A Deadly Judgment (17 page)

“Mind if I take this with me for the day?” I asked.

“Please do,” Linda said. “Why aren’t you at the trial?”

“Day off, compliments of Mr. McLoon.”

“Lucky you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Georgia called a few minutes ago. Judge Wilson has revoked Billy’s bail.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Did she say who replaced Ms. Montrone on the jury?”

“A woman. She didn’t tell me what number alternate she was.”

“You’re sure it was a woman?”

“That’s what she said.”

The phone rang. Linda picked it up. I started to leave but she motioned for me to stay. “Yes, I understand,” she said to the caller. “Of course. That’s terrible. She’s right here.” She extended the phone to me.

“Hello?”

“Jessica. It’s Malcolm. Glad I caught you there.”

“What’s going on?”

“Many things, none of them good. We’re in a recess. Can you come to the courthouse right away?”

“Yes, of course. But why?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here.”

I handed the phone back to Linda. “What’s this all about?” I asked. She’d obviously been told something by McLoon that had prompted her to say, “that’s terrible.”

“Malcolm said Billy’s alibi has gone up in smoke.”

“His alibi went up in smoke the day Cynthia Warren was murdered.”

“I don’t know what he meant. He sounded very upset.”

“I’d better get down there, Linda. Thanks for the file. It’s safe with me.”

When I arrived, Malcolm, Rachel, Georgia, Jill Farkas, and Ritchie Fleigler were in a conference room set aside for use by the defense team. Their faces were decidedly grim. If I didn’t know better, I would have looked for a casket and corpse.

“What’s happened?” I asked.

“This,” Malcolm said, tossing a photocopy of a letter on the table in front of me.

The letter was written on Cynthia Warren’s letterhead, and was dated the day of her murder. It consisted of three typewritten paragraphs:

It was signed “Cynthia Warren.”

“How did this surface?” I asked.

“The DA proffered it in court this morning,” Rachel said.

“How did they get it?” I asked.

There were shrugs around the table.

“Judge Wilson has the original,” Malcolm said.

“A postmark?” I asked.

“Harwichport, Cape Cod,” Georgia Bobley said.

“She must have mailed it that morning, just before she was murdered,” Ritchie offered.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

They all looked at me.

“She was dressed in pajamas and a robe,” I said. “Remember, Ritchie?”

He nodded.

“And her hair wasn’t combed. I doubt if she’d showered yet. Ms. Warren was an extremely attractive girl. Every picture shows her neat as a pin, perfect in every way.”

“Maybe she threw on some clothes to mail it, then returned home and got back into her pj’s and robe,” said Malcolm.

“No,” I said. “She would not have gone to the post office, or anywhere else for that matter, without first making herself look good. I think someone else mailed that letter.”

“Someone she asked?” Georgia said.

“Or someone who wanted that letter mailed,” I said. “Is it her signature?”

“I have a call in to the best handwriting expert in New England,” Malcolm replied.

“I didn’t see a typewriter or a computer when I was there,” I said. “Did you, Ritchie?”

He thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think I did.”

“Doesn’t mean she didn’t have one in a closet, or in some sort of cabinet,” Jill Farkas said.

“No, it doesn’t,” I agreed. “Just an observation.”

“What happens now?” Georgia asked Malcolm.

“Wilson has scheduled arguments at one on allowing the letter into evidence. I’ll offer a motion to suppress it on discovery grounds, at least request a continuance until we’ve had the handwriting expert examine it. Whitney claims they just received it this morning. My instincts tell me they’ve had it longer than that, and were holding it as their trump card in the event things were going poorly for them—which they have been.”

I wondered as I sat there whether Malcolm had shared with the others the evident link between Cynthia Warren and one of our alternate jurors, Harry LeClaire. I assumed not, since no one brought it up. I certainly wasn’t about to.

Malcolm changed the subject by asking Jill Farkas for a reading on the alternate juror who’d taken Marie Montrone’s place on the jury. She reported that according to her analysis, the new juror was not as likely to be in our camp as Ms. Montrone had been, but wasn’t a threat, either. She was older than Ms. Montrone, a retired travel editor who’d worked for the Boston Globe for twenty-five years.

“She’s likely to view young people with some disdain,” Jill said. “Her choice in clothing is old-fashioned and proper. Remember when she answered the questions? Precise in her use of language, which is to be expected from an editor. I’d try to work in any material on how Billy wasn’t like most of his peers, dressed nicely, respected his parents, did well in school. Those things will impact favorably upon her.”

“Good suggestion,” said Malcolm.

Jill looked at me. “Do you agree, Jessica?”

“Yes.”

“I’m pleased to hear that,” Jill said.

Ritchie checked his watch. “Time for lunch,” he said. “I’m starved.”

“Yes, go to lunch. Make it a quick one,” Malcolm said.

“Do you want me here this afternoon?” I asked.

“Let’s talk about that,” Malcolm said. “Go on, the rest of you get lunch. Georgia, bring me back the usual.”

They filed from the room. When Malcolm and I were alone, he said, “What do you think?”

“About the possibility that Harry LeClaire might have had something to do with that letter?”

“Exactly.”

“But why would he want to buy such a letter from Cynthia Warren?”

“Because for some reason, he wants to see Billy convicted.”

“But if she was paid ten thousand dollars by him, and did write the letter, he wouldn’t have any reason to kill her. Would he?”

“I figured I’d leave that for you to find out, Jessica.”

I filled him in on having visited LeClaire Metals, and Harry LeClaire’s home.

“Learn anything?”

“Only that the two people I spoke with at LeClaire Metals knew who Cynthia Warren was.”

“Maybe read about her murder in the papers.”

I shook my head. “No, Malcolm, I had the feeling—and that’s all it was, a gut feeling—that the mention of her name triggered a reaction in them that goes beyond knowing Cynthia simply as a murder victim who made the papers.”

“Uh-huh. So what do you intend to do now?”

“First, I want to speak with Jill about the rest of the jurors. Which one, if any, feels the way Ms. Montrone did about Billy’s innocence. Speaking of him, I heard Judge Wilson revoked his bail.”

“That’s right. Pure political decision. Billy’s devastated by it. He’ll call a cell his home until this is over.”

“Poor thing.”

“There’s one advantage.”

“What’s that?”

“As long as he’d behind bars, no one can accuse him of murdering anybody else. I take it you don’t want to be here this afternoon.”

“I had some other things I thought I might do.”

“Then do them. I’ll call you in the car if I need you.”

“Not in this car, Malcolm. I’m being driven around town in a plain old Chevy sedan.”

“Then check in with Linda on a regular basis.”

“That I’ll do. Do you know what, Malcolm?”

“What?”

“I don’t believe that letter for a minute.”

The change in Jill Farkas’s attitude toward me over the past few days was unmistakable.

When I’d first met her, she was extremely cordial, and certainly helpful. The dinner at my hotel, during which she’d so generously shared her expert knowledge about jury selection, remained a highlight of my courtroom adventure.

But the warm and giving Jill Farkas was now cold and standoffish, which was why I was hesitant to ask her for her latest jury analysis. But I didn’t let that stop me.

I cornered her when she returned from lunch. “Jill, could we spend a few minutes together before you go back into the courtroom?” I asked.

She looked at her watch. “I suppose.”

“Just a few minutes. I promise.”

She sighed, rolled her eyes, and followed me into the empty conference room. “What is it?” she asked the moment we were inside.

“I’m working on a project for Malcolm, which I’m sure he’ll explain it to you at some point. But right now, I need to know whether you’ve identified any of the jurors who might be leaning in the same direction that Juror Number Seven had been. Someone you think might have already decided that Billy is innocent.”

She pulled a computer printout from her briefcase and scanned it. “If I had to choose one person on that jury we can count on, it would be Juror Number Ten.”

I had my notes in front of me, and found the biographical section dealing with Juror Number Ten. He was a black man named Karl Jerome, who worked as a chef at Grendel’s Den, on Winthrop Street, in Cambridge. He was thirty-seven years old, divorced, and lived in Cambridge.

“What about the analysis you ran on the alternates?” I asked.

She answered by shoving the papers back in her briefcase and standing. “I’m still working on it.” With that she was gone.

I was hungry as I left the courthouse (Malcolm had delivered to him a hero piled high with liverwurst, and smeared with mayonnaise), but I decided to grab a quick bite on my way. I got in the Chevy sedan and gave Cathie an address in Somerville, a community northeast of Cambridge. We drove along the Charles River on Storrow Drive until crossing the river at the Charles River Dam. That put us on Somerville Avenue, also known as the Monsignor O’Brien Highway. Eventually, we came to a stop in front of a pretty two-story house on Walnut Street.

“Did you follow the news accounts of the alleged rape attempt by Billy Brannigan of a young lady named Gina Simone?” I asked.

“Sure,” she replied. “There was a lot of controversy over her name being made public, wasn’t there?”

“That’s right, according to what I’ve read. Her name was withheld until she waived her right to privacy. That’s when it became public.”

“It was a big story here in Boston because of the Brannigan family. I remember when she dropped the charges.”

“What was the prevailing public opinion about that, Cathie?”

“I think most people figured the Brannigan family had bought her off. But then it came out that because of the charge, the trust fund the Brannigan family had set up for Billy was going to be canceled, if that’s what you do with a trust fund.”

“Strange, wasn’t it, that the trust said only that if Billy Brannigan were
charged
with a crime involving moral turpitude, his older brother, Jack, could cut Billy off.”

“I guess so.” Cathie looked to the two-story house. “Who lives here?”

“Gina Simone, according to my information.”

“Why would you want to talk to her?”

“To try and put some pieces together. Where’s my hat?”

Cathie laughed and handed it to me. I put it on, along with my sunglasses, got out of the car and went to one of two front doors. I checked the names over the buzzers. Gina Simone lived in the right-hand unit.

It took a few minutes for Ms. Simone to respond. She wore white shorts, a teal T-shirt, and was barefoot. Her tan was deep and rich, as though she’d just returned from an extended vacation on some tropical island. But it wasn’t the way she dressed that had my immediate attention. She was the same attractive young woman I’d seen in photographs at Cynthia Warren’s home the day of her murder.

“May I help you?” she asked.

“Yes. You are Gina Simone?”

“Yes.”

I started to introduce myself with the same false name I’d used at LeClaire Metals, but decided that was silly. I was under no court restriction when it came to talking to anyone than jurors. I removed the floppy canvas hat and sunglasses and said, “My name is Jessica Fletcher.”

Ms. Simone’s large brown eyes opened wide. “Yes, I can see that,” she said. “You’re the famous mystery writer.”

“Well, I am a mystery writer. May I come in?”

“Why?” she asked, frowning. “I don’t mean to be rude, Mrs. Fletcher, but why would you be visiting me?”

I started to answer but she cut me off. “You’re working with Billy Brannigan’s defense team.” There was an edge to her voice.

“Yes, I am. But I was also the one who discovered the body of—”

“Cynthia.”

“Yes, Cynthia. Your friend.”

“Why do you say my
friend?”

“Because when I was inside Cynthia’s house, I saw pictures of you with her.”

“So what?”

“Well, I suppose I’m wondering why the young man with whom she was involved, Billy Brannigan, would have attempted to rape someone who was obviously her good friend.”