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building’s front door.
    I made it to the street and had taken a few steps in the direction of Faneuil Hall when Ms. Wells from Court TV caught up. “Please, Mrs. Fletcher, a pretrial interview. Mr. McLoon’s been very cooperative. We’ll be living in his house for a few days.”
    “Ms. Wells, I really don’t think I’m free to comment to the press.”
    “We’re not ‘the press,’ ” she said. “We’re Court TV. We cover the trial from gavel to gavel. We always do interviews with the major players. You’re certainly one of them.”
    “Maybe another time,” I said.
    She kept pace with me. I stopped again, looked at her, and said, “Did Court TV plan to cover the Brannigan trial from gavel to gavel before I agreed to help Mr. McLoon select a jury?”
    “Honestly? No. There are two other high-profile trials starting tomorrow—one in California, one in Florida. It was a toss-up between the three until we were informed you’d be taking part in the Brannigan trial.”
    “I see.”
    “Mr. McLoon lobbied hard to have us cover it. What do you think of him?”
    “Malcolm McLoon? A delightful man and good friend. I hate to be rude, but I’m running late for lunch with him.”
    “At Seaside?”
    “Yes.”
    “There’s a TV crew already in there.”
    “In the restaurant?”
    “Yes. They’re covering it.”
    “ ‘Covering it?’ Covering lunch?”
    She laughed. “The Brannigan trial is big news in Boston, Mrs. Fletcher. Big news nationwide because we’re carrying it.” She handed me a business card and said, “We’ll be seeing lots of each other over the next few months. This is all new to you. Once you’re in the swing, you’ll have time for interviews. Won’t hurt the sale of your books, either. Enjoy lunch.”
    “Sorry I’m late,” I told Malcolm after I’d joined him at a large comer table.
    “Not to worry, dear lady,” he said. A pretty young waitress waited for our orders. “The usual for me, Heather,” Malcolm said. “You, Jessica?”
    “May I see a menu?” I.asked.
    “No drink? You’re with Mr. McLoon,” Heather said.
    Our waitress, who I now knew was Heather, smiled and cocked her head.
    “Club soda and lime, please,” I said.
    I looked across the room to a raised platform on which a television camera manned by two young men was positioned. “You’re quite the celebrity these days,” I said.
    “Damn vultures,” McLoon said, nodding in the direction of the camera.
    “I’d say you’re enjoying it.” I kept my tone pleasant.
    “Goes with the territory.”
    Heather delivered our drinks; Malcolm’s glass was oversized and filled with a potent-looking brown liquid. He raised it to me. “Here’s to a successful defense of Billy Brannigan.”
    As I touched my rim to his, a strobe light went off. We both turned to face a photographer, who immediately knocked off another shot.
    “Malcolm, I think we have to talk,” I said into his ear.
    Another flash from the strobe.
    “Could we have some privacy?” I said to the photographer.
    I was answered by a woman carrying a pad and pen, who stepped from behind the photographer. “Just a few questions,” she said.
    “Not now,” McLoon said, waving a fat hand at her.
    “Please, the press section is over there,” the manager of the restaurant said to the reporter and photographer, guiding them in the direction of the TV camera.
    “Good publicity for the restaurant,” Malcolm said. “The owner’s a friend of mine.”
    “I’m not sure I’m up to all this media attention, Malcolm.”
    “Ignore ’em,” Jessica. “Let’s get down to business.”
    “Maybe we should get down to business in your office. Have a sandwich sent up and—”
    Malcolm indicated why that wasn’t a good idea by motioning for Heather to replenish his empty drink. She already had it in-hand, immediately set in front of him, and handed me a menu. I said after a quick perusal, “I’ll have a cup of lobster bisque and a spinach salad.”
    Malcolm