The Only Good Lawyer - Jeremiah Healy (14 page)

"Meaning?"
 
"Meaning
your client, Spaeth, jumps up from the table and starts yelling. That
glass in the conference room wall is pretty thick, but you could hear
him clearly. Curses, racial slurs, everything. And he comes backing
out the door into the reception area, still yelling."

We reached State Street. "Do you remember what
he said in particular?"

Another sidelong glance as Herman maneuvered past the
rear bumper of a panel truck. "I do, but you don't want to hear
it."

"Try me."

"Okay." Herman looked around, less for
traffic and more to be sure no one was within earshot. Then he spoke
softly.

"Spaeth says—yells—'You fucking nigger,
you're fucking me over. The only good lawyer is a fucking dead one,
nigger!"

Herman looked at me. "And so ‘on."

"But you never saw Spaeth approach Mr. Gant."

A darkening. "What is this, cross-examination?"

"I just mean, the way you described things,
Spaeth was backing away from the conference room, not looking to
confront or directly threaten Mr. Gant."

"You weren't there."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I was." We dodged a UPS van.
"Look, back in the Corps, I saw a lot of fights. Even had to
break up a few. In my opinion, your client was berserk, but not crazy
enough to take on Woodrow with only his bare hands."

"How did it end?"

"Frank came out of his office and bellowed at
the guy to shut up. You ever hear Frank's voice when he's angry,
'bellow' doesn't quite describe it. More like a mortar round
detonating. And it did shut Spaeth up."

"Then what happened?"

"Frank ordered Spaeth to leave, and he did. Good
thing, too."

"Why?"

"I could barely hold Grover back."

"Grover?"

“
Woodrow's brother."

I remembered Steve Rothenberg mentioning that Gant
had "a real questionable" brother.

Herman said, "Grover was in the reception area
when all this erupted. I don't think Spaeth could have seen him,
backing out the conference room like he was. But I sure did."

"See the brother."

"Yeah. As soon as I heard the 'N'-word, I rushed
up to Grover and put a bear hug around his arms, to keep him away.
Not the easiest mission in the world, either."

"Because?"

"'The brother isn't as strong-looking as Woodrow
was, but he's big, too. And he was four-plus mad."

I turned it over. “Did Grover Gant threaten Alan
Spaeth at all?"

A shrug. "He might have. I wasn't paying
attention to what he said. I was just going, 'Hey, easy now. Take it
easy.' "

"Was there anybody else there?"

"Just about everybody, I think. Deborah—Deborah
Ling, another associate?—she was in the hall by her office. Stayed
out of it, though. And poor Imogene was covering at the reception
desk. Looked scared to death."

I tried to picture it. "Ms. Burbage was Woodrow
Gant's secretary, right?"

"Right."

"And she kept her boss's brother waiting in the
reception area?"

Herman seemed uncomfortable with the question. "I
don't know for how long, though."

Meaning it seemed odd to Herman as well that Imogene
Burbage wouldn't have Grover Gant wait for his brother in the
lawyer's own office.

I said, "And from the conference room, Woodrow
Gant at the far side of the table could see through the glass to
where his brother was waiting?"

Herman got very casual. "I suppose." He
glanced across the next street, his voice changing back to curt, "My
meeting's in that building."

"Just a few more questions, please."

Another check of his watch. "Hurry up and ask
them."

"It seems Mr. Gant was having dinner at a
Vietnamese restaurant the night he was killed. With a woman. Do you
have any idea who she might be?"

"Negative."

"None at all?"

"Woodrow fancied himself a real stud. But
whenever he'd say something about seeing a show or going to a
restaurant, and you'd ask him with who, he'd always just say, 'Hey,
man, a lady,' and smile. All right?"

"All right. Just—"

"Last question." More clock-watching. "I'm
pitching a new client here, try to make up some of what we're going
to lose by having to refer out a lot of Woodrow's cases. And my
wife's coming all the way in from Weston Hills by train to meet me
for dinner and Phantom over in the theater district."

Weston Hills, the town where Nguyen Trinh and Oscar
Huong pulled the home invasion. But no time for that now. "How
did Woodrow Gant react to the deposition incident with Mr. Spaeth?"

"React?"

"To what Mr. Spaeth was yelling at him."

"Woodrow just grinned."

“
Just grinned?"

"Yeah. Why not?"

"I don't understand you."

Herman shook his head. "Woodrow knew he had him.
Cold."

"Mr. Gant said that?"

"He didn't have to. As a lawyer, you drive an
opposing client batshit-crazy, you've really done your job."

At which point Elliot
Herman turned on his heel and went through a revolving door hard
enough to keep it turning after I'd lost sight of him.

* * *

"Ms. Ling?"

"Yes, Mr. Cuddy. Please, come in and sit down."

When I'd gotten back to the law firm, the new
receptionist had told me that Deborah Ling also had returned and
asked that I see her as soon as possible. By the time I reached
Ling's office door, she was looking up at me from her high-backed
judge's chair behind a black, lacquered desk, a nondescript credenza
holding a computer behind her.

About five-three when she stood to shake hands, Ling
had black hair that framed her face in what we once would have called
a pixie cut. Her eyes were solemn over a businesslike smile, three
diamond studs in the lobe of each ear. She wore a pale green suit
with faint pinstriping and a birthday-gift bow under the collar of
her white blouse. The desk was completely clean except for a legal
pad and pencil.

"Beautiful piece of furniture," I said,
taking a seat.

"Thank you." Sitting herself, Ling trailed
the fingertips of her right hand lightly over the black surface. "My
parents brought it from China, then gave it to me when I graduated
law school." Ling looked up at me. "Reluctantly."

"I'm sorry?"

"The traditional Chinese family, Mr. Cuddy,
wants its female children educated, but not too educated. The role of
the daughter is to care for her parents when they grow older. In the
United States, that requires some schooling, even college, but not a
degree nearly so . . . portable as a J.D."

"So you traveled a ways to end up in Boston."

"About three thousand miles. There would have
been opportunities for me on the West Coast, especially as Hong Kong
investors take a closer look at what the mainland has in store for
them. But there's also a lot of gender prejudice among the newer
immigrants. When most Asian men think of Asian women outside the
family circle, they picture Thai and Cambodian 'pleasure girls,' not
real estate attorneys."

"Which is your specialty?"

"That's right. Mostly small projects,
speculative ventures sometimes. However, enough of that expatriate
money makes its way to Boston that I can still use my heritage to
wheel and deal some of it. Which is good news, given the student
loans I'm still carrying."

The way Ling moved around from topic to topic might
be a help to me, so I went with it. “I've heard they can be a bear
these days."

"The loans? More like Tyrannosaurus rex. My
monthly debt service equals my rent, and I know a couple of people
graduating this year who'll total a hundred thousand in principal,
with no way of getting a job that will come close to letting them pay
it off. You can't deduct the interest on your tax return, and even if
you declare bankruptcy, the loans aren't dischargeable as debts."

"Which means it's a good thing you're here."

Ling stopped, suddenly cautious. "At Epstein &
Neely, you mean?"

"Yes."

"You bet," she said, more at ease again.
"Frank encourages all of us to bring in our own business. Some
friends of mine from school, who went to the big firms? They're
wearing golden handcuffs now."

"Golden handcuffs?"

"They took jobs that paid a lot, but with little
hope for a piece of the pie. Less than twenty percent of male
associates ever make partner. And that drops to five percent for
females, which is worse than statistics I've seen from the seventies,
despite what Uta's always saying. So my friends earning their big
bucks are just carrying their loans while they service the clients of
the firm and never build their own base."

"Like you are here."

"That's right, Mr. Cuddy. Working in a solid
operation with fine people." Another stop. "Including the
one your client killed."

"Frank Neely spoke to you about me."

"As soon as I got back from my closing."
Ling looked at a gilded clock on her wall. "And I have another
in less than an hour. So, if you have any questions for me, let's get
to them."

Ling folded her hands on the desktop, like a sharp
third-grader slightly bored by the teacher.

I said, "For starters, I think there's a strong
possibility someone other than Alan Spaeth murdered Woodrow Gant."

Ling's face showed no emotion. "I'd expect you
to say something like that. Your questions?"

"Do you know of anyone who had a reason to kill
Mr. Gant?"

"No."

"Threats or intimidation?"

"Just from your client."

"Let me hold that for a while, and—"

"Deborah, I'm real sorry."

From behind me, the voice of Patricia, the temp who'd
also interrupted when I was with Uta Radachowski.

"What is it?" said Ling.

"An urgent call from Ms. Barber."

"Tell her I'll call her back."

"But she tried to reach Mr. Gant, and—"

"Take her number, Patricia," some juice
behind it.

"Yes. Sorry."

Ling waited a moment, then looked at me. "Temp."

I nodded.

“
I was helping Woodrow with a couple of his divorce
clients—selling the marital home? They all need you yesterday."

I nodded again, though I wondered why Ling felt any
explanation was necessary. "I'd like to start with the
restaurant Mr. Gant ate at the night he was killed."

Except for her lips, Ling might have been a statue.
"Why?"

"I understand you introduced him to the place."

"Oh." She shook her head, but it seemed
unnatural, like a magician's gesture to an audience. "A friend
of mine had tried it, so I took Woodrow there for lunch one day."

"Kind of far from the office for lunch."

"We both had to be in Dedham that morning, him
for court. me at the registry of deeds. So we drove out in separate
cars but decided to have lunch together on the way back, and I
remembered this restaurant my friend had mentioned. 'Viet Mam,'
right?"

"Right," I said evenly.

More head-shake. "I guess I feel a little guilty
about it."

"Because?"

"Well, it's probably silly, but if I don't take
Woodrow there, he might never have found the place himself."

Five miles from where he lived? "Did Mr. Gant
enjoy his lunch at Viet Mam?"

Ling looked at me strangely. "He must have.
Otherwise, why go back there?"

"Any idea who the woman with him might have
been?"

"No. No, Epstein & Neely is a friendly
place, Mr. Cuddy, but Woodrow didn't talk much to me about his
personal life."

"Did he talk about it with anyone at the firm?"

"Not that I know of."

"Could we turn to the incident with Mr. Spaeth
here in the conference room?"

"If we must."

"You feel uncomfortable discussing it?"
 
I took her hand. Warm and clutchy. "John
Cuddy."

"I overheard what Imogene said to you." A
conspiratorial tone as Herman released my hand. "You're going to
be replacing Woodrow here at the firm?"

"No. I'm investigating Mr. Gant's death."

Her lower lip quivered.

"And by the way," I said, "if your
husband's late for your date, it's my fault."

The lip quivered some more. "I don't care if
Elliot's an hour late, so long as he was helping you put that
murderer away."

Uh-oh. "Actually, he wasn't."