Authors: Jessica Fletcher
A Deadly Judgment (12 page)
“Your Honor, I was afraid Mr. McLoon would move in this direction. I—”
“You’re interrupting me, Ms. James,” Malcolm said.
“You bet I am, Mr. McLoon. I deeply resent the insinuation that the prosecution might view Ms. Warren’s death as a benefit. How dare you?”
“You will admit, Ms. James, that the timing of Ms. Warren’s death is convenient for you.”
“Your Honor, Mr. McLoon should be held in contempt of this court. What he is saying surely—”
Judge Wilson wielded his gavel. “Order,” he said loudly. “I will not tolerate this sort of bickering between counsel.”
Malcolm said, “It was my understanding, Your Honor, that the defense and the prosecution would have equal opportunity to present its argument regarding this motion for a mistrial. Ms. James is treading on my time, something I find both bothersome, yet characteristically boring of her.”
“Your Honor, I demand that you—”
“This is my time at this podium, Ms. James.”
A series of sharp raps with the gavel restored order.
“I will allow counsel for each side to proceed with their arguments for and against this motion for a mistrial.”
“I withdraw the motion for a mistrial, Your Honor,” Malcolm said.
We all looked at each other.
“Never in my long legal career have I represented someone as innocent as Mr. William Brannigan. The people do not have one credible shred of evidence to link him to the murder of his brother. I am prepared to go forward with the defense after a continuance of two weeks, during which time we will be able to restructure the presentation of our case without the testimony of Cynthia Warren.”
Malcolm returned to the table and sat heavily.
District Attorney James argued against continuance, basing her protest on the fact that the prosecution would be presenting its case for at least a week, possibly two, ample time for the defense to regroup.
Judge Wilson ruled: “I don’t find any grounds for a mistrial based upon the death of a witness. Further, I find Ms. James to be correct in her reasoning. The defense will have plenty of time to alter its strategy. Bring in the jury.”
Ms. James was on her feet again. “Your Honor, may I be allowed to bring up before the court another issue before the jury is brought in?”
“Yes, Ms. James?”
“The matter of the defendant’s bail. Considering what has occurred, I feel it is inappropriate for him to be walking free.”
Malcolm bellowed from where he sat, “Is Ms. James suggesting that the defendant might have murdered his alibi?”
“You’re out of order, Mr. McLoon,” Wilson said.
Malcolm stood. “No, Your Honor, it is Ms. James who is out of order—and out of her mind.”
“You’re in contempt, Mr. McLoon.”
“I am in shock rather than contempt, Your Honor.”
“Sit down, Mr. McLoon.”
“Her motion to revoke the defendant’s bail is outrageous.”
“And you are out of order, Mr. McLoon. Get out your checkbook. I’m fining you five-hundred dollars. I’ll rule on the bail issue at another time. Bring in the jurors!”
A bailiff approached Malcolm and held out his hand. “Write a check,” Malcolm groaned at Georgia Bobley. He then added loud enough for Judge Wilson to hear, “I’ll sign it—
with pleasure
!”
with pleasure
!”
“The people calls Detective John Sullivan,” Whitney James said.
Detective Sullivan was tall, of medium build, and had a pleasant face and ready smile. As he took the oath, I realized that his credibility was established before he ever took the stand. The jury would like and believe him.
Malcolm was smiling. Whether Judge Wilson would allow us to present what Ritchie Fleigler had dug up on Sullivan—that he’d worked for a brief time as a male stripper—was conjecture. I also wondered whether it would even matter to the jury.
Guided by Ms. James, Detective Sullivan took the jury through the nighttime discovery of Jack Brannigan’s body on a Swan Boat in the Public Garden. He was the first law enforcement officer to arrive on the gruesome scene: “It was,” he said, “a clean killing.”
“What do you mean by ‘clean’?” Whitney asked.
“I don’t mean soap-and-water clean,” he replied, “but there was relatively little blood, despite a stab wound to the chest.”
“How much blood was there?” asked the DA.
“As stabbings go, not a lot.”
“Would you say a pint of blood?”
“Yes, about a pint. Maybe less.”
“To what do you attribute the small amount of blood, Detective Sullivan?”
“I’d rather not attribute it to anything, Ms. James. I leave that up to the coroner, or a criminalist.”
“Detective Sullivan,” James said, “did you see anything unusual at the scene that night?”
“No,” he answered.
“It was a quarter past twelve when you discovered the body. Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“And how was it that a plainclothes detective was the first to arrive on the scene?”
“I was part of a new plainclothes task force patrol working the Public Garden. There’ve been a lot of kids hanging out there lately. Some vandalism on the Swam Boats. Drugs.”
I saw that Malcolm wrote something down. Several jurors also made a note.
Whitney James conferred with her assistant for a moment before resuming her questioning. “What did you do when you first came upon the body, Detective?”
“I called for backup.”
“On your radio?”
“Yes.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I determined that the man was dead, and then the backup arrived.”
“Who?”
“Detectives Wagner, O’Malley, and Lofgren, initially, and then a lot of other cars. It’s not every night we find a dead body in the Public Garden.”
“In what position did you find the body?”
“He was facedown.”
“And you could see the wound?”
“No. But I could see the blood. It seemed to be coming from his stomach. It wasn’t until later that I learned it was from a wound to his chest.”
“Detective, one last question. Was there a moon the night of Jack Brannigan’s death?”
“No. It was a particulary dark night.”
“And there were no witness. Is that right?”
At least none that came forward to the police, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Detective.”
Malcom replaced Whitney behind the podium. “Good morning‚ Detective Sullivan.”
“Good morning‚ Mr. McLoon.”
“Detective‚ is it hard to see in the Public Garden on nights when there is no moon?”
“Yes.”
“It is my understanding‚ Detective‚ that even before the death of Jack Brannigan‚ there had been some debate about putting better lighting in the Public Garden.”
“Objection,” snapped Whitney.
“Sustained. Counsel, rephrase.”
“Detective, is it your belief the Garden isn’t lighted—”
“Objection.”
“Sustained. Counsel, rephrase again.”
“Detective, you said that on a moonless night it is more difficult to see in the Public Garden than on nights with the moon full. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Are there a lot of lights around the Swan Boats at night?”
“No.”
“How many? One? Two?”
“Yeah, but they aren’t always working.”
“I see. Sometimes they’re broken. So there wouldn’t be any light.”
“Objection.”
“Overruled.”
“Usually, one of them is working,” said the detective.
“Usually?” asked Malcolm. “That means not always?”
“That’s right. On some nights none of them work.”
“And you testified just a few minutes ago that you always make it a point to check the Swan Boats because kids hang out there. Is that correct?”
“Yes. It’s become a favorite hangout spot.”
“Detective, isn’t it true that you’ve made arrests of some of these kids before, at the very spot Jack Brannigan’s body was found?”
“Objection,” Whitney exclaimed.
“Overruled.”
“A few.”
“A few, you say. Over what period of time? The last couple of years, months, weeks?”
“A couple of arrests over the past couple of years.”
“Two arrests over the past two years?”
“Yes.”
“What were those arrests for, Detective?”
“Drugs. Loitering.”
“That’s it?”
“The drug arrest also involved possession of a weapon.”
“Oh? What sort of weapon?”
The detective paused. “A knife.”
“When did this happen, Detective Sullivan?”
“About six months ago.”
“Right around the time of Jack Brannigan’s murder?”
“That’s correct.”
“Weeks before?”
“A couple of days before, sir.”
“Where is that person now, the person arrested for possession of a knife?”
“I have no idea, sir,” Sullivan answered. “I don’t—I can’t keep tabs on all the arrests I make.”
“Why is that, Detective? Make a lot of them in Boston?”
“Yes. Unfortunately.”
“To the best of your knowledge, Detective, would that person you arrested for possession of drugs, and a lethal weapon, be behind bars?”
“He’s not.” Sullivan shrugged.
“There’s one more thing I’d like to ask you, Detective Sullivan. It’s my understanding that you’ve been with the Boston Police Department for four years. Correct?”
“That’s correct, Mr. McLoon.”
“What did you do before becoming a police officer?”
“Various occupations,” he answered, shifting position in the witness chair.
We held our collective breath at the defense table. Detective Sullivan proved to be a good witness for our side. There was nothing to be gained by attacking his moral character.
Malcolm obviously viewed it the same way. “No further questions,” he said.
Chapter Thirteen
The first witness called after the lunch break was a criminalist, Dawn Kiss, a thoughtful and articulate middle-aged woman. I loved her name, perfect for a heroine in a historical romantic novel.
“Ms. Kiss, would you describe to members of this court the evidence you discovered and handled at the crime scene,” Whitney James said.
“Certainly,” said Kiss. “MY findings, as far as the blood is concerned, corroborates with what Detective Sullivan testified earlier. I collected blood samplings from what appeared to be a pint or so of blood from the victim. I also collected fiber and hair samplings.”
“And?”
“The Public Garden is a very public place. Its name serves it well. On any given summer afternoon you’ll find hundreds or thousands of people enjoying the Garden and Swan Boats. Aside from the samplings that matched the victim, the remaining hair and fiber samples we found could belong to any of thousands of people.”
“Thank you, Ms. Kiss. No further questions.”
Malcolm conferred briefly with Rachel before taking his place behind the podium. “Good afternoon, Ms. Kiss. Nice to see you again.”
“Thank you.”
“Ms. Kiss, you say you collected a lot of hair and fiber samplings from the scene of the crime. Right?”
“That’s correct.”
“And, you say that some of the hair samples matched that of the victim, Jack Brannigan?”
“Correct.”
“You also testified that some of the clothing fibers matched that of the victim, Jack Brannigan.”
“Yes.”
“And the other samplings, of which you said there were many, didn’t belong to anyone who could be identified.”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, having established that, let me understand this correctly,” Malcolm said. “The police department’s forensics lab has a number of fiber and hair samplings that had been collected at the crime scene by you, but they have no idea to whom they belong. Do I understand that correctly?”
“Yes, you do.”
“You’re aware, aren’t you, that samplings of the defendant’s hair and clothing were taken the day of his arrest?”
“Of course. I took them.”
“Ms. Kiss, the hair and clothing evidence you collected at the crime scene—did
any
of it match the defendant, Mr. Billy Brannigan, the gentleman sitting over there?”
any
of it match the defendant, Mr. Billy Brannigan, the gentleman sitting over there?”
“No, sir, it did not.”
“Not one iota of hair, clothing, or unidentified fiber matches that of the young man who is on trial here for the murder of his brother?” Malcolm’s voice was now thunder.
“Objection,” said Whitney. “Argumentative.”
“Overruled.”
Kiss answered softly. “Yes, sir, that’s correct.”
Malcolm continued: “And let’s talk about something we haven’t yet touched upon. The blood you collected. Did any of the blood from the crime scene match Mr. Brannigan’s DNA?”
“Yes.”
Malcolm froze. We all did. He looked back at us, his expression one of confusion and concern.
“What, Ms. Kiss?”
“I said ‘yes, sir.’ ”
“It is your testimony here today that DNA of the blood collected from the defendant matched the DNA blood taken from the crime scene?”
Ms. Kiss appeared to be cringing under Malcolm’s questioning. Now, she drew a deep breath, smiled, and said, “Oh, no, sir. It didn’t match the
defendant’s
DNA. It matched the victim, Jack Brannigan. You said ‘Mr. Brannigan.’ I took that to mean the victim.”
defendant’s
DNA. It matched the victim, Jack Brannigan. You said ‘Mr. Brannigan.’ I took that to mean the victim.”
“Thank you, Ms. Kiss.”
Judge Wilson interrupted. “Counsel, from now on, in order to avoid such confusion, let’s refer to the defendant as William Brannigan, or Billy if you prefer, and the victim as Jack Brannigan.”
“A good suggestion, Your Honor,” Malcolm said. “Now, Ms. Kiss, Detective Sullivan testified that a few days before Jack Brannigan’s murder, he’d made an arrest of a young man, name unknown at this juncture, at the very same place where Mr. Jack Brannigan lost his life. Are you aware of that testimony by Detective Sullivan?”
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