The Only Good Lawyer - Jeremiah Healy (11 page)

And Steve Rothenberg had given me a wedge for
penetrating that.

Commercial Street curves with the waterfront while
providing land access to a dozen wharves jutting into the harbor
between the Aquarium and the Charlestown Bridge. The wharves support
substantial condominium complexes, both business and residential uses
in the same buildings to retain that "quaint" look.
Unfortunately, Boston's real estate recession had really whacked most
properties east of Quincy Market's "ultimate shopping
experience."

The address of Epstein 8 Neely, attorneys at law,
turned out to be a five-story combination of red brick and weathered
gray shingle. It stood across from Spaulding Wharf, facing southeast
toward a hundred-slip marina, twenty or so sailboats-to-yachts still
creaking against floating docks. The building's directory was
displayed next to a set of buttons on the jamb of the downstairs
entrance. The directory showed a travel agency on the ground floor,
open slots for the second and third, and the law firm on four.
Nothing for the fifth, which from the sidewalk seemed to be built
across only half the roof.

I looked into the picture window next to the door. A
bare counter, a single chair, and two posters of the Caribbean with
water as natural-looking as a tinted contact lens. It seemed that our
recession had caused even the travel agency to pull the rip cord.

Before pressing the button for the law firm, I tried
the main entrance door. It opened onto a postage-stamp lobby with a
staircase and a tiny elevator sporting one of those old-fashioned,
diamond windows.

In the elevator—and out of curiosity—I pushed the
button for "2". The little number outline didn't light up.
Same for floor "3". The fourth button did make contact, and
the door slid closed.

When the backlit "4" went dark, the cab
opened onto a reception area with wine-and-gold swirled carpeting. I
got another view of the marina through a glass-walled conference room
that had a bigger picture window to the outside world than the
departed travel agency downstairs. The higher perspective made the
boats seem less impressive against the greater expanse of harbor.

A polished teak reception desk graced the carpeting
between the elevator and the conference room. A woman in her thirties
looked up at me from the telephone console as she massaged her left
wrist with the other hand. Reddish hair was drawn back into a bun,
and a pair of half-glasses perched halfway down her nose. If she wore
any makeup, I couldn't see its effects. Her suit jacket was brown,
the blouse under it maize. A spindly pilot's mouthpiece angled toward
thin lips and a narrow jaw. In a very controlled voice, the woman
said, "I'm afraid Ms. Ling is out of the office right now."
Stopping the massage, she reached for a pen, raising it to a hovering
position over a spiral notebook with serrated, pink and yellow
bi-part message slips in it. A plastic, compartmentalized holder
contained the pink copies of other messages. “No, for some reason
the system isn't accepting voice mail, but I can take a . . .Very
well."

Her left hand moved subtly, and I had the feeling the
connection had been broken, partly because the woman said to me, "May
I help you?"

The controlled voice still. "Yes. John Cuddy
here to see Mr. Epstein or Mr. Neely."

"I'm afraid that's not possible."

"I can wait."

A labored sigh. "Mr. Epstein passed away four
years ago."

Not one of my better starts. "I'm sorry. I
didn't—"

"Obviously not. And Mr. Neely is in conference."

"Then I'll wait for him."

"His schedule is rather full." She didn't
need to consult anything to determine that. "Our telephone
number is five-one-three, two-two-oh-oh. Perhaps if you called to
make anappointment?"

"Perhaps if you told Mr. Neely I'm here
investigating the death of Woodrow Gant?" I put one of my
business cards on the desktop, but before the woman looked down, her
whole face drooped.

"Please . . ." A more hushed voice now.
"Please be seated for a moment."

Arranged in a corner were a love seat and two wing
chairs, the same polished teak as the desk and upholstered in fabric
that picked up more of the carpet's wine than its gold. I took one of
the chairs as the receptionist touched something on her board. Before
she could speak into the mouthpiece, a man in his thirties with a
military walk and suspendered, pleated suit pants entered the
reception area from a side corridor.

He said, "Imogene, I just got off a conference
call, but there weren't any messages on my voice mail."

She pointed at the machine in front of her, then
lowered her hand, palm down, toward it.

"Again?" said the man. "That's the
third time this week, and it's only Wednesday."

Imogene just glared at
him, now pointing to her mouthpiece. After taking two pink slips from
a slot in the message holder, he turned. I could see for the first
time a streak of white on the right side of his well-groomed hair,
like a male Bride of Frankenstein. Without looking toward me, he
strode away. Then Imogene whispered something into her mouthpiece. I
couldn't hear what she said, which, given her controlled attitude so
far, didn't surprise me.

* * *

"Mr. Cuddy, Frank Neely."

He extended his hand to shake, the full name "Francis
Xavier Neely" on calligraphed diplomas from Boston College High
School, Boston College, and Boston College Law in ascending order on
the wall behind his own teak desk. Around here we call that a "Triple
Eagle," after the schools' shared mascot. At the side of the
desk, there was even an old bookbag-style briefcase, the kind the
nuns preferred you to carry in grammar school, the initials "FXN"
in faded gold near the handles on top.

Neely next said, "Thank you, Imogene," and
his office door closed behind me. "Mr. Cuddy, have a seat while
I just enter something on my time sheet here."

Sitting down, Neely tapped at a computer as though he
were afraid it might explode on him. Standing between the teak desk
and matching credenza, Neely was a shade over six feet, maybe two
hundred pounds. What looked like a closet door to the right wasn't
open, and while he might have put on the windowpane suit jacket just
to greet me, I somehow didn't think so. His eyes were blue—what an
aunt of mine would have called "devilish"—in a ruddy
face, the nose prominent.

His hair was that straw-blond that skips gray and
goes straight  to snow at the sideburns. A sepia photo on the
wall showed a youthful Neely in World War II combat fatigues, a
Ranger patch stitched to one shoulder, his arm a horse-collar around 
the neck of another soldier in the same uniform. The horse-collar
appeared to be a favorite pose of Neely's, as he used it again in a
color photo with a very slim, very distinguished, and very bald man,
the neckties and hairstyles suggesting the shot went maybe ten years
back. However, the Ranger one meant Neely would have to be pushing
seventy, even if seemingly in better-than-fair shape doing it.

"Leonard Epstein."

I brought my eyes back to Neely. "Which photo?"

He actually turned to look. "Oh, the color shot
there. Len and I founded this firm together seven—no, sweet Jesus,
it's eight years now." A bittersweet smile with a head shake.
"Heart attack took him early, never saw sixty-five. God wants
the good ones sooner, I guess."

"I'm sorry for both your losses," I said.

Even the bittersweet smile disappeared now. "Imogene
said you were here about Woodrow."

"That's right. And I really appreciate your
seeing me without any notice."

"Which must be the way you thought best."

Direct. "When I call first, people usually
manage to be away from their desk."

Something rumbled in Neely's chest, but he didn't
laugh out loud. "I'm a trusts and estates man, Mr. Cuddy, so I'm
almost always in. But I take your point." His left hand went up
to scratch at his temple, the back of the hand matted enough with the
snowy hair to cover any age spots. "Imogene said she'd seen a
business card. How about a little more definite identification?"

I drew out the leather folder, and then my wallet,
flipping to the driver's license photo before passing both across the
desk. Neely compared them without reaching for any glasses, then
passed both back.

"So," he said, "how about if it's
'John' and 'Frank' for now?"

"Fine with me."

"You're working for Mr. Alan Spaeth, then?"

The same inflection on “Mr." as on each
syllable of the name. "I am."

"Figured as much. You were with one of the
insurance companies, somebody would have called first."

I said, "One of the companies?"

"Woodrow had a couple of life policies, payable
to family members. And of course we had firm insurance on him."

"As a key employee."

A nod. "Learned that lesson with Len. We didn't
have but five hundred on each of us back then, and it was tough
sledding for a while after he died."

"Five hundred thousand?"

Neely shifted in his chair. "Correct."

"And how much on Mr. Gant?"

Neely seemed to want to shift again, but didn't.
"Straight million, same as each of us."

"You mean, on each partner?"

"On each attorney. Don't let Uta hear I said
this, but the associates are worth at least as much as the partners
in terms of time invested on cases."

But not, I'd have thought, rainmaking. "I'm
sorry, Uta is . . . ?"

"Uta Radachowski. She's my third . . ."
Neely closed his eyes briefly. “She's my other partner, now. Elliot
Herman and Deborah Ling are the associates."

Which would probably make Herman the man I saw in the
reception area. "So, not counting Mr. Gant, the firm has only
four attorneys, total?"

Neely did shift again this time. "Yes, but what
difference does that make to your work?"

"I don't follow you."

The man came forward in his chair, the hairy hands
having a hard time nesting comfortably on his desktop. “John, I've
shown you my cards so far, don't you be holding yours close to the
vest, okay?"

"Frank, I honestly didn't get what you meant."

Neely sat back. "You're working for Mr. Spaeth,
you'd be wanting to know about the blowup here when he threatened
Woodrow."

Neely's cooperation was important to me, even if
keeping it meant telling him I might have some cards in my hand.
"Frank, there are enough things about Mr. Gant's death that
bother me, I'm not sure what I want to know."

"The police seemed to think your Mr. Spaeth is
their man."

"I don't."

The lawyer's eyebrows closed together, two
caterpillars trying to pass on the same twig. "You genuinely
believe somebody other than Mr. Spaeth might be responsible for
Woodrow's death?"

"Yes."

Neely looked down at his hands a moment. "I'll
not ask you who or why, because in your position, I wouldn't say. I'd
ask only that you bear some things in mind." He looked back up
at me, some of the combat stare in his eyes. "The people in this
firm are like family to me, and, I believe, to each other as well.
When Len died, Uta and I were the only attorneys here. The emotional
impact was as though she'd lost an uncle and me a brother. But
Woodrow's . . . death was worse. Far worse. Senseless, horrible,
someone else's nightmare come home to roost. We all cried openly in
the halls and offices for days, and it'll be years before we can
think about it without pain."

Neely paused, I think to see if I'd say anything. I
didn't.

He nodded once. "But, John, I'm a lawyer, too.
And I believe every criminal defendant has a right to vigorous,
zealous advocacy. Only way to keep our system honest. And I also call
the shots around here. When the police first contacted me about
Woodrow, I was in shock, but even then I realized that somebody from
the defendant's side would be calling on us about the scene in the
conference room, and I've been bracing myself for it ever since. I
was prepared to let whoever that somebody might be talk to everyone
who knew anything about it, air the incident out and be done with it.
But now you're telling me you think that might not be all, correct?"

"Correct."

"Very well, John. You have
carte
blanche
. Ask your questions of all of us,
though I'll not order anyone to say something he or she wants to keep
in confidence. And obviously I can't let you invade the privacy of
our clients."

"Understood."

"Understand two more things, then. First, I want
whoever killed Woodrow—Mr. Spaeth or otherwise—drawn and
quartered. Second, if I find that you've put anyone in this firm to
unnecessary grief because of questions that didn't need to be asked,
I'll make you sorry you ever heard the name Frank Neely. Have I been
clear enough?"

"Crystal."

We looked at each other the way I remembered from my
war.