A Deadly Judgment by Jessica Fletcher Page A

metallic yellows and greens to create a stunning work of art. I enjoy pottery, and began collecting it ten years ago, picking up a piece wherever I travel to remind me of the city, state, country, or island I’d visited. Before that, it was miniature spoons, then coffee mugs, and finally Christmas tree ornaments. It was when my display racks for the spoons and mugs overflowed, and my Christmas tree bowed unnaturally under the weight of too many ornaments, that I turned to pottery. This was a beautiful piece, another example of Ms. Warren’s good taste. A small, cherry writing desk sat in a comer in front of the large bay window, a perfect setting for creating a letter or note, or in my case if I lived here, a manuscript page. Unlike the rest of the downstairs, the desk was messy. Not dirty, but heavy with papers. I reached in my pocket for my half-glasses, put them on, and read the papers on top of various piles. A pink slip of paper caught my eye, and I leaned closer to read it. It was a Cape Cod Savings Bank deposit slip in the amount of ten thousand dollars. The account was in Cynthia Warren’s name. She’d made the deposit yesterday. She evidently had a good job, or profession. The house testified to that.
     
    The mood in Malcolm’s office later that afternoon was grim. No surprise. A vibrant young woman had been brutally murdered, reason enough for the funereal atmosphere. But on top of it, a young man, Billy Brannigan, on trial for his life, had lost his only alibi.
    We all sat there without saying anything, waiting for Malcolm to break the silence. The only sound was the incessant ringing of the telephone, which was being answered by an answering machine.
    Malcolm was slumped in his chair behind his desk, watery eyes fixed on the desktop, tie yanked open and hanging crookedly over his belly.
    “Malcolm, maybe we should—”
    He waved off Rachel Cohen’s words.
    “I just thought that—”
    “Can’t be,” Malcolm muttered to himself.
    “Where’s Billy?” Georgia Bobley asked tentatively, as though her intrusion into the great attorney’s thoughts might result in a spear through her heart.
    “My house,” Malcolm said. “Linda’s with him.”
    “That’s good,” said Jill Farkas, never looking up from her laptop computer.
    “Damn it!” Malcolm said with force. He got to his feet, went to the small bar, and poured himself a large glass of whiskey.
    We looked at each other as our leader emptied the glass with one long swallow.
    “Looks like the prosecution’s got itself a guardian angel,” he growled.
    “The lobby’s filled with reporters,” George Bobley said.
    I winced when I thought he was about to pour himself another drink, but he didn’t. The emptied glass seemed to have loosened him up, like oil freeing a rusty hinge. He was out of his reverie, wheels almost visible as they spun in his head. “What’d the DA say?” he asked Rachel Cohen.
    “They want Judge Wilson to revoke Billy’s bail.”
    Malcolm guffawed. “What the hell do they think, Billy went and killed his only alibi?”
    “They’ve been chafing ever since he was given bail, Malcolm. You know that. The DA’s up for reelection. He’s making a case out of allowing accused murderers to walk around free on bail.”
    “If Ritchie calls in, put him through,” he told Georgia, who sat next to the answering machine noting callers who’d identified themselves. Ritchie Fleigler had stayed on the Cape; I’d been brought back to Boston by my driver, Cathie, who’d been dispatched to pick me up the minute Malcolm learned about Cynthia Warren. Court had just broken for lunch when the call came through, and Judge Wilson had honored Malcolm’s request for a recess until the following morning.
    Malcolm paced, stopping at the bar but resisting the temptation to pour another. “They want to play that game,” he said, “we can play games, too. Hell, who’s to say that our esteemed district attorney isn’t so anxious for a