The Only Good Lawyer - Jeremiah Healy (29 page)

“
There's some reason to believe that the woman with
him the night he was killed was wearing a wig—and sunglasses—as
some kind of disguise"

"Disguise?"

"I think so. Can you think of any reason why a
woman would want to do that with Mr. Gant?"

The glitter again. "In public, do you mean?"

"Yes," I said.

Pollard returned her hand to Arneson's shoulder, but
now not like she was holding him back. More as though her mood had
changed suddenly. "Thom?"

"I'm not going to tell him," said Arneson.
"Hell, I shouldn't have told you."

Pollard looked at me, that ray of sincerity finally
shining through. "I think you'd want to know this, but I need a
promise back from you first."

"What's the promise?"

"That you won't tell anyone about Thom and me."

Arneson turned to her. "Jen, you actually think
you can trust this guy?"

"From the way he behaved the last time he was
here, yes."

Pollard came back to me, still sincere. "I think
Mr. Cuddy is a man who keeps his promises."

I said, "Odds are it would be more than a little
embarrassing for a career prosecutor to be having an affair—"

"Relationship," said both of them, almost
in unison. "—a 'relationship' with the ex-wife of a former
colleague."

Arneson seemed to choose his words carefully. "It
wouldn't help anything."

Pollard gave him a moment to continue. When he
didn't, she said, "Mr. Cuddy?"

“
I'll do my best to keep things confidential, but
only if your relationship doesn't impact Mr. Gant's death any more
than the way I see it now."

Arneson grunted. "Hell of a promise."

"The best I can do."

The two of them exchanged glances again.

Pollard sighed and turned back to me. "During
one of Woodrow's cases at the District  Attorney's office, he
became attracted to the victim. But we were still married, and so was
she."

I was beginning to picture it.

Pollard said, "Woodrow had the poor judgment to
go out with her to a bar, and Thom happened to see them together."

I looked at Arneson. "And recognized the woman."

"Yes," he said, biting off the word.

I finished the memory for him. "Even though she
was wearing a wig."

He nodded, not liking it.

But if I had to guess, I'd
say Thom Arneson liked it at least five times as much as I did.

* * *

The street in West Roxbury was dark, nobody playing
"Howla." The Mazda stood in the driveway of number 396,
though.

Moving up the path, I realized how much slower than
usual I was walking. Tired, yes, but more than that.

I knocked, and ten seconds later, young Terry Spaeth
opened the door, sans both baseball cap and eyebrow ring. He stared
at me. “What do you want?"

"I'd like to speak to your mother."

"Yeah, right. After the extreme trouble you
already got me into?"

From another room, Nicole Spaeth's voice called out,
"Terry, who is it?"

He didn't answer her. To me, he said, "Look,
just go hassle somebody else, okay?"

Terry started to push the door closed. I would have
lodged my foot against it, but his mother's voice stopped him.

"Couldn't you hear . . ."

Her face fell when she saw me, those haunting hazel
eyes windows on her emotions.

I said, "Mrs. Spaeth, we need to talk."

Terry turned to her, "Mom, this dude's got no—"

"Go to your room, Terry."

"But, Mom——"

"Now. Or we extend the grounding another week."

Terry muttered something that sounded like, "Thanks
a lot, asshole," but he moved off and out of view.

When her son was gone, Nicole Spaeth said, "I
suppose you'll be wanting to sit down."

"I think we'd both better."

She considered that, my tone maybe more than my
words, then led me into the living room, lowering herself onto the
aging sofa while I took my third chair in the last three hours.
Spaeth waited until I was settled before saying in a tired way, "All
right, what is it now?"

"You grounded Terry because he talked with me
outside last night."

"How I discipline my son is no—"

"Because he told me about the Board of Bar
Overseers complaint?"

She didn't say anything.

I said, "And because it's true."

An attempt at a laugh. "Alan was dreaming, Mr.
Cuddy. His jealousy was . . . warping him."

"It goes further than that, though."

"I don't know—"

"I do know, Mrs. Spaeth. But I wish I didn't."

She managed a "Know what?"

"Who the woman was with Woodrow Gant that night
at the restaurant."

"Then you know more than—"

"Since I saw you yesterday, I've spoken to a lot
of people about Mr. Gant. One called him a 'ladies' man,' another
said he would go out with 'inappropriate' women as well, including
the victim in a case he prosecuted."

"I told you the last time, Woodrow and I—"

"Just the blond wig, Mrs. Spaeth?"

Her mouth stayed open, but nothing came out.

I said, "Just that one, or others as well?"

Nicole Spaeth dropped her eyes to the sculpted
carpet, as though scanning the pattern from above for something she'd
dropped. "I think you'd better leave."

"I have to hear what happened that night."

"Well, I don't want to hear it." She closed
her eyes now. "Out loud, I mean. Bad enough to have what
happened inside me without having to . . . relive it."

Mindful of not pushing her too much, I said, "Can
it get any worse?"

Spaeth rose from the sofa. "I'll be just a
minute."

"Mrs.—"

"I'm not going to run away or anything stupid
like that. I just need to check, make sure Terry's in his room."

I nodded.

She was gone only long enough for me When Nicole
Spaeth sat back down, she was stiff and, if possible, even more
tired. "I couldn't hear Terry, you see, so I wanted to be sure
he couldn't hear us. He's watching TV, with that little earplug
attachment so the set doesn't blare. Terry likes it loud, but he also
knows how much that bothers me."

I nodded again, not rushing her.

Spaeth brought both hands to her knees, maybe like
the sixth-graders I remembered her saying she taught. "That last
year with Alan here was a nightmare, and when I met Uta 
Radachowski at the Literacy Fund benefit, I was so glad she could
recommend a divorce lawyer for me. Even gladder when I actually met
Woodrow."

"Why?"

"I realized immediately that Alan couldn't
intimidate him. My husband's bark has always been worse than his
bite, but he can be pretty scary sometimes. Believe me." Spaeth
stared into space. "As a prosecutor, though, Woodrow had seen
the worst the world can offer—gang kids, rapists, murderers—and
he handled Alan beautifully, just tied him in knots over everything.
I began looking to Woodrow on every problem, and he'd solve it. Oh, I
took psychology courses in college, and I knew that I was just
transferring onto him as kind of a surrogate spouse, to help me
through the real-spouse divorce, but . . . Well, it went further than
that."

"Sexually?"

"Yes. Not at first. We'd just go out. But
Woodrow said it would be bad to be seen together. Lunch wouldn't
matter, but drinks and dinner? Not exactly within the attorney-client
relationship. So he asked if I could kind of . .

"Disguise yourself."

The hazel eyes came back to me, a thumbnail picking
at the cuticles on her fingers. "Yes. Frankly, I didn't mind at
first. The kids I teach at school have parents, and if somebody's
mother or father happened to see me 'stepping out,' things wouldn't
get better in the classroom."

"At first."

"I'm sorry?"

"You said you didn't mind the disguise stuff 'at
first! What about later?"

"Woodrow started to get weird about it. He liked
me to . . . stay in costume, so to speak." Spaeth seemed
uncertain now. "You understand what I mean?"

"In the bedroom."

"Yes." She looked away. "Not just in
the . . . bedroom, either. Woodrow was a very . . . imaginative man.
One of the reasons I continued seeing him. He made me feel desirable
again."

I didn't want to say anything to ruin that for
Spaeth, but she looked back at me, suddenly energized. "Oh, I
know I wasn't the only one. And I also know I was crazy in these
plague-ridden times to be seeing a man who wasn't monogamous, even if
I did insist on a condom. But I didn't have other options, and
frankly, except for the guilt of 'sneaking around,' I liked the
option he provided me just fine."

Now Nicole Spaeth dwindled a little. "At least
until that night."

Quietly, I said, "Tell me about it."

She worried her fingers some more. "We picked
evenings when Terry had something to do. That night, he was staying
over at a friend's house to hear what they call 'Bachelor Pad'
music." A weak smile. "Ironic, huh?" Even the weak
smile faded. "Well, Woodrow and I had been to the Viet Mam
restaurant before. The food wasn't great, but it wasn't crowded,
either, and neither of us had ever seen anybody there we knew."

I thought about Nguyen Trinh, hiding in the kitchen
during Gant's lunch with Deborah Ling.

Spaeth said, "So we ate, and since I wasn't
driving, I drank a little too much wine—partly to cover the food,
partly to cover the residual guilt, I suppose. I was aware we were
back in the BMW, heading . . . I think about it now, we must have
been heading to his place, but it was a school night, and getting
late enough, Woodrow should have been taking me home. Anyway, I guess
I passed out in the car, because after asking Woodrow to roll down
the windows, I don't remember him stopping on that road."

"What do you remember?"

Spaeth sat back in the couch, hugging herself. "I
was having a dream. About being seated on a plane, going to the
Caribbean for a vacation. My first real vacation ina long time. And
then I must have heard the shots or something, because the dream went
screwy and somebody dropped an anchor in my 1ap."

"An anchor?"

"In the dream. But I stumbled out of the car
because I was feeling sick and didn't see Woodrow. Well, the 'anchor'
fell on the ground, and I could see it was a gun."

"Somebody had dropped a gun into your lap?"

"Through the part of my window that was open, I
think, because the door was still closed."

"And this was the gun that killed Mr. Gant."

"I didn't know that—never even touched it—but
Woodrow was lying on the ground, with his eyes . . ." Spaeth
rubbed her forehead, trying to erase the image, I thought. "Then
I just started running, and the few times I saw headlights, I'd
hide."

"Hide?"

"Get down on the ground or behind a tree, so the
drivers couldn't see me. The way I looked by the end of that road, I
was surprised a cab would even stop for—"

"But why hide at all? Why not flag somebody down
to help you and Mr. Gant?"

Spaeth gave me a withering look. "Because
Woodrow was dead, Mr. Cuddy. And it was pretty obvious who'd done
it."

"Meaning your husband?"

"Of course my husband. Alan was ripshit at
Woodrow, suspected he and I were lovers. And on top of that, the gun
looked like one of the two Alan kept in our nightstand here before we
separated." Spaeth shook her head. "I knew it was Alan, but
I also didn't want him convicted of murder."

"Why not?"

Another withering look. "Terry deserves a
college education, Mr. Cuddy, and Alan promised in the settlement
agreement that he'd pay the freight. How's he going to do that from a
prison cell?"

I tried not to shake my head. "Mrs. Spaeth, you
said a minute ago that the gun looked like one your husband had."

A sigh. "Right."

"But you didn't examine it to be sure?"

"No. I didn't have to." Spaeth leaned
forward. "Look, I was obviously there when Woodrow was shot.
Unconscious, maybe, but right in his passenger seat. And the killer
knew I was there, because he dropped the gun in my lap. Now tell me
something, Mr. Cuddy. I could have been a witness to Woodrow's
murder, right?"

"Right."

"Okay. Then who else other than my loving,
cloying husband would let me live?"

I tried very hard to come
up with someone, but Nicole Spaeth had stumped the band.

* * *

Driving back from West Roxbury, I thought of the hurt
I'd caused Karen Herman, the cynicism I'd seen in Jenifer Pollard,
the fear I'd found in Nicole Spaeth. And then I thought of Nancy, and
how much I'd have liked to get her take on those things.