Neon Dragon (19 page)

“How's your confidence in that look in young Bradley's eyes now, sonny?”

“Waning. Not gone, but waning.”

“This could be the best thing that happened to Bradley.”

“You lost me, Mr. Devlin.”

“Any time you base a defense on your belief in your client's innocence because he told you so, you're a loose cannon. Often as not, you'll wind up exploding in your client's face. Go with the facts as you find them. You'll do the best job for your client.”

“Yes, sir. I remember you said that.”

He gave me a sharp look when he caught the lawyer's difference between agreeing with him and noting that he'd said it.

“Mm. What about this Mr. Qian? Is he a solid witness?”

“In the worst way. Mrs. Lee is strung tight as piano wire. She could fold under pressure. But Mr. Qian is … gentle, intelligent, confident, humble … wise. He won't be shaken.”

He was leaning against the chair, but his eyes came up.

“Wise?”

I thought about it. How many people do you meet in a lifetime that fit that description?

“Yes, sir. Wise.”

“What about the Harvard group? Anything there?”

“Nothing substantive. Couple of possible character witnesses. One in particular. I think she has a crush.”

“Then she's useless. The jury'll see it. Anything she says'll be considered biased. The only remote possibility for an affirmative defense seems to be this girl, Mei-Li. And she's an unknown. The rest of it's blowing smoke.”

I was pleased in a frightening sort of way that we had reached the same conclusion.

“I want you to get a detective up to Toronto. Get Tom Burns on it.”

“No, sir.”

I think the last one to say the
n
word to him was his mother. He hadn't heard it in so long, he looked as if he wanted me to define it for him.

“What I mean, Mr. Devlin, is he's good, but not for this. This is an outfit that runs on secret code words, and numbers, and mostly well-orchestrated fear. It's a matter of always touching the right buttons. I couldn't have gotten this far without a Chinese friend who runs interference for me.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“My friend and I are going up to Toronto tomorrow.”

That lit a fuse and raised the decibel level to where I'm sure Julie could hear it comfortably.

“The hell you are, sonny! You're not going outside of this commonwealth. You've gone far enough. Too far. No more foolish risks. Get Burns on this. And do it now. I want a statement from that girl. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

He swung the chair around and focused the full Devlin heat at me from three feet.

“Let's get this straight, sonny. Do we understand who's running this show?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right then. You stay put.”

He eased back a bit, and I felt the furnace subside. The change of subject was a relief.

“I got a call from Judge Posner's chambers. The case has been assigned to him. He's called a pretrial conference for three days from now at two. I want you there. He's going to be pushing for an early trial date before the press and the Chinese community get more revved up than they are already. The DA has the cards, so she wants a quick showdown too.”

“We need time, Mr. Devlin. This case is not shaping up fast. It gets more complicated every time I talk to a witness.”

“I'll do what I can at the conference to buy us some time.”

“How do you feel about Judge Posner?”

He grabbed a pair of reading glasses and paced to the window.

“I don't know. I haven't had a criminal case before him in ten years. He's good on evidence. Tough on lawyers, at least the young ones.”

“That's not what I mean, sir.”

“I know what you mean, sonny. In plain English, is he going to give Bradley a fair trial? I wish I knew. You know what they say in Chicago. ‘If the fix is equal, justice prevails.'”

“And is the fix equal here, Mr. Devlin?”

He rubbed the morning shadow of regrowth on his chin. I knew we were both thinking of the DA's sudden reversal on a plea bargain and Conrad Munsey's warning about unrest upstairs.

“Let's hope so, sonny. Without solid grounds for a motion to have him recuse himself, that's the best we can do at this point. Let's get on with it.”

He came back to the papers on his desk. I was halfway to the door when his voice caught me.

“Sonny!
You be damned careful in Toronto.
”

I was caught flat-footed. “But didn't you just say …”

“I know what I said.” He stood up, and the chair spun. “And I know you. I could order you to hell and back, and you'd still go to Toronto, wouldn't you?”

There was no point in not telling him the truth.

“Yes, sir.”

“And you'll probably go on taking these foolish chances for the rest of your life. You're too damn much like me.”

I was grinning, and I didn't hide it. I think inside maybe he was, too, in spite of the fierceness of the scowl.

“If you get hurt up there, you'll get it double from me when you get back! You understand?”

“Yes, sir. I'll watch it.”

“I want to see you right here the instant you get back.”

I nodded. “The instant I get back.”

I walked out of there on six clouds. I got looks of sympathy from the corridor dwellers who heard the ruckus and thought Mr. D. had devoured another associate. I sensed that back of the bellowing, the man cared whether I lived or died. I never got that feeling from anyone else at Bilson, Dawes.

I DECIDED TO CHECK
into my office, as briefly as possible. Julie held out a pink please-call-back slip.

“Are you and ‘Lex' still tight? Sounds like there's trouble in Paradise.”

I said it quietly while I checked the slip. Tom Burns wanted me to call him back at his office. “We're cool. I've got him right where I want him.”

“Right. On your back, taking bites out of your neck.”

I just shook my head and smiled. I looked back down the corridor.

“Did you ever notice something, Julie? When you walk down toward that office, the floor seems to rise. You know why that is?”

She looked blank and curious, and I just winked.

TOM BURNS PICKED UP ON
the second ring. It was his private line with no secretarial intermediates.

“Any pay dirt, Tom?”

“I checked the twelve jurors. The twelve of them continued on with about the same lifestyle they had before the Dolson trial. The only exception was that one of them died about a year after the trial.”

“Of what?”

“Heart attack. Nothing suspicious. He had heart problems before the trial.”

“So we struck out.”

“Did I say that, Mike? Hold your horses. I checked probate. The one who died left the usual things a carpenter from South Boston would leave his daughter in his will. Plus a three-hundred-thousand-dollar bank account.”

“Bingo.”

“There's more. I checked with the other jurors personally. The guy who died was the holdout that made the hung jury. The others were ready to convict. I also checked to see if any of the others were approached with a bribe. None. But they only needed one.”

“You're a thing of beauty, Thomas. What kind of an account was it?”

“According to the will, it was a regular savings account. South Boston Savings.”

“In his name?”

“Right.”

“Which was?”

“Ronald Perry.”

“I need to get some information on the account. Do you know who the executor was under the will?”

“By coincidence, the daughter who came into the three hundred grand. Joyce Perry Frank. She works at the Shaughnessy Funeral Home in Southie.”

“You're too good, Tom. I'll get back to you on the bill.”

“Not this time, Mike. Just go with it.”

I CHECKED THE PHONE BOOK
for the address of the Shaughnessy Funeral Home. I called and made an appointment with Joyce Perry
Frank for two o'clock. I didn't give any specifics. I didn't want her to lose that sympathetic, consoling tone of voice until I had a chance to explain what I needed.

There was just time to dash through two hot dogs from one of the Washington Street vendors and pick up a package of Tums for desert. Then out to Southie.

It was nearly two by the time I found the D Street address. I had passed six similar establishments before I found the Shaughnessy Funeral Home. Not surprising, since Southie is still overwhelmingly Irish, and among the Irish, funeral homes are a bustling industry. It's not that they die more frequently than anyone else. They just seem to do it with more panache. An Irish friend of mine used to refer to the obituary column in the
Globe
as the “Irish Sports Section.”

JOYCE PERRY FRANK
was a roundish woman in her late forties, early fifties. She was neatly attired in a suitably colorless dress. She had that mortician's ability to smile with her mouth while her eyes conveyed empathy with the bereaved.

“Mrs. Frank, this is a bit difficult. I hope you'll understand. First, the good news. Nobody died.”

From her expression, I wasn't sure she considered that good news.

The question was whether to go with the truth and ruffle some feathers, or spin a yarn that would get the same result without ruffling feathers. The problem was that the truth might later become public, and it could be devastating if it took her by surprise. I opted for the truth up front.

“I'm going to be honest with you, Mrs. Frank. I'm investigating an incident of possible jury tampering. It occurred in a criminal case some ten years ago. I'm afraid that the juror was your father.”

She stiffened.

“I believe there was a payoff. A big payoff. Something in the range of three hundred thousand dollars. That's water over the dam. Nobody
wants the money back. There's something more important at stake. The wrong man was blamed for it. It nearly destroyed him. He still lives under the weight of it. It was a great injustice. He deserves to be cleared.”

“What will this do to my father's reputation?”

“Well, it may bring it all up again. Apparently, everyone considered it jury tampering ten years ago, anyway. My investigation could confirm it. It would also pinpoint your father as the juror.”

I could see the concern on her face. “What is it you want, Mr. Knight?”

“You were the executrix under the will. I'd like to get your permission to see the records of your father's bank account. I need to know if a major deposit was made around the time of the trial. If it was, the next step is to find out who paid the money.”

“How will you do that?”

“I haven't figured that out yet. One step at a time.”

“And this will mean my father's name in the paper?”

“It could. And I know that'd be painful. And I don't mean to seem insensitive, but your father's at rest now. The man I mentioned has been in sort of a living death for the past ten years. He can't shake the suspicion.”

“Are you his son?”

“No.”

“But you seem to have a son's feeling for him.”

I had a shot of recollection of how much Mr. Devlin reminded me of the only father I'd known from the age of fourteen.

“Something like that.”

She stood up. “I'll have to think about it, Mr. Knight.”

I stood, but I didn't move. I needed one more attempt.

“Mrs. Frank, two things. First, if you help me with this, I'll do everything in my power to see that the juror is not named. All that's even suspected now is that it was just one of the twelve.”

“Can you do that?”

“I don't know. I'll do my best. The second thing is hard to say without seeming overly dramatic. I'm the only one who cares enough to see this through. I have to go on a trip day after tomorrow. I may not be coming back. Today could be my last chance to work on this.”

She took a deep breath that ended in a sigh. When she looked at me, I could see that whatever she'd decided had cost her emotionally.

“I'm going to give you what you want, Mr. Knight. My father was never happy since that trial ended. It changed him terribly. I think it finally brought on the heart attack that killed him. I believe he'd want me to do this.”

I nodded. “I understand. If I could have a sheet of paper, I'll draft a consent form. Do you have something showing that you were your father's executrix?”

“Yes, in my desk. I'll get it for you.”

BY THREE O'CLOCK
, I was getting cozy with one of the officers of South Boston Savings. I was referred to “our Mr. Dunwoody” for this special request. Our Mr. Dunwoody turned out to be one of those people who finds excitement in neatness.

My heart leaped when I checked out his desk with the pad of unsullied paper squared off with the corner of the desk. One silver pen was at attention in its little holder. No fistful of half-sharpened pencils rammed into a Skippy jar here.

The reason this brought joy to my heart was that this was exactly the kind of puppy who might take it as a challenge to his prowess to come up with a copy of a ten-year-old bank statement.

And so he did, but not until he went over the documents I handed him as if they were commanding him to release the Queen's diary. Fortunately, he found that “Everything seems to be in order.”

I had a printout of activity of the account in hand in fifteen minutes. Looking at items occurring shortly before the start of the Dolson trial, I checked for any out-of-line deposit.

I thought the fixer might have been subtle enough to spread payments out over a period of time, but he wasn't. It was bold enough to knock your eye out. Three days after the hung jury came in, the sum of three hundred thousand dollars was deposited in the account. As a matter of fact, other than the opening of the account and the monthly addition of interest, that was the sum total of activity in the account. Either he was afraid or ashamed to dip into the funds, or maybe he just wanted it all to go to his daughter.