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mystery. Obviously, this freckled-face, green-eyed, redhead was married to a gentleman named Woo. Malcolm joked with her about that, which brought a mild rebuke from Judge Wilson: “Could we move on to more substantive matters, Mr. McLoon,” he said.
    “Of course, Your Honor.”
    Which he did, probing their attitudes and feelings about a variety of subjects. Although he’d told me not to take notes, I couldn’t help it, and noticed that Jill Farkas was doing the same.
    Malcolm spent what I considered an inordinate amount of time with a young man named Thomas McEnroe, who’d listed his occupation as pottery maker.
    “An interesting line of work,” Malcolm said, a big smile across his broad face. “I always admire people who are able to make a living in the arts.”
    “Yes,” McEnroe replied. He was a slender, gentle person with soft brown eyes. He wore a T-shirt, blue sports jacket, jeans, and Birkenstock sandals. “I’m one of those fortunate people who is able to make a living doing what he loves most.”
    “Fortunate indeed,” said Malcolm. He faced the judge. “Unfortunately, most of us in this room are unable to make the same claim.” Whitney James rolled her eyes. Judge Wilson closed his.
    I glanced to my left and saw Jill Farkas write a note next to McEnroe’s name: “Probably resents the rich.”
    I looked up just as Malcolm turned and stared at me. He gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head and smiled. I smiled in return. We were on the same wavelength—we liked the pottery maker, Tom McEnroe.
    And so it went for the rest of the morning. By lunch, my notes indicated that only two of the remaining seventeen impressed me as possible jury candidates, at least from the defense prospective.
    By day’s end, I had come up with five jurors who had my stamp of approval, including the pottery maker, an unemployed construction foreman, a businessman who owned a company that manufactured scissors and tweezers, a housewife whose two children were grown and living on their own, and who’d actually mentioned that she liked baked beans. That comment came about when Malcolm asked her what she enjoyed doing on weekends: “I enjoy being with my husband, friends, barbecuing in the backyard, hot dogs, hamburgers, baked beans, watermelon.” This time, when Malcolm looked at me, his smile was considerably broader. I had to stifle a laugh.
    The fifth acceptable juror was a young woman who was an actress, turned waitress. She indicated it was her dream to complete the circle and become an actress again.
    Toward the end of the afternoon, Judge Wilson summoned Malcolm and Whitney James into his chambers. Before he did, he informed the rest of us that court was in recess until nine the following morning.
    Rachel Cohen left the courthouse immediately—something to do with a problem at home. Georgia Bobley said she was heading back to the office to take care of some administrative problems. I didn’t know where Billy Brannigan was; he seemed to have disappeared once court was let out.
    I sat outside in the marble hallway and waited for Malcolm to emerge. When he did, he came through the large leather doors with such force that I thought they might come off their hinges. He was obviously angry. I got up and said, “What’s next?”
    “What’s next is a drink. Come on.”
    “The press is waiting outside,” I said, falling in step with him. “You promised them a press conference.”
    “The hell with them,” he said. “I have nothing to say.”
    With Malcolm parting the press like Moses parting the Red Sea, I followed him down to where our chauffeur-driven car waited. “You seem upset,” I said.
    “You bet I am. That damn Whitney James is showing her true colors already.” He fell silent for the rest of the ride, and I didn’t intrude upon it.
    We pulled up in front of the Union Oyster House, the oldest continuous service restaurant in the United States. I’d been there before, but it had been a while ago.