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well-respected man, Jessica, hard-worker, a family man.”
    “Yes, I’m—I’m certain he is.”
    It’s been my experience that people living off trusts generally aren’t “hard working.” Nor was I aware that Brannigan was married. But it wasn’t the time or place for me to raise those issues.
    “Bill, do you want to say anything to Mrs. Fletcher?” McLoon asked. “Naturally, I’ll go over the case with her in detail, step by step. But do you have anything to offer at this moment?”
    “Yes,” he said.
    His smile was wide and winning. What a handsome young man, I thought. Chiseled features, brilliant blue eyes, thick black hair.
    “First, I want to say I love your books, Mrs. Fletcher.”
    “Thank you.”
    “And, I’d like to tell you a story, a chapter from my life. One day, I woke up just like you and millions of other people. Just an ordinary early spring day in Hingham, Massachusetts. Hingham’s about half an hour from Boston, Mrs. Fletcher, right on the water, a picturesque waterfront village a lot like where you come from in Maine.
    “I hit the snooze button three times before getting out of bed that morning, got into the shower, and was out the door pretty quick. I drove to the Cape and worked hard all day, ate lunch like everybody else.”
    I was wrong, I thought. The trust hadn’t stripped him of a work ethic as trusts often do.
    “But then the routine of my day changed. Of my life. I learned my brother had been killed. I jumped in my car the next morning and was heading for his home—the radio had news about his murder, which was really upsetting; I wasn’t sure I was capable of driving safety—when several police cars pulled alongside me and I was arrested for Jack’s murder.”
    “As Malcolm knows,” I said, “I’m not a lawyer, and don’t know very much about the law aside from what I’ve had to learn for my books. But my understanding is that when you’re indicted for murder, bail is out of the question. Yet, you’re sitting here.”
    Malcolm laughed. “I can be very persuasive, Jessica. Perhaps you remember that from my younger days.”
    “Oh, yes, I certainly do. Still—”
    “My family’s name helped,” Brannigan said, looking down as though embarrassed. “Bail was a million dollars.”
    “Wow,” was all I could say.
    “I just wanted to humanize the circumstances for you, Mrs. Fletcher. And I appreciate any help you can give to clear my name, and hopefully to find Jack’s real killer.”
    “I’m here to help Bill,” I replied. “I’ll do my best. And my name is Jessica, or Jess if you prefer.”
    The intercom buzzed. “WHAT?” McLoon bellowed.
    “Court TV is on the phone, Mr. McLoon,” Georgia Bobley said. “He said you told him to call at ten.”
    Malcolm checked his watch. “Punctual, isn’t he? Put him through.”
    “Court TV?” I asked.
    Malcolm ignored me and picked up the phone. “McLoon here. Yes. Of course. Yes. She’s sitting here as we speak. Right. My pleasure. That will be fine. Thank you.”
    He hung up.
    “Court TV?” I repeated.
    “These damn journalists think they’re bigger than God, Jessica. They want to have a camera crew live in my house for a few days to record my comings and goings.” He laughed loudly. “Here’s McLoon throwing his alarm clock across the room. Here he is drinking his fourth cup of good scotch whiskey. Here he is brushing his dentures. Give them an inch, Jessica, they’ll take a mile. Where were we?”
    “Malcolm, does the press—does Court TV know by any chance that I’m a jury consultant on this case?” I asked.
    “Know? About you? What were we talking about?”
    “I’m talking about Court TV,” I said. “I heard you say that ‘she’s sitting here as we speak.’ As far as I can see, I’m the only she in this room.”
    “Yes. How they got wind of it I’ll never know.”
    “Did you tell them?” I asked.
    “Might have. No matter. Cameras in the courtroom won’t bother me. Shouldn’t