick sidewalks of Beacon Hill, stopping to admire the few remaining authentic “purple panes,” a fluke that occurred when manganese oxide reacted with the sun on glass shipped to Boston in the early nineteenth century to create an unusual lavender color.

After a stop at Caffe Bella Vita where I sat outside, sipped an espresso, and watched the world go by, I headed to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in the Kenmore Square/Fenway section and feasted on the works of Botticelli, Manet, and Matisse. My timing was perfect; a classical music concert featuring a local string quartet started at five, and I took it in, allowing the music to wash away the cares of the week.

The markets of the Italian North End were still open when I arrived, and I ate dinner on the move, a little something from this vendor, something else from another. By the time I returned to the hotel, I felt completely rested and at ease. There was no trial, no jury, no matters of life and death. Just me, Boston, and the contemplation of yet another day at my leisure.

I slept late Sunday morning, at least by my standards, and took a croissant and coffee from Cafe de Paris to the Public Garden. It was a “fat morning,” as Seth Hazlitt liked to say, a cobalt-blue sky, refreshing breeze, and abundant sunshine. I found a bench near the famed Swan Boats and enjoyed my breakfast. It was one of those special moments in which everything seemed in balance, the Swan Boats gliding by on pedal power as they have for more than a century since an English immigrant and shipbuilder first introduced them to the Public Garden’s lagoon. Children waved to me as they passed, and I waved back.

Until I realized I was sitting at the scene of Jack Brannigan’s murder. How could I have forgotten that? He’d been knifed to death while in one of the boats as it sat moored that night with its five sister vessels. What had Jack Brannigan been doing there? I wondered. Did he routinely go to the lagoon at night for solitude, or was he meeting someone? Meeting his younger brother, Billy? Not according to Billy and his alibi, Cynthia Warren.

The intrusion of murder into my idyllic scene covered it with a blanket of suspicion and dread. I tossed the remains of my breakfast into a trash can and returned to the hotel where I spent the afternoon making notes for my next novel. Unfortunately, reality had settled in again.

Malcolm called me at six to invite me to join him for dinner, which I declined.

“Ready for tomorrow?” he asked.

“I suppose so.”

“As I’ve told you, Jessica, your role is just beginning. I want you there keeping your eyes trained on the men and women in that jury box. I want to know at the end of every day who’s falling asleep, who’s nodding at what Whitney is saying, and who’s screwing up their face every time she opens her mouth. Jury consultants just don’t choose a jury, Jess. They’re a lawyer’s eyes and ears throughout the trial.”

“I understand,” I said.

“You sound down,” Malcolm said.

“I was at the Swan Boats this morning,” I said. “Where Jack Brannigan was killed. I suppose it sobered me.”

“Well, don’t dwell on it,” he said. “Get yourself a good night’s sleep. See you tomorrow.”

I had dinner in my room, and went to bed at ten after finishing
Dirty Story
by Eric Ambler, a wonderful mystery I’d never gotten around to reading. It took a long time to fall asleep. Each time I was close to it, a picture appeared on an imaginary screen in front of me. I’d open my eyes and peer at it. Jack Brannigan was arguing with someone in the Swan Boat. I could see him clearly; I’d seen photographs of him in Malcolm’s office. But his assailant was in shadows. And then, just before the screen and the picture disappeared, I saw Billy Brannigan ram a knife into his brother’s chest.

“Please, don’t let him be guilty,” I said aloud after one of the screenings. “Let it be a demented, warped, sadistic stranger with a knife.”

Finally, sleep came, but not soon enough, or with enough peace to refresh me. I woke up Monday morning feeling dreadfully hung over, not from alcohol, but from a system that hadn’t sufficiently shut down.

The trial was about to begin.

“All rise!”

Judge Wilson, resplendent in his black robe, entered the courtroom at precisely nine o’clock Monday morning. He took his seat behind the bench and said, “Good morning ladies and gentlemen.”

“Good morning, Your Honor,” we responded, along with the twelve jury members and six alternates. Wilson glanced up at the television cameras at the rear of the room and made what I considered to be a face of displeasure. He then turned his attention to a sheaf of papers before him.

Our entire team was present, including Malcolm, whose new blue suit served to trim him a little, at least perceptually. As usual, he looked bright, rested, and ready for a vigorous day despite what I was sure had been a late night. Billy Brannigan was dressed in a conservative gray suit, white shirt, and red-white-and-blue tie. Jury consultant Jill Farkas, Rachel Cohen, and Malcolm’s personal assistant, Georgia Bobley, all looked as though they might have chosen their clothing from the same shop—tailored suits, muted blouses, and sensible shoes.

While Judge Wilson continued to peruse the papers on the bench, I took the opportunity to focus on each member of the jury. The twelve who would make the ultimate decision—providing none of them dropped out during the course of the trial—consisted of eight women and four men. There was a housewife, an art collector, the actress-turned-waitress, a high school teacher, an auto mechanic, a secretary, a single mother of a college-aged child, an advertising executive, an accountant at a city hospital, a chef, fireman, and a real estate broker. Three were Irish-American. Two Italian-Americans had been to Ireland; one liked it, one didn’t. Four were black, one was Hispanic, one had been born in the old Soviet Union, and the twelfth had been born in Israel but raised in Boston.