A Deadly Judgment Read Online Free PDF

reminiscent of every Holiday Inn hotel room in the 1970s, took up a portion of the floor in front of his desk. Bookcases lining one wall looked like a housing project, the books on them haphazardly stacked. The windows needed cleaning, undoubtedly because of a film of nicotine. A blue haze hung over everything.
    “Jessica, you look mahvelous,” Malcolm said, his Boston accent shining through as he plopped in his high-backed leather chair and propped his black sneakers on the desk. “Haven’t aged a day since I last saw you.”
    I indicated with my eyes that the others in the room were waiting to be introduced to me. Malcolm struggled to his feet and stood between us. “Like you to meet the other fine folks on the team, Jessica.”
    A woman went to Malcolm and whispered something in his ear, causing the corpulent attorney to pull up the zipper of his pants, never missing a verbal beat. “Jessica Fletcher, meet Rachel Cohen, my cocounsel on this case, and soon-to-be-household-name in every court of this land.”
    I took Ms. Cohen’s extended hand. She was dressed the part of the successful attorney—navy pinstripe suit with fashionable above-the-knee skirt, tailored white blouse, navy heels, expensive haircut.
    “And I present Ritchie Fleigler, the best private investigator this side of the Charles River. Maybe even beyond.” McLoon’s private investigator, Ritchie Fleigler, had ink-black hair that matched the color of his T-shirt, and that he wore shoulder length. His tight jeans were blue, his high-top sneakers white. He was well over six feet tall, which helped him carry off the look.
    “And this is my better half, Miss Georgia Bobley, my loyal and long-suffering administrative assistant.” Ms. Bobley was a short, attractive young woman with chestnut-brown hair, nervous green eyes, a cinematic smile, and a trim figure. Her clothing that day consisted of a lightweight salmon V-neck sweater over a brown blouse, pleated tan skirt, and clogs.
    I exchanged greetings with them.
    There was another person in the room, a handsome young man seated in a black vinyl chair wedged into the comer. He sat quietly, one leg crossed over the other, his attention seemingly directed to a chipped marble bust of Winston Churchill.
    “Jessica, meet William Brannigan,” McLoon said.
    The defendant.
    For some reason, having him there startled me. I assumed he was in prison. He stood, looked at me without expression, and extended his hand, which I took.
    “Hello, Mr. Brannigan,” I said. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
    “Likewise,” he said softly. “Please call me Bill.”
    “All right—Bill.”
    “Very good, then,” said Malcolm. “Everyone’s been introduced. We’ll all be spending a lot of time together over the next few months”—he glanced at me for a reaction—“and I think we’re going to make one hell of a team. We’ll be putting in long hours and late nights. But it will be justified when our efforts result in justice being served, when this fine young man, from a fine and distinguished family, unfairly accused of the dastardly act of murdering his own flesh and blood, is judged to be innocent by a jury of his peers.” He delivered his message with great dramatic flourish, drawing from his experience as an actor before becoming an attorney. I’d never seen him in action in court before, but I was getting a glimpse now. He spoke as though delivering a Shakespearean speech. Eloquent. Flowery. And loud.
    “Now, let’s get down to work,” he said. “Tomorrow, we start interviewing prospective jurors. I don’t need to remind everyone in this room how important this phase of the trial will be, certainly the most critical step of the case so fah. Jessica, I’ll explain more about the actual process over lunch.”
    “I’d appreciate that,” I said, indulging in understatement. I knew nothing abut what had become a critical part of the justice system—the selection of jurors.
    “Ritchie,” McLoon said