A Deadly Judgment by Jessica Fletcher Read Free Book Online

downed half of his second drink, wiped his fleshy mouth with a cloth napkin tucked into his shirt collar, and asked in a low, gravelly voice, “Did you go over the list of jurors?”
    “Yes.”
    “Based upon what I’ve seen, I’d say we’ve got a good pool to select from. Agree?”
    “I don’t know. As I told you, I’ve never been involved in selecting a jury. Maybe this was a mistake, asking me to help you.”
    “Nonsense. Besides, you’ll be working with one of the best jury selection experts in the country.”
    “I will?”
    “Jill Farkas. Know her?”
    “No.”
    “You’ll meet her this afternoon. Good thing Brannigan has plenty of money. She costs a bloody fortune.”
    Heather served me a steaming bowl of lobster bisque with huge chunks of half-submerged lobster, and a salad of fresh greens covered with real bacon bits. She placed Malcolm’s third drink in front of him. The momentary lull in the conversation gave me a few seconds to further evaluate my reason for being there. If Malcolm had hired a high-priced professional jury consultant, and had lobbied to have Court TV cover the trial, then my presence was solely to add name appeal. I wasn’t America’s most famous writer, but I had enjoyed considerable media exposure over the years. Besides, I was a writer of murder mysteries, which undoubtedly added a certain additional appeal.
    “Malcolm,” I said, “I—”
    “How’s the soup?”
    “I haven’t tasted it yet.”
    “Better do so before it gets cold. While you enjoy it, let me give you a fast course in picking juries, Malcolm McLoon style. The first thing—”
    “Malcolm, could we first talk about my role here?”
    “That’s what I’m doing. Here’s the way I want you to approach it.”
    “Malcolm—”
    “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