A Deadly Judgment (9 page)

The six alternates consisted of the pottery maker, a weatherman for a local radio station, an elementary school teacher, a retired travel editor, an airline pilot, and the owner of the tweezer business.

“I have a little business to take care of before we get underway,” Judge Wilson said in a voice deeper than one would anticipate from someone with such a boyish face. “I’m certain everyone in this room is aware of the television cameras, which will record these proceedings and transmit them to a national television audience. Frankly, I would prefer that they weren’t here, but I was persuaded by others that by bringing the American public into the courtroom, we serve a higher purpose. It has been arranged that the cameras will never show the faces of our jury. That may strike some as an unnecessary restriction considering the fact that the jury will not be sequestered. But I think a basic sense of decency dictates not allowing these television cameras, or any other cameras, to intrude upon each juror’s privacy. As a result, I have instructed all media to not photograph the jurors as they come and go.

“I see that we have a full house this morning, including a number of reporters. I will not tolerate interruptions during the course of the trial, and anyone who does shall be summarily dismissed. I expect nothing short of your utmost respect for the judicial process that is about to take place.”

I’d read in one of myriad news stories about the Brannigan case that Judge Wilson’s avocation was the piano. As I looked at him on the bench, I pictured him seated at the piano playing Chopin, a pleasant contrast to the life-and-death atmosphere of the courtroom over which he presided.

“All right, is the people ready with its opening argument?”

District Attorney Whitney James stood and said, “It is, Your Honor.”

“Then let’s get on with it.”

Whitney James placed her hands on the lectern, drew a deep breath, and exhibited a wide smile as she greeted the jury. She thanked them for being there, and complimented them on their heightened sense of civic duty. As she spoke, I sensed an accent I hadn’t been aware of during the previous week’s questioning. It had a hint of Great Britain, although not quite. South African? Australian? Or, since I hadn’t heard it before, maybe a carefully calculated accent she used whenever addressing a jury.

She shifted position, crossing her arms and shifting her weight onto her right leg, her left foot out to one side. “This is the unfortunate story, ladies and gentlemen, of death within a family, of brother killing brother in cold blood.” She looked at Billy Brannigan before continuing.

“In the defendant’s mind, he had good reason for killing his older brother, Jack. Of course, everyone who kills another person has what they consider a good reason at the time. In William Brannigan’s case, he killed his brother to avenge the threat of being cut out of a trust fund left him by their father, now deceased, the founder of a company we all know and respect, Brannigan’s Bean Pot. Because that company was extremely successful, their father had placed a great deal of money in trust for each of his sons. Millions of dollars in each of those trust funds. And as we all know, money—or the fear of losing it—can be a powerful motive for murder.”

This time, she looked directly at me, perhaps expecting me to nod in agreement because, as a writer of murder mysteries, I was well aware of motives for murder. Receiving no response from me, she turned away and continued her statement.

“Knowing that his son, William, would probably not amount to much in life—”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Malcolm said, now on his feet. “This is a trial about murder, not the defendant’s future earning power.”

“Overruled,” Judge Wilson said. “Continue, Ms. James.”

“The father provided for William Brannigan through the trust. And because he had infinite faith in his older son, Jack, who was an important member of the management team of Brannigan’s Bean Pot—and, I might add, the younger son, William, has never had anything to do with the company—”

“Objection. Irrelevant.”

“I’ll allow fairly wide latitude during opening statements, Mr. McLoon. You’ll benefit from it, too, and I have no doubt you’ll take full advantage of my generosity. Go on, Ms. James.”

“The father made Jack the trustee,” she said. “It was a wise choice. Jack Brannigan managed the trust with skill and care.

“But James Brannigan, who not only was a successful businessman but was also a man of high moral principle, included a clause in the trust that stipulated that should his younger son, William, ever be charged with a crime involving moral turpitude, the trust was to be dissolved, with all remaining funds going to his older son, Jack. By the way, six months before he was murdered, Jack Brannigan was named president of Brannigan’s Bean Pot. He was obviously a young man with considerable talents and ability.”

“Your Honor,” Malcolm said.

“Overruled.”

Whitney James cleared her throat, took a sip of water from a cup on the lectern, and said to the jury, “The defendant is no stranger to horrific crimes. A year ago he was charged with the rape of a young woman on Cape Cod. Even though the rape victim eventually decided to drop charges—we will present evidence that a tremendous amount of pressure was put on her to do that by the defendant—having been charged met the condition of the stipulation in the trust that it be dissolved, and that the money go to Jack Brannigan. This placed Jack Brannigan in an extremely difficult position, as I’m sure you can understand. On the one hand, as trustee, it was his responsibility to carry out his fathers wishes. On the other hand, he knew how devastating this would be to his younger brother, whom he loved very much. Had he not felt this conflict of loyalty, he would have dissolved the trust immediately, and had the legal right to do so. Instead, he told the defendant that he would eventually have to follow the terms laid down by their late father, but tried to work things out, even offering the defendant an opportunity to work for the company, to earn an honest living, to no longer simply live off the work and sweat of other family members.

“Instead of responding with gratitude, William Brannigan was angry. We will present witnesses who will testify to that anger. He threatened his brother on more than one occasion.”

Now, her accent became more pronounced, and she spoke with deliberate slowness. “Eventually, on a fateful spring night, with no moon to illuminate his murderous act, the defendant confronted his brother on one of the Swan Boats in Boston Garden, until then a source of simple pleasure for thousands of children and their families. That night he—he rammed a knife into his older brother’s chest.”

There was a slight hitch to Whitney James’s voice as she spoke those final words. Genuine emotion, or calculated to elicit sympathy from the jury?

No matter. She left the lectern and took her seat behind the prosecution’s table. Her assistant nodded enthusiastically; I lip-read him: “Beautiful job, Whitney. Beautiful.”

“Is that all, Ms. James?” Judge Wilson asked, surprised as we all were, at the brevity of her opening argument.

She stood: “Yes, Your Honor.”

Wilson looked over at Malcolm McLoon. “You’re up, Mr. McLoon.”

Malcolm stood, slowly came around the table, and headed for the lectern. Whispering could be heard in the courtroom. The judge adopted a stem expression as he looked into the faces of the audience and press. The whispering stopped.

Malcolm took his position at the lectern. Unlike Whitney James, who’d worked from notes, Malcolm had nothing with him. He slowly took in each juror’s face before saying, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. You have just heard the people’s opening statement, and I assure you that Ms. James is absolutely correct—about one thing. There was no moon the night Jack Brannigan was killed.”

A few of the jurors smiled. Whitney James stood. “I object, Your Honor. Counsel does not have the right in opening argument to impugn opposing counsel.”

“Overruled,” Wilson said. But then he said to Malcolm, “Don’t make me have to rule on this again, Mr. McLoon.”

Malcolm looked at the judge with an expression of abject surprise. He raised his hand and said, “I assure Your Honor the last thing I wish to do is place him in a position of having to make such rulings. It will not happen again.”

The judge said nothing, and Malcolm continued.

“William Brannigan, seated here with his life in your hands, is as innocent as a baby’s breath. You don’t have to take my word for it, although I would be delighted if you did. I will prove it to you, not with sweeping conjectures but with the facts. And bear in mind that it is not our obligation to prove anything. That’s the prosecution’s job, to prove their flimsy case beyond a reasonable doubt. But we’re willing to take on the burden of proof, too. You will see through a totally credible witness that William Brannigan could not have killed his brother because he wasn’t in Boston that night. He was on Cape Cod. You will hear this from Ms. Cynthia Warren, the defendant’s good friend. William Brannigan and Cynthia Warren were together on the Cape the night Jack Brannigan was killed. It was an unusually warm evening, and they decided to get some lobsters and celebrate the onset of summer. Billy bought two, two-pound lobsters and they cooked them in a pot on Cynthia Warren’s patio. Cynthia husked ears of salt-and-pepper corn, and Billy Brannigan drew the butter.”

Whitney James stood and objected again.

“What is the basis of your objection, Ms. James?” Malcolm asked.

“I ask the questions, Mr. McLoon,” Judge Wilson said sharply.

“Irrelevancy,” James said.

“Sustained,” Judge Wilson said.

Malcolm sighed and faced the jury. “The fact that the defendant and Ms. Warren cooked lobsters is not irrelevant,” he said, “no matter what my learned colleague claims.”

James was on her feet again objecting.

Before Judge Wilson could rule, Malcolm added, “You will hear from the clerk of the fish market where Billy Brannigan bought the lobsters that day, and you will see the receipt.”

“Overruled,” Wilson said.

It was obvious from the grin on Malcolm’s face that he was delighted how that exchange had gone.

“Oh, by the way, it’s interesting—and I might add, highly unusual—that you will not hear any DNA evidence presented by the prosecution during this trial. On second thought ‘unusual’ is a gross understatement. ‘Incredible’ is more like it. The reason you will not hear any witnesses presented by the prosecution concerning blood is that the blood found at the scene did not match the young man sitting over there, William Brannigan.” Malcolm pointed at Billy. “And no blood was ever found in Billy’s home or car, or on any item of clothing. Nor can the prosecution present to you the murder weapon because that has never been found.

“And so what you will be presented with by the people, whose sacred duty it is to prove William Brannigan’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, is what they claim is a motive. Just that. A motive. People are not convicted of murder simply because the prosecution dreams up a motive.”

Malcolm now went into a history of the Brannigan family: “James Brannigan, the defendant’s father, founded Brannigan’s Bean Pot over half a century ago. The company went on to market its baked beans nationally, and is today the second leading seller of baked beans. Perhaps you’ve enjoyed some yourself. The Brannigan family is a big Irish-Catholic family, seven children in all. Billy is the youngest at twenty-five. He chose not to work for the company, but that did not make him unusual. Of the seven children, only three are active in the management of Brannigan’s Bean Pot. Jack Brannigan was one of those three. Of course, they all enjoy tasting new recipes.” There were smiles in the jury box, and a few chuckles.

“No one misses Jack Brannigan more than Billy Brannigan,” Malcolm said, sadness in his deep voice. “The day before Jack was murdered, Billy called Jack to give him some good news. He’d planned to ask Cynthia to marry him, and Jack was the first person with whom Billy wanted to share that exciting news. He also wanted advice from his big brother on the best way to propose. At the Red Sox game they planned to attend that weekend? At a cookout? Perhaps a boat ride? But the most important thing Billy asked his brother, Jack, was whether he would agree to be his best man.”

Malcolm paused for effect.

“What was Jack’s answer? ‘Only if you will let me throw your bachelor party in the tree house.’ He was referring to a tree house the two brothers had built in the backyard of the home in which they grew up.”

Malcolm now leaned on the lectern—please don’t let it collapse under his weight I thought—and said, “I have been defending the innocent for my entire adult life. I have fought tooth-and-nail for men and women accused of heinous crimes, but who had not committed those crimes. And I can tell you without hesitation or reservation, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that I have never defended a client in whose innocence I so strongly believe. William Brannigan, the young man whose life you will determine, loved his brother, Jack, more than any other person in this world. He is sickened and saddened at the loss of his brother. To even suggest that he was responsible for his brother’s death is blaspheme. And I am confident that when presented with the facts, you will waste little time in allowing this fine young man to get on with his life. I trust you to do that, and so does he. Thank you.”

As Malcolm waddled back to the defense table, I saw two women members of the jury dab at tears with their handkerchiefs, and made a note of that next to their names in my notebook.

No doubt about it. Malcolm McLoon with all his personal excesses, was good. If I ever ended up being accused of murder, I knew who to call.

“You did? Good news, Ritchie. Bring her in.”

We were in Malcolm’s office. It was nine o’clock, and we’d just returned from dinner after the end of the first day of trial. Malcolm had received the call from his investigator, Ritchie Fleigler, the moment we’d walked through the door. Judging from Malcolm’s side of the conversation, it sounded like good news.