Read Online A Deadly Judgment by Jessica Fletcher - Free Book Online
Authors: Jessica Fletcher
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trust itself. But I’m certain those of you chosen to serve will have no problem in sorting out fact from fiction, and in coming to a fair and just verdict.
“Now, based upon what I have told you, and based upon what you already know about this case, is there anyone here who believes they would have a personal problem serving on this jury?”
One woman raised her hand. She started to say something but Judge Wilson cut her off. “All right, you’re excused,” he said.
Just like that. No questions asked.
“Anyone else?” Wilson asked.
Two more hands went up, and they were dismissed without comment or question.
Seventeen prospective jurors remained seated, which surprised me. It was my assumption that most people tried to get out of jury duty, something I’ve always found dismaying. But here the judge had given them an easy out, and most elected to stay. Either they were especially conscientious—or intimidated.
The judge asked a series of generic questions of the remaining prospects. Satisfied with the responses he received, he turned the questioning over to the district attorney, Whitney James, who stood and issued her own greeting. As she spoke, I took the opportunity to get a better look at her. She was certainly pretty, but not beautiful, her features interesting as opposed to classic. Her demeanor was soothing rather than strident. Of course, I knew that this was her first opportunity to impress prospective jurors. Malcolm had said she was cold as ice, but that wasn’t coming through this morning. She had chosen a neatly tailored suit the color of cranberries; a simple blouse and scarf coordinated with it nicely. A cameo pin adorned a lapel; classic black pumps completed her wardrobe. She’d put her thick brunette hair up into a chignon, and her makeup had been tastefully applied.
Using a prepared list of questions based upon each prospective juror’s questionnaire, Ms. James asked a series of probing questions. When her allotted time was up, Judge Wilson turned to us and said, “You’re up, Ms. Cohen.”
Rachel had no sooner stood and was about to approach the jurors when the courtroom doors opened and Malcolm McLoon blustered through them. By this time, I wondered whether he’d suffered such a massive hangover that he would be incapable of conducting an examination of the jurors. But as he approached the table, I was taken with the bright look in his eyes, and the obvious energy he was feeling. He wore a double-breasted buff suit, pale blue shirt, and a colorful tie of red and green. His arms were laden with file folders.
“Good morning, Mr. McLoon,” said Judge Wilson, the pique in his voice evident.
“Good morning, Your Honor,” Malcolm boomed, dropping the files on the table with great flourish. “My profound apologies to the court, sir, for my late arrival. I was unavoidably detained, the reason for it of little or no interest to this court.”
Judge Wilson leaned forward, narrowed his eyes, and said, “I’ll be the judge of that Mr. McLoon. I intend for this court to start on time each day. Please be advised of that.”
“Of course, Your Honor,” Malcolm said, adding a throaty chuckle. “It shan’t happen again, I assure.”
“No, I’m sure it won’t,” replied Wilson, sighing deeply and sitting back in his high-backed leather chair.
Rachel Cohen quickly handed Malcolm her list of questions. He scanned it quickly, cleared his throat, went to where the prospective jurors sat, and issued a loud, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.”
There were muttered responses.
As Malcolm proceeded to question the men and women, I was impressed with his mental acumen, style, and manner. He seemed to establish an immediate rapport with whatever person he was questioning. At one point, he narrowed in on a woman who’d captured my attention, too, Elizabeth Woo. I’d naturally assumed she was Oriental, as did Malcolm. But she was the picture of Ireland ; her wedding ring solved the
“Now, based upon what I have told you, and based upon what you already know about this case, is there anyone here who believes they would have a personal problem serving on this jury?”
One woman raised her hand. She started to say something but Judge Wilson cut her off. “All right, you’re excused,” he said.
Just like that. No questions asked.
“Anyone else?” Wilson asked.
Two more hands went up, and they were dismissed without comment or question.
Seventeen prospective jurors remained seated, which surprised me. It was my assumption that most people tried to get out of jury duty, something I’ve always found dismaying. But here the judge had given them an easy out, and most elected to stay. Either they were especially conscientious—or intimidated.
The judge asked a series of generic questions of the remaining prospects. Satisfied with the responses he received, he turned the questioning over to the district attorney, Whitney James, who stood and issued her own greeting. As she spoke, I took the opportunity to get a better look at her. She was certainly pretty, but not beautiful, her features interesting as opposed to classic. Her demeanor was soothing rather than strident. Of course, I knew that this was her first opportunity to impress prospective jurors. Malcolm had said she was cold as ice, but that wasn’t coming through this morning. She had chosen a neatly tailored suit the color of cranberries; a simple blouse and scarf coordinated with it nicely. A cameo pin adorned a lapel; classic black pumps completed her wardrobe. She’d put her thick brunette hair up into a chignon, and her makeup had been tastefully applied.
Using a prepared list of questions based upon each prospective juror’s questionnaire, Ms. James asked a series of probing questions. When her allotted time was up, Judge Wilson turned to us and said, “You’re up, Ms. Cohen.”
Rachel had no sooner stood and was about to approach the jurors when the courtroom doors opened and Malcolm McLoon blustered through them. By this time, I wondered whether he’d suffered such a massive hangover that he would be incapable of conducting an examination of the jurors. But as he approached the table, I was taken with the bright look in his eyes, and the obvious energy he was feeling. He wore a double-breasted buff suit, pale blue shirt, and a colorful tie of red and green. His arms were laden with file folders.
“Good morning, Mr. McLoon,” said Judge Wilson, the pique in his voice evident.
“Good morning, Your Honor,” Malcolm boomed, dropping the files on the table with great flourish. “My profound apologies to the court, sir, for my late arrival. I was unavoidably detained, the reason for it of little or no interest to this court.”
Judge Wilson leaned forward, narrowed his eyes, and said, “I’ll be the judge of that Mr. McLoon. I intend for this court to start on time each day. Please be advised of that.”
“Of course, Your Honor,” Malcolm said, adding a throaty chuckle. “It shan’t happen again, I assure.”
“No, I’m sure it won’t,” replied Wilson, sighing deeply and sitting back in his high-backed leather chair.
Rachel Cohen quickly handed Malcolm her list of questions. He scanned it quickly, cleared his throat, went to where the prospective jurors sat, and issued a loud, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.”
There were muttered responses.
As Malcolm proceeded to question the men and women, I was impressed with his mental acumen, style, and manner. He seemed to establish an immediate rapport with whatever person he was questioning. At one point, he narrowed in on a woman who’d captured my attention, too, Elizabeth Woo. I’d naturally assumed she was Oriental, as did Malcolm. But she was the picture of Ireland ; her wedding ring solved the
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