A Deadly Judgment (25 page)

“True, Mr. LeClaire?” Judge Wilson asked.

“Yes. I paid Gina to claim Brannigan tried to rape her. But it wasn’t my money.”

“Whose money was it?” I asked.

“His brother, Jack.”

There was silence until Billy Brannigan stood. “My own brother arranged that?”

“You bet he did,” said LeClaire.

“Why?” Billy asked.

“To get ahold of your share of the trust. Your brother was broke. He owed money to everybody.”

“Sit down, Mr. Brannigan,” Judge Wilson said.

Billy took his seat.

I said, “But you owed
him
money, Mr. LeClaire.”

“That’s right. He told me that if I could get somebody to claim Billy had tried to rape her, he’d write off my debt to him. What he stood to make from the trust was a hell of a lot more than what I owed him.”

District Attorney James stood. “Your Honor, the issue of the rape charge against the defendant is irrelevant. What is at issue is the
murder
of Jack Brannigan.”

“And Cynthia Warren,” I said. “And Juror Number Seven, Marie Montrone, and Juror Number Ten, Karl Jerome. They are inextricably linked.”

“I’m going to let you continue, Mrs. Fletcher,” Wilson said, “because I find what you’ve brought out so far to be compelling. Based upon Mr. LeClaire’s admission, a charge of attempted rape against the defendant has been debunked.”

“Just remember, Judge,” LeClaire said, “that it was Jack Brannigan’s idea, and money, to phoney up the charge against his own brother. Not me. All I did was ask Cynthia whether she could get Gina to make the charge and—” He stopped abruptly when he realized he’d mentioned Cynthia Warren.

“What’s next, Mrs. Fletcher?” Judge Wilson asked.

“Gina Simone, Your Honor. She was returned from Florida today, based upon the warrant you so graciously granted Mr. McLoon in the early hours of this morning. I must say the law enforcement authorities did a remarkable job. She was located almost immediately by the Florida police and put on a plane.”

“Mr. McLoon was impressively persuasive this morning,” Wilson said. “And I was tired, having been awoke at such an ungodly hour.” To his clerk: “Bring in Ms. Simone.”

Gina Simone looked exactly as she should have looked. Her beautiful face was drawn from fatigue. Her hair reflected a night without sleep, and a long plane ride. Her overriding expression was one of sadness. I felt sorry for her. On the other hand—

“Please take a seat, Ms. Simone,” Judge Wilson said.

She sat next to Warren Parker, hands folded in her lap, eyes focused on the floor.

“Mrs. Fletcher,” Wilson said.

“Hello again, Ms. Simone,” I said.

She looked at me; tears began to roll down her cheeks.

I took in Malcolm, Rachel, Georgia, Jill, and Ritchie before saying to Harry LeClaire, “I have a special interest in you, Mr. LeClaire, because I was almost run down last night, the way juror Marie Montrone was.”

LeClaire looked at Gina Simone, who was now sobbing.

“You became a juror, Mr. LeClaire, because you were determined to see Billy Brannigan found guilty of his brother’s murder.”

LeClaire said, “I don’t have to sit here and listen to this. I want my attorney present now.”

The judge ignored him and instructed me to continue. I picked up the two rental car receipts. “Your Honor, may I give these to you?” He nodded and I handed them to him. “Mr. LeClaire drives a very nice automobile, Your Honor. A black Cadillac of recent vintage, to be precise.”

“So what?” LeClaire said.

“Despite owning such a vehicle,” I said, “he found it necessary to rent a less expensive and very basic car on the night Juror Number Seven was run down, and last night, when I almost suffered the same fate.”

Judge Wilson tossed the receipts on his desk and looked at Harry LeClaire. “Anything to say, Mr. LeClaire?” he asked.

Malcolm couldn’t contain himself. He stood and said in his usual stentorian voice, “The only motive Mr. LeClaire would have, Your Honor, to rent these cars, was to kill off members of the regular jury so that he might be seated, and see that my client, William Brannigan, was convicted. And that, Your Honor, was because he killed Jack Brannigan.”

LeClaire got to his feet and started for the door. But when I said, “Mr. LeClaire did not kill Jack Brannigan.” He stopped, turned, and stared at me.

“I think Mr. LeClaire did what he did—take advantage of being called for jury duty for the Brannigan trial—in order to help Ms. Simone. He killed Marie Montrone and Karl Jerome because they were leaning toward acquittal in this case.”

Before LeClaire could again attempt to leave, Judge Wilson said to two bailiffs flanking the door, “Detain him.”

He said to District Attorney James: “I want you to prepare charges against Mr. LeClaire—and against you, Mr. McEnroe—for perjury. I’m sure there will be additional charges in the near future.”

LeClaire exploded with mock indignation. “This is outrageous,” he shouted. “I’ll sue you and everybody else in this room for defamation. For libel. For false arrest.”

“Stop it, Harry,” Gina Simone said, standing.

All eyes went to her.

“Everything you say is true,” she said to me. “Jack Brannigan paid to have me lie about Billy. Cynthia asked me to do it, and we agreed to split the money. Ten thousand dollars. Harry gave Cynthia the money.”

“Ms. Simone,” I said, “Why did you kill Jack Brannigan? You were paid. What had Jack Brannigan done to you to deserve being murdered?”

“He tried to blackmail me.”

“He tried to blackmail
you
?” I said, not able to keep the tone of incredulity from my voice.

“Jack Brannigan was a bastard. He promised to share Billy’s trust money with me. He lied. He tried to get me to give my body to men he owed money to. I refused. That’s when he threatened to leak to the police that I’d lied about Billy—and that I”—she gulped to hold back another bout of crying—“that I’ve done other things I’m not very proud of.”

“Why don’t you shut up, Gina,” Harry LeClaire said.

“I have nothing else to say. I killed Jack Brannigan. What else is there to say?”

“You’d better get some officers up here, Ms. James.”

“Of course, Your Honor,” she said, instructing her assistant to follow Wilson’s order.

Minutes later, Harry LeClaire and Gina Simone were led from Judge Wilson’s chambers.

“Mr. McEnroe,” the judge said, “your partner and I assume someone with a personal relationship with you has accused you of having murdered Cynthia Warren. You have no obligation to respond to me in this setting, and you are legally entitled to be represented by counsel.”

McEnroe turned to Patty and said, “How could you say that about me, that I killed Cynthia?”

“Isn’t it true?” she replied. She had that smug, contented expression again.

“No, it’s not, and you know it. All you are, Patty, is an angry woman. What’s the saying? ‘Hell has no wrath like a woman spumed?’ Sure, Cynthia and I had an affair. And Cynthia was going to put up money for the gallery. Since this seems to be true confession time, I admit that I persuaded Cynthia to write the letter about Billy Brannigan. He wasn’t with her the night his brother was murdered. Cynthia only agreed to testify—to lie for Billy—because she was afraid of him. She confided that in me, and I urged her not to lie for him, not lie for anyone.”

“Hold on a second,” Judge Wilson said. “If Ms. Zeltner’s charge is accurate, that Mr. McEnroe murdered Ms. Warren, that can be investigated by the proper authorities. In the meantime, Mr. McEnroe, you’ll be charged with perjury for your statements during jury selection.”

“Before you leave, Mr. McEnroe, why did you lie to get on the jury?” I asked.

“To try and make sure that Billy Brannigan was found guilty. Just like LeClaire, except for different reasons. I was sure he’d killed his brother, based upon Cynthia telling me that Billy was lying about having been with her that night. I didn’t want to see him get off and hurt her.” He looked squarely into Patty Zeltner’s eyes. “I loved Cynthia, Patty. I loved her more than I ever loved you.”

Patty went for his face with nails like talons, but Warren Parker grabbed her from behind and held her until a bailiff took over.

Thom McEnroe was led from the room, and Patty chose to leave. Her final words were directed at me: “I don’t care what anyone believes, Mrs. Fletcher. Thom killed Cynthia Warren.”

When she was gone, Judge Wilson said to District Attorney Whitney James, “Based upon Ms. Simone’s confession, I presume you’ll be dropping charges against Mr. Brannigan.”

“Of course, Your Honor,” she replied.

“For the murder of his brother, Jack,” I said,

Everyone looked at me.

“Obviously,” I said, “Billy didn’t kill his brother.”

“We know that, thanks to you, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Judge Wilson.

“But I believe he isn’t innocent of murder.”

Malcolm stood. “Jessica,” he said, “you’ve done a remarkable job of unraveling things. Now I suggest that—”

“Malcolm,” I said, “I know you had total belief in Billy’s innocence, and it was well-placed faith. Your client is free of guilt. But only where his brother’s murder is involved.”

I turned and looked at Billy, whose happy mood a few moments ago had been replaced with fear and confusion.

“Billy,” I said, “I’m sorry to have to do this. But I must. You murdered Cynthia Warren. You told me when I visited you in jail that you assumed the same person killed your brother, and Cynthia. You based that upon the fact that both had been killed by a single stab wound to the chest.”

“So?” he said, looking to Malcolm.

“So, Billy, I left the jail with a nagging feeling that no public account of Cynthia’s murder indicated where she’d been stabbed. I had Georgia Bobley review all the newspaper and TV transcripts to be sure I was correct. I was. The only way you could have known was to have inflicted the fatal wound yourself.”

Now, all eyes were on Billy.

“Why would I kill my only alibi?” he asked the room.

“Because, I assume, she changed her mind about lying for you. You’d coerced her into testifying she’d been with you the night Jack was killed. What did she do, Billy, demand money for her lie? Another case of greed? There’s been so much of it in this case. There’s an old Chinese proverb that says, “There is no greater disaster than greed.’ That certainly has been true here.”

Follow the money
.

Billy turned to Malcolm and said, “Tell them she’s wrong, Mr. McLoon.”

Malcolm didn’t reply. He was slumped back in his chair, a blank expression on his round face. Then he pushed himself to his feet, cleared his throat, and said, “Your Honor, this court and county has no jurisdiction over the death of one Cynthia Warren. As the accused’s attorney, I remind you, sir, that to ask any questions of my client without his having been formally charged represents a serious Constitutional breach.”

“I said all along he never should have been out on bail,” Whitney James said. “If he hadn’t been—”

“File your charges, Ms. James,” said the judge.

“I will, Your Honor, and I move that Mr. Brannigan be held until the proper charge can be brought.”

“Get a court reporter in here,” the judge commanded.

“I move that—”

“I object!”

“Overruled!”

 

 

I quietly left Judge Wilson’s chambers, found a cab outside the courthouse, and returned to the Ritz-Carlton where I immediately started packing. I was interrupted by the ringing of the phone.

“Jessica? Seth here. Thought you’d be at the courthouse.”

“I was. I’m packing. I want to catch the first plane to Bangor.”

“You sound upset.”

“It will pass. I’m calling Jed Richardson to see if he can pick me up. Care to join me?”

“I would except—”

“Except what?”

“I made dinner plans with Ms. Farkas this evening.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Then I suggest you follow through on those plans and come home later.”

“What’s happened to send you scurryin’ back to Cabot Cove so fast?”

“Lawyers, Seth. And the law. I’ve had my fill. See you when you get back.”

“Yes, Vaughan, it was an eye-opening experience,” I said to my publisher, who’d called from New York.

“Remarkable ending to the Brannigan trial. How instrumental were you in its resolution?”

“Not very involved at all. After all, I was there just to learn about how a murder trial works.”

“Then you’ll be setting your next novel in a courtroom. I’m delighted to hear that.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Vaughan, but I thought my next novel would revolve around a small regional airline. Someone tampers with the planes to put the owner out of business. Jed Richardson has agreed to be my technical consultant.”

“I see. Well, Jess, you know best. I would never try to tell you what to write about. Speaking of Richardson, has he said any more about writing a nonfiction book about his experiences in aviation?”

“He said he’d think about it.”

“Thanks for considering my idea, Jess, and following through on the research. I’m sure Malcolm McLoon’s sudden death was a great shock to you.”

“Yes, it was. I had no idea he had such a serious heart problem. You’d never know it from the way he lived.”

“I read that McLoon’s assistant, Rachel Cohen, is handling Brannigan’s defense in the murder of the Warren girl.”

“That’s right, Vaughan. And she’ll do a fine job—provided she can find the right sitter for her children. Have to run. I’ll be in touch.”

I was about to spend an hour outlining my next book when the phone rang again. It was Seth Hazlitt.

“Are we still on for dinner tonight?” I asked.

“Ayuh. The three of us.”