A Deadly Judgment by Jessica Fletcher Read Free Book Online Page A

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.