Close to the Bone

by William G. Tapply

  “I didn’t pretend,” I said.

  Skeeter brought our burgers, big, thick, juicy hunks of ground sirloin and half-melted slabs of cheddar between slices of toasted garlic bread. Between mouthfuls Paul told me he and Olivia were hoping to get away for two weeks after the Falconer trial. Someplace warm and distant from fax machines and cellular telephones, where there might be fish to catch and piña coladas to sip by the pool and where, they thought, they might try to make a baby.

  “It’s always fun to try, anyhow,” he said, and by the time we had wiped all the burger juice off our chins and finished our coffee, Paul was waving his arms and drawing diagrams on the placemat and explaining to me how he expected the state to focus on Glen’s Breathalyzer results, and how he knew he could raise enough reasonable doubt to deep-six the prosecution’s entire case.

  We huddled in our topcoats outside Skeeter’s. “I’m parked in the garage,” Paul said. “Want a lift?”

  “I’ll walk,” I said. “Penance for Skeeter’s burger.”

  He held out his hand and I took it. “Thanks,” he said.

  “What for? You paid.”

  “I feel better. You got me back on track.”

  “I didn’t say anything, Paul.”

  He grinned. “Just talking with somebody who’s as fucked up as me helps.”

  “I guess you came to the right man, then.”

  5

  WHEN I WAS A KID, we celebrated our national holidays—Columbus Day, Armistice Day, George Washington’s Birthday—on the days when they actually occurred. As soon as the new calendars were printed I thumbed through them to see if I was going to get gypped out of a no-school day because one of the holidays fell on a Saturday that year. I didn’t like it when it happened that way. But it never occurred to me to think of it as unfair. Holidays came when they did and, like most things, you took ’em when you got ’em.

  Somewhere along the line they decided to homogenize and regularize our holidays. No longer do we celebrate the signing of the armistice that ended the Great War on November 11 (the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, I recall my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Shattuck, telling us). Now we’re supposed to call it “Veteran’s Day.” And now kids are excused from school on Mondays, regardless of when October 12 or February 22 happen to fall. Instead of commemorating Washington’s birthday, we celebrate something called “Presidents’ Day,” honoring not only the father of our country but also Franklin Pierce and Warren G. Harding and Gerald Ford.

  I’ve questioned a lot of school-age kids, and I have yet to find one who can tell me the historical significance of November 11. A lot of them are even cynical about the fact that George Washington never told a lie. I asked my son Billy about it once, back when he was in junior high, and he said, “Oh, nobody believes that cherry tree story. It’s a myth. Everybody tells lies, Pop.”

  I don’t know what they’re teaching kids nowadays.

  The word verdict derives from the Latin roots meaning “to tell the truth.” So it was appropriate that on the morning of February 22, the birthday of the man who, I still like to think, always told the truth (but a Thursday this year and therefore not Presidents’ Day), Alex called me from a pay phone at the Middlesex County Courthouse, where she had been following the Falconer trial. “They expect the jury to bring back their verdict this afternoon,” she said. “Why don’t you meet me for lunch and then join me in the courtroom for the show?”

  “Lunch sounds good,” I said, “but why should I want to watch them announce the verdict? It’s not as if I haven’t been inside courtrooms.”

  “I just figured, Glen Falconer’s really your client, and Paul Cizek is your friend. The Senator’s been in the front row the whole time, you know, mostly glaring at Cizek and trying to make eye contact with Glen. I suspect he’d appreciate your show of support.”

  “What’s the buzz?” I asked.

  “Hard to judge. Cizek destroyed the Breathalyzer witness, and he made some points with the crime scene evidence. He scored on the fact that the victim was not wearing a seat belt, too, and raised some very reasonable doubt, some are saying, about whether the woman was driving safely herself. He’s created some sympathy for Glen, too, mostly at the expense of Roger. Abusive father and husband creates mentally disordered wife and neurotic, alcoholic son. I don’t think anybody doubts Falconer was drunk and ran into her, though. It’ll be interesting. Cizek’s been a tiger, and there’s no doubt that the jurors love him.”

  “What do you think?” I asked her.

  “I think he’s absolutely adorable.”

  “I meant,” I said, “how do you think it’ll turn out? The verdict?”

  “I’m just a reporter, honey. I’m not supposed to speculate.”

  During the course of the trial, which had lasted into a third week, Alex had kept me updated. I had tried to root for Paul to win and for Glen Falconer, who was, after all, the son of one of my important clients, to be exonerated. But something in me kept hoping that Glen would get nailed. I hate drunk drivers, and I hate seeing people elude justice because they happen to have more money and influence than other folks.

  “It’ll probably be a circus, huh?” I said to Alex.

  “Probably. Everybody loves a circus.”

  “Pretty girls in spangled leotards?”

  “Oh, yes. The place is packed with them. I’ve got mine on.”

  “Okay. Lunch it is. I’ll have Julie clear my afternoon. The usual place?”

  “I’ll see you there at noon.”

  There’s a little bar and grill around the corner from the courthouse in east Cambridge where we lawyers and reporters and other regulars go for lunch. It was mobbed. Alex and I ate BLTs and drank coffee at the bar and could barely converse over the din. Everybody seemed to be arguing about the Falconer case. I inferred that many drinks and a lot of dollars were being wagered on the verdict.

  Shortly after Alex and I squeezed onto benches near the front of the courtroom, Paul and Glen came in and sat at the defendant’s table. I saw Roger’s bald head in the first row directly behind them.

  Alex pointed toward the prosecution table. “See that man?” she said. “The guy with the beard in the front row?”

  I followed her finger. “Who’s he?”

  “The husband of the victim. He’s been giving interviews to anybody who’ll listen to him. You’ve probably seen him on the news.”

  “You know I hardly ever watch the news.”

  She squeezed my hand. “Right. And you don’t read newspapers much, either.”

  “Just your stuff.”

  “Of course. For its literary qualities. Anyway, keep an eye on him. His name is Thomas Gall, and if you ask him, he’ll tell you that the credibility of the entire American system of justice rests on the outcome of this case.”

  “Meaning what?”

  She shrugged. “He just says that the jury had better find Falconer guilty.”

  “Sounds like a threat.”

  “Actually,” said Alex, “it sounds like a man who is devastated over the random loss of his wife to a drunk driver.”

  “I can relate to that,” I said.

  “Sure,” she said. “Everybody can.”

  A little after two o’clock the jury filed in. Paul and Glen stood and faced them.

  “Have you reached a verdict?” said the judge.

  The foreman, actually a forewoman with gray hair wearing a severe black dress, stood and said, “We have, Your Honor.”

  A moment later the words “not guilty” were drowned in a cacophony of groans, cheers, shouts, and cries. Down front I saw Glen grab Paul’s arm and pump his hand. Roger had both arms raised in a victory salute. Reporters were crowding the aisles and pushing toward the doors. The repeated banging of the judge’s gavel had no perceptible effect on the chaos.

  I felt Alex’s fingernails dig into my wrist. “Look,” she said.

  She was pointing at Thomas Gall. He was a thick-necked, black-bearded m
an wearing a corduroy sport jacket over a blue oxford shirt without a necktie, and he was shouldering through the crowd in the direction of the defense table. His teeth were bared and his eyes were narrowed and he was shaking his right fist in the air. I saw his mouth moving, and then his words rose above the general din of the courtroom.

  “This ain’t done with, you murderin’ son of a bitch,” he yelled, raising his arm above the crowd and jabbing his forefinger toward Glen. “You neither, you creep.” This was directed at Paul Cizek. And then Gall turned dramatically, lifted his arm, and pointed at the judge. “Or you,” he growled, and, taking in the jury with a sweep of his hand, “or you, neither, all of you.”

  Alex mumbled, “Meet me outside,” and slipped into the aisle. I saw her working her way toward Gall, but a pair of uniformed police officers got to him first. They pinned his arms by his sides and half-carried him out a side door.

  I waited in my seat, and after a while the hubbub died down. I stood up and went to the front of the courtroom. I didn’t spot Alex, but Glen and Paul were seated at the defense table. Paul was leaning forward, talking intently, and Glen was sitting back, his arms folded across his chest. He was staring up at the ceiling, nodding now and then. Roger was standing with both hands gripping the barrier rail, watching them.

  Brenda, Glen’s wife, sat on the front-row bench a few spaces away from Roger. Her blond hair was twisted into some kind of a fancy bun on the back of her head, and she wore a pale blue business suit over a silky white blouse with a frilly collar. She held her hands folded quietly in her lap, and she seemed to be studying the decor of the courtroom. I leaned down to her and said, “Congratulations.”

  She looked up, frowned for just an instant of nonrecognition, then smiled quickly. “Oh, hello.”

  “Brady Coyne,” I said. “We—”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “You must be pleased with the verdict,” I said stupidly.

  “Sure.” She shrugged. “I guess so.”

  I frowned, and she cocked her head and met my eyes levelly for a moment. Hers, I noticed, were greenish blue, the same color as her suit.

  “It must’ve been hard for you,” I said. “Sitting through all this.”

  “Hard?”

  I shrugged. “Not knowing how it would turn out.”

  “Mr. Coyne,” she said with a smile, “everything always turns out right for the Falconer men.” She held my eyes for a moment and then returned her gaze to the front wall of the courtroom.

  I stood there for a moment, but it was clear that my conversation with Brenda had ended. I turned to Roger and touched his arm. “So what do you think?” I said.

  He turned. “Oh, Brady. What brings you here?”

  “Loyalty.”

  He smiled thinly. “Right. Good of you.”

  “I understand Paul Cizek has performed some miracles these past couple of weeks.”

  “Your Paul Cizek is a crude, disrespectful man who allowed the newspapers to turn this into a circus. He refused to communicate with me and I should have fired him.”

  “Except you weren’t his client.”

  He shook his head. “No. Glen was his client. But I’m paying. When I’m paying, I expect to participate.”

  I shrugged. “Just as well you didn’t fire him. He got the job done, I’d say.”

  “Yes, he did. By dragging in the family’s private affairs, resurrecting the memory of Glen’s absent mother and his father’s deficient parenting and his entire neglectful upbringing. He had that jury feeling sorrier for my poor, misguided son than they did for the dead woman.”

  “I heard he was pretty good with the prosecution witnesses, too,” I said.

  Roger nodded. “Yes, there was that. We won, and I’m glad. And after the party, we’ll never have to deal with Mr. Cizek again, and I’m glad about that as well.”

  “Planning a big celebration, are you?”

  He turned to me, and once again Roger Falconer’s famous senatorial smile spread across his face. “A small celebration, Brady. And you must come.”

  I shrugged. “Well…”

  “I insist. You deserve much of the credit for our, um, victory.”

  I nodded. There was no tactful way I could get out of it. “Sure. I’ll be there.”

  “And bring your little friend with you.”

  “My little friend?”

  “Miss Shaw, the reporter. She is your friend, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s one of the things she is to me.”

  “Just tell her no interviews in my home.”

  “Oh, Alex is a cultured and respectful person, Senator. She knows how to behave.”

  He touched my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Brady. I forget my manners sometimes. It’s been a difficult time.”

  “Well, it’s over, and if you haven’t thanked Paul Cizek you are certainly forgetting your manners.”

  He gave me his smile again. “Of course. He did a magnificent job.” He reached for my hand and shook it. “Tomorrow evening, eight o’clock.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” I lied.

  6

  FLOODLIGHTS GLITTERED ON THE newest layer of February snow, and more was filtering down softly. The gunmetal gray Range Rover and the little white Mercedes two-seater were pulled up directly by the front porch of the Falconer house in Lincoln, precisely where they’d been the last time I’d been there.

  A dozen or fifteen vehicles were parked in an area that had been cleared by a snowplow next to the circular driveway. I pulled into an empty space and turned off the engine.

  Alex touched the back of my neck. “Let’s have a cigarette before we go in.”

  “Are we nervous?”

  “We are not nervous,” she said. “We are simply not looking forward to this.”

  “None of us is. We shall pay our respects, or whatever you call it, and we shall depart as quickly as possible.”

  We lit cigarettes. Alex is one of those oddly nonaddictive people who can smoke a cigarette now and then and enjoy it enormously, without ever getting hooked. She laid her cheek on my shoulder. The windows inside my car began to fog over. “We could just stay here and make out,” she murmured.

  “Your clothing will become all disheveled, and your lipstick will get smeared, and what will your mother say?”

  “Valid point. We mustn’t make out. Maybe just grope a little.”

  We smoked in silence for a few minutes. “What’s bothering you?” I said.

  “I just hate these things.”

  “This has nothing to do with the editorial in today’s Globe, then.”

  “The one criticizing the prosecution of the Falconer case? The one calling for a new look at the Commonwealth’s record in convicting drunk drivers? The one that practically declared Glen Falconer a public enemy?”

  “That’s the one I had in mind,” I said.

  “Why should that make me wish I were home with you wearing sweats and playing Trivial Pursuit and drinking beer on a snowy Friday in February rather than all high-heeled and panty-hosed at a party full of people I don’t know and don’t even want to know?”

  “Because it was you who wrote the editorial?”

  “That was the paper’s editorial, Brady. It was unsigned, because it was the opinion of the editorial staff.”

  “But you wrote it.”

  I heard her chuckle beside me in the darkness of the front seat of the car. “So what’d you think of it?”

  “Awfully convincing, hon. Don’t worry about it. Nobody in there will know you wrote it.”

  “Somehow I think Roger Falconer knows everything.”

  “Well, he’s too cultured to say anything. Besides, even Roger Falconer can see the truth in what you said.”

  Alex stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray, and I followed suit.

  “Gimme a kiss,” she said.

  I did. It lasted a good long time.

  Finally she turned on the dome light and squinted into the rearview mirror.
She touched up her lipstick, then said, “Lemme see your face.”

  I turned to her and she dabbed at my mouth with a tissue. Then she planted a very gentle kiss on the tip of my nose.

  “Okay,” she said. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Roger greeted us at the door. I was relieved to see that he was wearing a Harris tweed jacket over a dark green turtleneck. Black tie wouldn’t have surprised me, and I was still in my office pinstripe.

  He gripped my hand. “Brady, damn good of you to come,” he said. I guessed he had been using the identical greeting for everybody who had arrived at his door that evening. Nevertheless, Roger made it sound personal and sincere. Sounding personal and sincere regardless of how he actually felt was one of the many talents that had made Roger Falconer a big-time politician and successful businessman.

  “Good of you to invite us,” I replied. I doubted if I sounded as sincere as Roger. I turned to Alex. “Alex, this is Roger Falconer. Roger, you know Alexandria Shaw?”

  He took her extended hand in both of his. “Ah, yes. I’ve enjoyed your work, Miss Shaw. You’re a fine writer. Your coverage of my son’s trial has been most, um, objective.”

  Alex dipped her head and smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Falconer.”

  Roger took our coats and led us into the living room. A bar had been set up along one wall, and on the opposite side of the room was a long table holding hors d’oeuvres. A couple dozen people stood in clumps. “Help yourself to drinks,” said Roger. “Brady, may I borrow Miss Shaw for a moment? There’s somebody I’d like her to meet.”

  Alex rolled her eyes at me, gave her head a tiny shake, and mouthed the word “please.”

  “Sure, Roger,” I said, ignoring her.

  As Roger steered her away, she turned and stuck out her tongue at me.

  I made my way to the bar. A college-aged girl wearing a white shirt and a black skirt stood behind it. “Like a drink, sir?”

  “A Coke, please. I’m the designated driver.”

  She cocked her head at me, then grinned. She poured some Coke over a glass of ice cubes, and as she leaned across the table to hand it to me, she whispered, “I think it’s disgusting, don’t you?”