The Only Good Lawyer - Jeremiah Healy (13 page)

"So?"

"So after some years there, we three decided to
split off as a matter of principle and form our own firm. Only this
time it looked as though D, E & F might go under first"

"Why?"

"Mostly mergers and acquisitions in the
corporate world. Your client is the smaller fish, the law firm for
the bigger fish eventually ends up handling all the combined fishes'
legal matters. Also, there were a lot of clients simply getting more
cost-conscious regarding the legal fees they were being asked to
Pay."

I considered that. "But Epstein and Neely
thought they could take some of even those clients with them."

"Right."

"And again there was no covenant not to compete
that could stop them."

Radachowski nodded. "We still had to be careful,
though." Another belly laugh. "All the hush-hush steps we
conspirators took at D, E & F. The ambiguous memos, the
out-of-office meetings. We even had a code name for the real estate
broker helping us shop for our new office space here."

"Code name?"

"To put on telephone messages or appointments
calendars, so the other partners at D, E or F wouldn't tumble to what
we were doing."

It was a nice education for me, and nostalgia trip
for Radachowski, but I thought we should return to my case. "Woodrow
Gant didn't join up until after you all were here, though, correct?"

She stopped, seeming to remember why I was sitting in
front of her. "Correct. Three—no, three and a half-years ago.
Woodrow wanted out of the D.A.'s office, and we were a good fit for
him."

“
How so?"

"We didn't have anybody doing divorce, and in a
small firm, it can be a profit center. Plus, Frank really believed in
what he and Len did with me."

"Meaning hiring for . . . diversity?"

A little hardening again, more the cross-examination
look than the jury one. "Meaning giving a person of talent a
good base."

"So things worked out well."

"Very well. Woodrow thrived here, loved the open
atmosphere."
 
I thought about
Imogene Burbage calling her boss, "Mr. Neely," but skipped
it. "How do you mean?"

"Woodrow was just . . . real loose. For example,
he'd come up to me and say, 'Hey, man, this place is the ultimate
comfort zone."

Sounded off to me. "He called you 'Hey, man'?"

Radachowski shrugged. "He called everybody that.
Male, female, old, young, didn't matter. Universal greeting for
Woodrow. Which was about the only formality he insisted on."

"Formality?"

"That we all use his full first name,
'Woodrow'—instead of 'Woody'? I think he didn't want anybody
linking him even subliminally to that naive bartender on Cheers."

I could see Gant's point. "Were you here the day
Mr. Spaeth appeared for his deposition?"

A sudden chill in the air. "No, but that doesn't
mean I don't feel some responsibility for it."

“
How do you mean?"

"I was the one who recommended Woodrow to Nicole
in the first place."

Remembering that Radachowski had used Mrs. Spaeth's
first name before, I leaned forward.

"When was this?"

The eyes behind the thick lenses swam left-right-left
for a moment. "I think I can tell you without violating any
confidences. It was during the Boston Adult Literacy Fund benefit at
the Charles Hotel in Cambridge? I spoke there seven or eight months
ago." a flourish toward the wall of photos behind her, "and
of course they introduced me as a lawyer. After my talk, this woman
came up to me from the audience, said she needed a divorce lawyer and
could I recommend one. Naturally, I gave her my card and Woodrow's
name"

"Didn't you say before that divorce work at a
small firm can be a 'profit center'?"

"Yes."

"I might be missing something, but it's hard to
see how Epstein & Neely could make any money on the Spaeth
divorce, given that the husband was out of work."

Radachowski showed me the big teeth. "You might
be surprised, John. But that's why I said 'can be' a profit center.
The firm doesn't make much off my charitable work, either, but we
still believe it important."

"Did you ever meet Alan Spaeth yourself?"

“
No. Never even saw him until . . . until the
television coverage." Radachowski's eyes began to fill.

I didn't want to lose her cooperation. "I'm
sorry to put you through—"

"John," a little harshly, to cut me off
while she swiped at the tears with the back of her hand. Then, in the
softer tone, "Do you really think you have to apologize to a
litigator for anything you ask her about?"

"I guess not."

"So, go ahead."

"There's no question Mr. Gant ate at a
restaurant called Viet Mam with a woman that night. There's at least
a possibility she also was present when the attack occurred."

A sober nod. "That woman wasn't me."

I said, "Do you have any idea who she might be?"

"No. Woodrow had an . . . active social life, I
think, but while we were good friends here at work, we didn't go out
much together afterwards, and I don't remember him mentioning anyone
in particular as being a steady relationship"

A subtle way to suggest Gant played the Held. But
also a pretty elaborate answer to my pretty simple question. I said,
"Do you have any suggestions on who might know the woman's
identity?"

"Sorry."

Last shot. "How about Why Mr. Gant would have
picked that particular restaurant?"

"Try Deborah Ling."

"One of the associates here, right?"

A nod. "It seems to me that she recommended the
place—no, that's not right. Deborah took him there once."

"When?"

"Oh, months ago."

"How do you know?"

Uta Radachowski steepled the lingers again, tapping
her chin in tune to a silent melody. "The name of the place was
unusual enough that I remember Woodrow telling me he didn't enjoy the
food very much."
 

Chapter 7

COMING OUT OF Uta Radachowski's office, I was
wondering why Woodrow Gant would return, apparently with a date, to a
restaurant where he supposedly didn't like the fare. Then I saw the
man I believed to be Elliot Herman rushing back into an office. I
went up to the doorway and watched him shoveling file folders into an
attaché case opened like a clamshell.

Before knocking, I took in his workspace. It was
spartan rather than barren, with just some diplomas on the wall, a
mini-fridge against it, and two Marine Corps captain's chairs across
from a cluttered desk. A paperweight in the shape of the Corps' globe
and eagle held down a stack of correspondence next to his computer
terminal. Standing on the cornerof his desk was a Lucite frame
holding a portrait photo of an attractive woman about Herman's age
with long, honey—blond hair. The frame was angled so she could be
seen from the captain's chairs, a conversation starter should the
current visitor not be into the Halls of Montezuma or the Shores of
Tripoli. I rapped my knuckles lightly on the jamb.

Herman looked up, the streak of white hair seeming to
ride his head like a racing stripe. "Who are you?"

"Mr. Herman?"

"Yes, but—look, go back to the receptionist,
and maybe she can—"

"You're the one I want to see."

"Not a chance." He went back to filling his
briefcase. "I've got a meeting outside the office in ..." a
glance at his watch ". . . fifteen minutes."

"I'm John Cuddy. Did Frank Neely mention me to
you?"

Herman stopped with a file half on its way to joining
the others. "Woodrow?"

"That's right."

He frowned. "Look, how about if we talk while I
walk to my meeting?"

"Fine with me."

Herman crammed in two more folders, then closed the
briefcase by leaning down on its corners with his palms before
engaging the clasps with his thumbs. Viewed fully from the front, he
had features matching the intense manner I'd seen in the reception
area. His eyes were close-set around a strong nose and stronger jaw
that looked like it enjoyed giving orders in the old days and chewing
out anybody who didn't follow them to the letter.

Herman came toward me briskly with the attaché case,
setting it down only long enough to grab the jacket of his suit off a
hook behind the door and shrug into it.

As he reached again for the case, I said, "Your
collar's up."

"What'?"

"The collar of your jacket is turned up, as
though you're cold."

"Oh. Thanks" Herman fixed it, then snapped
his fingers, saying, "Cold, right." and went to the
mini-fridge. He opened the door and took out a can of what looked
like pineapple juice. Coming back, Herman grabbed his briefcase again
and charged by me. As I caught up to him at the reception desk, he
said to a woman I'd not seen before, "Out of the office. My wife
calls, tell her I'll be back by five."

"Back here, Mr. Herman?"

"Yes," he said testily as he hit the
elevator button and was saved a coronary by the door opening for him
immediately. Once we started descending, Herman pulled a tab off the
top of the can and began gulping.

I said, "Juicing it?"

"What?"

I pointed to his drink.

"Oh. Negative" Herman held the can so I
could see the brand name on the label. "This is a liquid meal
for people like me who don't have the time to eat."

I nodded, thinking that maybe the cuisine hadn't
improved all that much since his days in the Marines. "How does
it taste?"

"Like fast food from a can. But it keeps me
going."

We reached the lobby, and he was out of the elevator
and moving fast in two strides, today's lunch back to his lips. I
matched his pace as we hit the street.

"All right." said Herman, throwing the
already-empty can toward a trash receptacle screwed into a light
pole. "So what are your questions?"

I decided to use what time I had with him on the big
issues. “Do you know anybody who had a motive to kill Woodrow
Gant?"

At the curb, Herman came to a full stop, apparently a
rare enough occurrence for him that he teetered forward. "Yeah.
Your client."

"And if Alan Spaeth didn't do it?"

"What are you talking about?"

"There's evidence to suggest that somebody else
might have shot Mr. Gant."

Herman stepped into the street, his head bobbing to
gauge other pedestrians and vehicular traffic. "I thought the
police found Spaeth's prints on the gun?"

"The shells. But even if it was his gun, that
doesn't mean he pulled the trigger."

Herman glanced away from his navigating long enough
to show me what he thought of that idea. "I do corporate and
tax, Mr. Cuddy, mostly for closely held businesses. The last time I
read up on criminal law was when I studied for the bar exam. But I
was a Marine, too. OCS during college, then active duty before law
school."

Herman used his right hand to brush against the white
streak in his hair. "In fact, I've got the Corps to thank for
this."

"Combat?"

"What?"

"The hair turned white under fire?"

"Oh. Negative. I got hit by lightning."

"Really?"

"Really. Bolt struck a tree, and the shock
jumped from it to the three of us nearby. Killed one, paralyzed the
other. Me, all I remember is a flashbulb effect and a . . . tingling,
spinning sensation, like I was drunk or dizzy. No pain, though, and
the only physical vestige of the experience is this hank of hair. But
that day next to the tree taught me something important"

"Which is?"

Herman glanced down at his watch. "Never waste
any time, because you don't know how much of it you've got left."

I didn't want to lose him to the client clock. "You
were saying about Alan Spaeth?"

"About . . . Oh. Right. Back in the Corps, I
learned a lot about weapons, enough to sense that your client had
something to do with Woodrow's murder, even if I hadn't seen the
blowup at the firm."

We were walking parallel to City Hall now. "Can
you describe it for me?"

"The blowup?"

"Yes."

"I was in my office that afternoon. When I went
to get some coffee, I could see Woodrow seated with a bunch of people
in  our conference room. A deposition, given the stenographer.
There was another woman and two other men, one with a beard, one
without. Woodrow did mostly divorce, so I assumed one of the men was
the husband, the other his lawyer."

"Wait a minute. Why couldn't one of the men have
been Mr. Gant's client?"

Herman waited a beat too long before answering. "I
suppose that's possible. But the woman was sitting next to Woodrow on
the far side of the table, and maybe I recognized her from another
time she was in the office. I don't know. What I do know is I'm
pouring my coffee when all hell breaks loose."