A Deadly Judgment by Jessica Fletcher Page A

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