Free A Deadly Judgment by Jessica Fletcher Page A

else from another. By the time I returned to the hotel, I felt completely rested and at ease. There was no trial, no jury, no matters of life and death. Just me, Boston, and the contemplation of yet another day at my leisure.
    I slept late Sunday morning, at least by my standards, and took a croissant and coffee from Cafe de Paris to the Public Garden. It was a “fat morning,” as Seth Hazlitt liked to say, a cobalt-blue sky, refreshing breeze, and abundant sunshine. I found a bench near the famed Swan Boats and enjoyed my breakfast. It was one of those special moments in which everything seemed in balance, the Swan Boats gliding by on pedal power as they have for more than a century since an English immigrant and shipbuilder first introduced them to the Public Garden’s lagoon. Children waved to me as they passed, and I waved back.
    A special moment.
    Until I realized I was sitting at the scene of Jack Brannigan’s murder. How could I have forgotten that? He’d been knifed to death while in one of the boats as it sat moored that night with its five sister vessels. What had Jack Brannigan been doing there? I wondered. Did he routinely go to the lagoon at night for solitude, or was he meeting someone? Meeting his younger brother, Billy? Not according to Billy and his alibi, Cynthia Warren.
    The intrusion of murder into my idyllic scene covered it with a blanket of suspicion and dread. I tossed the remains of my breakfast into a trash can and returned to the hotel where I spent the afternoon making notes for my next novel. Unfortunately, reality had settled in again.
    Malcolm called me at six to invite me to join him for dinner, which I declined.
    “Ready for tomorrow?” he asked.
    “I suppose so.”
    “As I’ve told you, Jessica, your role is just beginning. I want you there keeping your eyes trained on the men and women in that jury box. I want to know at the end of every day who’s falling asleep, who’s nodding at what Whitney is saying, and who’s screwing up their face every time she opens her mouth. Jury consultants just don’t choose a jury, Jess. They’re a lawyer’s eyes and ears throughout the trial.”
    “I understand,” I said.
    “You sound down,” Malcolm said.
    “I was at the Swan Boats this morning,” I said. “Where Jack Brannigan was killed. I suppose it sobered me.”
    “Well, don’t dwell on it,” he said. “Get yourself a good night’s sleep. See you tomorrow.”
    I had dinner in my room, and went to bed at ten after finishing Dirty Story by Eric Ambler, a wonderful mystery I’d never gotten around to reading. It took a long time to fall asleep. Each time I was close to it, a picture appeared on an imaginary screen in front of me. I’d open my eyes and peer at it. Jack Brannigan was arguing with someone in the Swan Boat. I could see him clearly; I’d seen photographs of him in Malcolm’s office. But his assailant was in shadows. And then, just before the screen and the picture disappeared, I saw Billy Brannigan ram a knife into his brother’s chest.
    “Please, don’t let him be guilty,” I said aloud after one of the screenings. “Let it be a demented, warped, sadistic stranger with a knife.”
    Finally, sleep came, but not soon enough, or with enough peace to refresh me. I woke up Monday morning feeling dreadfully hung over, not from alcohol, but from a system that hadn’t sufficiently shut down.
    The trial was about to begin.

Chapter Nine
    “All rise!”
    Judge Wilson, resplendent in his black robe, entered the courtroom at precisely nine o’clock Monday morning. He took his seat behind the bench and said, “Good morning ladies and gentlemen.”
    “Good morning, Your Honor,” we responded, along with the twelve jury members and six alternates. Wilson glanced up at the television cameras at the rear of the room and made what I considered to be a face of displeasure. He then turned his attention to a sheaf of papers before him.
    Our entire team was present,