“I’m sorry, Mr. Parker, but—”
“It’s Warren. Remember?”
“Don’t spoil an otherwise nice evening,” I said. “If you have something that would clear Billy Brannigan, you have a legal and moral obligation to come forward with it, publicly and openly. No need for a quiet, private spot.”
He sat back, his expression exaggerated shock. “Are you suggesting that I’m not a good citizen, Jessica?”
“I’m suggesting that—”
Seth returned to the table. “Did I miss anything?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“What was it I missed?”
I looked Warren Parker in the eye and said, “Mr. Parker—Warren—knows something that will help free Billy Brannigan.”
Parker’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth formed a straight line.
“Isn’t that true, Warren?”
His smile returned. “Your friend here drives a hard bargain,” he said.
Seth smiled, too. “She always has. Beneath that pleasant exterior is a woman made of steel. What is it you know, Warren, that would help Mr. Brannigan?”
I read Parker’s face. He knew I’d put him in an awkward spot, and was trying to decide how to slip out of it smoothly, and without loss of face. He examined his fingernails for a moment before saying, “It’s hardly the sort of thing to be discussed in so public a place. But I will tell you this, Jessica. The rape charge brought against your client was false.”
“Gina Simone lied?”
“Oh, yes.”
“That’s
hardly a revelation,” I said. “She withdrew the charge, ostensibly because she didn’t want to go through the rigors of a trial. I’ve always wondered whether she withdrew because she knew she was lying, and was afraid someone could prove it.”
Parker’s smile was smug as he said, “And you are looking at that person,” he said.
“That’s
interesting, Warren. Perhaps you’d like to elaborate.”
“Oh, I would very much. But at another time. Free for lunch tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Pity. Well, time to call it a night. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the evening, Jessica. Seth.”
“Fine meal,” Seth said. “Sure I can’t help with the bill?”
“Absolutely not. My treat. We’ll do it again another time. In the meantime, Jessica, you might think about who benefited most from having Billy Brannigan charged with rape.”
I said it instantly: “His brother, Jack, of course. Billy’s share of the trust would go to him.”
Parker laughed. “You’re as astute in person as you are in your books.”
“Are you saying Jack Brannigan arranged for Gina Simone to claim Billy attempted to rape her?”
“Give me a call when you’re free,” Parker said, handing me his business card. “Safe home. Good night, Doctor. Always a pleasure to be with a physician when you don’t need one. By the way, that’s a striking tie. Italian?”
“Filene’s Basement.”
“Ah, yes. Filene’s. Excuse me. I see someone I’ve been trying to catch up with all week.” He joined another table.
It wasn’t until we were in the Ritz-Carlton lobby that Seth brought up the conversation between Parker and me. “What was that all about?” he asked.
“The Brannigan trial,” I replied.
“I gathered that,” he said as we waited for the elevator. “Sounded to me like Parker was sayin’ that your client’s brother deliberately set him up.”
“That’s exactly what he was saying.”
“Not a very brotherly thing to do.”
“No, it’s not. Nightcap in my suite?”
“Only if you’ll fill me in a little about what’s goin’ on here. I’ve been following the trial on Court TV, know pretty much the basic story. But it looks like there’s more than us television spectators are aware of.”
“You are absolutely right, Seth. Come on. The mini-bar is always open to a visitor from Cabot Cove. And I need some good, old-fashioned, hard-headed Maine wisdom.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Spending an hour with Seth in my suite was therapeutic.
I suppose I shared more with him than I should have, considering Malcolm’s admonition to me to keep it strictly between us. But I’d reached the point of needing feedback. Besides, if there’s anyone in the world I trust to keep confidences, it’s Seth Hazlitt. In all the years we’ve been friends, I’ve never known him to betray anyone, especially me.
I didn’t blame Malcolm for not having the time to fully discuss what I’d learned, or the ramifications of it. He was up to his neck in a trial that had started out promising for the defense, but had turned problematic.
I told Seth everything. I showed him the notes I’d made, and recounted my jailhouse visit to Billy Brannigan, including Billy’s offhand comment that his brother, Jack, had loaned a large sum of money to “the tweezer guy,” undoubtedly Harry LeClaire.
And now, according to Warren Parker, Jack Brannigan had arranged for Gina Simone’s charge of rape against Billy in order to receive Billy’s share of the trust set up by their father. I tended to believe Parker, even though it was obvious he was playing out some sort of vindictive behavior where DA Whitney James was concerned. Helping acquit Billy Brannigan would go a long way to satisfying that need for revenge.
“How do you think Jack Brannigan might have arranged with Gina Simone to bring a false charge?” I asked.
“Paid her.” Seth seldom used more words than necessary to make his point.
“Which meant Jack Brannigan knew Gina well enough to offer her money,” I said.
Seth finished a brandy he’d poured and placed the small snifter on the coffee table. “Not necessarily,” he said. “Allow me to create a scenario?”
“Sure. I’ve run out of them.”
“Let’s say, Jessica, that this LeClaire fella, this ‘tweezer guy,’ couldn’t pay Jack Brannigan the money he owed him.”
“All right.”
“And let’s say Jack Brannigan offered him a way out.”
“Yes?”
“Let’s say Jack Brannigan suggested that if LeClaire could arrange for someone to charge Billy with rape, he’d forgive the debt LaClaire owed him.”
“I buy that. Go on.”
“You say LeClaire knew both Ms. Warren and Ms. Simone. He could have paid Ms. Simone—”
“But he paid Cynthia Warren,” I interrupted.
“Perhaps she was supposed to share the money with her friend, Ms. Simone.”
“Possible. That would mean Ms. Warren sold her boyfriend, Billy, down the river.”
“From what you told me about Ms. Warren and her past, it wouldn’t come as a shock. Billy told you that she and her friend, Ms. Simone, were sort of party girls.”
“Yes, he did.”
“Then again, Ms. Warren might have been paid for something entirely different.”
“To deny she was with Billy the night of Jack’s murder,” I said.
“Could be.”
“But who would have murdered Cynthia?”
“Could have been LeClaire to keep her quiet. Could have been Ms. Simone—to keep her quiet. Then again, it could have been someone not connected with the trial.”
“I don’t believe that,” I said.
Seth stood and stretched. “Ayuh,” he said. “You’re probably right. Time for me to get to bed, Jessica. Shopping for clothes always tuckers me out.”
I walked him to the door. “Your tie was a hit,” I said.
“Thanks to you. Breakfast?”
“Sure. Seven-thirty downstairs?”
“I’ll be there. We can continue this discussion over ham and eggs.”
“Would you like to attend the trial today?” I asked Seth at breakfast.
“Ayuh,” he replied, using that familiar Maine expression that means, generally, yes. “Can you arrange it?”
“I think so. Crowds have been big, but the prosecution and defense each have a number of seats assigned to them. I’ll call right now.”
We arrived at the courthouse a little before nine. Seth took a seat in the spectator section, and I joined Malcolm, Rachel, Georgia, and Jill Farkas at the defense table. Jill was surprisingly pleasant this particular morning. As we awaited Judge Wilson’s arrival, she said, “Your doctor friend is charming, Jessica. And handsome, I might add.”
“Yes, he is.”
“Is he married?”
“Is he? No, he’s not.”
“Hmmm. Would you mind if I asked him for dinner tonight?”
“No. Why would I mind?”
“I just thought you and he might be—”
“Seth and I are good, old friends. If he wants to have dinner with you, then he should.”
She squeezed my arm. “Thanks,” she said. “You’re terrific.”
I was spared the need to reply when Judge Wilson entered the courtroom. We all stood until he’d taken his seat behind the bench, rapped his gavel, and announced that The People of Massachusetts versus William Brannigan was in session. I glanced over at Billy, who sat placidly—no, numb was a better description. I realized as I looked at him that I couldn’t imagine anything worse than being locked up in jail, especially for a crime you hadn’t committed. I shuddered at the thought, and wrapped my arms about myself. It was warm in the courtroom that morning, but I was chilled from within.
District Attorney Whitney James continued presenting the prosecution’s case. I did what I’d previously done when in the courtroom, analyzed the reactions of each juror, and made notes of my observations.
Naturally, I spent a great deal of time looking at “the tweezer guy,” Harry LeClaire, and the potter, Thomas McEnroe.
LeClaire was a handsome man in a smarmy way, thick-lipped and with a full head of black hair that had begun to show gray at the temples. He seemed to be bored most of the time.
Thorn McEnroe was a different type, youthful and with an open and expressive face.
I also paid particular attention to Juror Number Ten, the African-American chef, Karl Jerome, who Jill had identified as the most likely of the twelve jurors to acquit Billy. His reactions to Whitney James’s presentation of witnesses, and Malcolm’s cross-examination of them, did nothing to change that opinion for me. He paid keen attention to everything going on, and took more notes than any of the others.
But while it was comforting to have such a juror, it caused a parallel dread in me. What if my speculation was correct, that Juror Number Seven, Marie Montrone, had been run down because she seemed to be leaning in favor of acquittal ? If so, did that place Juror Number Ten, Karl Jerome, in harm’s way?
Seth declined to join us for lunch because he wanted to do some research at Harvard’s medical library. “Might as well take advantage of that library while I’m here,” he told me. “Are we havin’ dinner together?”
I smiled, said, “That depends upon whether you’re having dinner with Jill Farkas.”
He gave me a puzzled look. “Jill Farkas? Oh, the jury selection lady. Didn’t realize that was an option.”
I started to explain when Jill came up to us. “Good morning, Dr. Hazlitt,” she said, flashing a wide smile. “How nice to see you again.”
“Likewise,” he said.
“Jessica is tied up this evening, I believe, and I wondered if you’d like to have dinner together?”
Seth looked at me. “You’re tied up?”
Jill didn’t allow me to reply. She said quickly to Seth, “I have a favorite restaurant in Boston that very few people know about. I’d love for you to be my guest tonight.”
“Well, I—”
“I think it’s a wonderful idea, Seth,” I said. “If it turns out to be as good as Jill claims, you can take me there another night.”
“As long as you’re not available this evening, Jessica, I think I might enjoy exploring this special restaurant.”
“Splendid,” said Jill. “You’re staying at. the Ritz?”
“Ayuh.”
“I’ll pick you up there at seven. Have to run an errand before the afternoon session. Bye.”
“Charming lady,” Seth said, standing a little straighter and adjusting the knot of his tie.
“A very nice person. Now you go on to your library. I have an errand to run, too.”
“What are you tied up with tonight, Jessica?”
“Oh, nothing you’d be interested in. Call me when you get back from dinner. I’m dying to hear your reaction to this secret little restaurant—
and
to your evening with Ms. Farkas.”
The Cynthia Warren letter was introduced into evidence that afternoon by the district attorney. The jurors read it carefully as it was passed among them. I noticed that Karl Jerome, Juror Number Ten, screwed up his face into a skeptical expression as he read it. He was holding true to form. He didn’t buy it. And neither did I.
The DA put on as a witness the police department handwriting expert, who testified that based upon a comparison with samples of Cynthia Warren’s signature on other documents, it was her hand that signed the letter. Malcolm cross-examined him at length, with little impact. The expert was a good witness, sure of himself and never waivering from his opinion. Malcolm, I was told, had arranged for another independent expert to examine the letter that evening. If he disagreed with the police witness, he would be put on early in the defense case as a rebuttal witness.
The defense team had a brief meeting at the end of the day to assess how things had gone. Malcolm tried to put a positive spin on everything, but he wasn’t convincing. Because I was free for the evening, I would have been hard-pressed to decline a dinner invitation from him. But he didn’t offer one. “See everyone in the morning,” he said, and lumbered from the conference room.
We all went our separate ways after the meeting. Once back in my suite, I began to wish I had made dinner plans with someone. I was uncharacteristically restless, and decided to head for Cambridge, my favorite area of Boston in which to take a walk and soak in the atmosphere.
After walking for an hour in Harvard Square and enjoying its vibrant mix of students, professorial types, foreigners, panhandlers, and protestors, I took a table on Cafe Pamplona’s outdoor terrace and ordered a shrimp cocktail and a glass of sparkling water. It became crowded; people waited for tables on the terrace. I paid my check and continued walking until I found myself standing in front of Grendel’s Den, the restaurant where Juror Number Ten, Karl Jerome, worked as a chef. I looked through the window into a large, wood paneled room with a high ceiling. It was doing a brisk business, mostly students occupying every table. I glanced at a menu hanging outside. Cheap eats, I thought, including an all-you-can-eat salad bar. No wonder Grendel’s Den was popular with a young crowd. The salad bar alone had probably sustained more than one student through a semester.