Irish Whiskey

by Andrew M. Greeley

  Before the conference began, Riordan, a Black Irish charmer with perfect white teeth, engaged Nuala in conversation which was but a short step away from flirtation. I figured that herself knew what she was doing.

  She was dressed in what looked like a leather suit (and probably wasn’t) and a plum-colored blouse with one extra button open. Since she always looks wholesome no matter what she has on (or hasn’t) the result was a devastating mix of sweetness and sophistication. Again she doubtless knew what she was doing and why. Better that I not ask. Rather I should merely enjoy being devastated.

  Lange for her part was content to murmur over and over again, as though it were a mantra, “This is all shit.”

  Completing the group were Cindy and a professor from the University of Illinois at Chicago (still called “Chicago Circle” by the locals), and the plaintiff in the suit against the media. I said nothing to anyone. Rather I sat at the table looking like the cat who had eaten a shop full of canaries.

  “My colleague, Ms. Hurley, will make our presentation,” W.W. intoned solemnly.

  “I think I speak for everyone here, W.W,” one of the gaggle of lawyers interrupted, “to say that it is only because of your personal intervention that we’re here. We believe the matter is not yet nearly mature enough to speak of settlement.”

  “You may well change your mind, H.H.,” W.W. responded, “after Ms. Hurley’s presentation. Would you please begin, Cynthia?”

  “We are prepared to consider very limited settlement payments,” my sibling began, her eyes flashing, “if apologies are forthcoming by Sunday. In the morning papers for the print media, and on the Sunday afternoon newscasts for the television media. We would require naturally that these retractions appear also on Monday. Anyone who does not avail themselves of this opportunity will find themselves liable for the whole amount of the plaintiff’s demand.”

  There were murmurs of “preposterous” and “outrageous” from the assembled body, punctuated with several scatological observations from Ms. Lange.

  “Hear me out, gentlemen,” Cindy said sharply, her voice sounding like a rifle shot. “I wish to introduce Dr. Ralph Gunderson, chairman of the Department of Electrical Engineering at the University of Illinois at Chicago. Dr. Gunderson is a specialist on voice sounds and has often appeared as a government witness in trials in which voice has become an issue.”

  Gunderson was a little man with a lot of jet-black hair and an infectious smile. He unveiled a machine—which looked like a medium-size television set with some Star Wars add-ons—on a moving platform which he dragged to the center of the room.

  “Thank you, Ms. Hurley. This machine is a somewhat complicated version of an oscilloscope. We use it in preliminary comparisons of voices. It measures two elementary dimensions of voice waves—amplitude or height and depth of the wave and duration or length of waves. Mr. Coyne, would you read this paragraph please into our microphone?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said as I took the paper from him.

  “You bet I did,” I read, “inside and out, backwards and forwards, real good. And he was too dumb to know what was going on.”

  I put the sheet of paper on the conference table in front of me.

  “You will note,” Dr. Gunderson said, “that the screen recorded Mr. Coyne’s sound waves. Let me play it back for you.”

  He played it back. I was prejudiced but I thought the waves were kind of elegant.

  “Now I’ll print out a graph of the waves,” he said, pressing a button on the back of the machine. A printer on the second shelf of the platform chugged out two pages, with approximately the same sound as that of an EKG printout machine.

  “You may pass it around and inspect it,” Dr. Gunderson continued.

  The people around the table glanced uneasily at the output and passed it on. They were afraid that they knew what was coming and they did not like it. At all, at all.

  “This is all shit,” Ms. Lange muttered, doubtless trying to dispel evil spirits. Little did she realize that angels were congregating in the light at the edge of the room, pushing one another in their eagerness to get into the act.

  Actually, I didn’t see the angels at all. I was merely imagining what my bride might be seeing.

  “Now,” Dr. Gunderson said with an appealing smile, “let me play another recording of the same paragraph. This is taken from our recording of a clip broadcast on television during the ten o’clock news last night. We have filtered out the static and the extraneous noise from the clip. You are naturally perfectly free to work with your own tapes which, presumably, you received from the Federal Attorney’s office.”

  “You bet I did, inside and out, backwards and forwards, real good. And he was too dumb to know what was going on.”

  “At first hearing, this sounds to the naked ear, if you will excuse my expression, something like the voice of Mr. Coyne, possibly his real voice, possibly someone attempting a crude imitation of his voice. However, when I play this tape again with the monitor presenting the waves, it appears, even at first glance, a very different set of waves.”

  Cold silence in the room. The angels were already in it, dancing and frolicking and having themselves one, you should excuse the expression, hell of a good time.

  “I’ll now turn off the audible sound and play the two tapes together, so you can compare the sound waves.”

  The second set of waves seemed to be shorter, more irregular and with less amplitude.

  “I’ll now play them again and activate the printer so that it will print out both sets of waves. It will actually produce two copies, so that we can make Xerox prints while you’re examining one copy. Are there any questions? Ms. Hurley?”

  “Can you say on the basis of this comparison that these are the same voices, Dr. Gunderson?”

  Setup question, naturally. Nuala Anne slipped out of the room to make copies of the second set of output sheets.

  “Quite the contrary, Ms. Hurley. They are evidently very different voices. Often in our work for the courts we find ourselves comparing voices that are far more similar than these two. Then we do more elaborate tests to confirm the similarities. However, in this case, since the voices are so dissimilar, such refined comparisons are unnecessary. I’m sure no student of voices in the world would conclude that these voices are the same.”

  The lawyers were now peering carefully at the graph which displayed both voices. Jack Riordan rolled his eyes. Neither Lange nor the nameless managing editor bothered to inspect them. Perhaps they knew that the game was up.

  The angels were doing pirouettes.

  “I see,” Cindy said, as if she were surprised by the finding. “I note that Dr. Gunderson’s wonderful machine is making copies of the first tape, which you may take with you if you wish. You have of course in your own possession the copies that the United States Attorney leaked to you. Thus you can make your own comparisons … Ah, Ms. McGrail, will you pass around those copies of the output and, yes, the tape copies, too.”

  “So what?” one of the lawyers sneered. “So they’re two different voices? So that doesn’t make us responsible for investigating either the tapes or the transcripts that the U.S. Attorney gave to us. If they’re fakes, and mind you, I don’t admit that, it’s not our responsibility to find that out.”

  Fingering his diamond like a magic implement, W.W. rumbled ominously, “Come now, J.J., you can’t be serious. First of all, it is illegal for the U.S. Attorney to give you either the transcripts or the tapes and illegal for you to accept them. Moreover, your TV channel could have with great ease obtained a recording of our client’s voice and made a comparison before broadcasting that tape last night. Such care certainly is well within the boundaries of what the courts have ruled to be due diligence.”

  Jack Riordan pursed his lips in a silent whistle.

  “Shit,” La Lange said, returning to her mantra. The angels laughed.

  “You will want to have your own people do voice tests,” Cindy said smoothly. “You may a
lso want to consult with your colleagues about due diligence. I am taking the liberty of distributing folders with prints of the relevant decisions which Lexis-Nexis has cleverly found for us.”

  More silence.

  “What’s the rush?” another lawyer snapped.

  “No rush, F.F.,” Cindy shot back. “Our client will find relief one way or another. If it’s in the short run, the costs will be less prohibitive for you than if it’s in the long run, much less prohibitive … Any more questions? No? I’ll remain here in our offices till 5:00. Our answering service will be instructed to give you my home phone, should you have any questions … W.W.?”

  “Thank you, Cynthia … I want to express my gratitude to you all for coming here to our little conversation. I trust that by Monday we will have arrived at the broad outlines of settlement terms which will be acceptable to all. I think I can assure you that our client will be reasonable in his demands, made as you know, in the name of several worthy educational institutions …”

  “What is reasonable?” one of them demanded.

  W.W. made a face, hesitated, and then said slowly, “Well, we would certainly not require anything in seven figures. I would guess we might be somewhere in the lower end of six figures. Of course we’ll have to see what happens between now and Monday. I don’t believe that we feel any obligation to haggle.”

  Needless to say, this response had been carefully rehearsed.

  Gathering their graphs, their tapes, and their folders of citations, the attorneys straggled out of the conference room and down the corridor towards the elevators, whispering to one another as they went. One of them remained to murmur into W.W.’s ear.

  Nuala stood in the doorway in intense conversation with Jack Riordan. What the hell was she up to now?

  And why were all those angels dancing around her?

  “They know we’ve got them,” Cindy said to me, sotto voce, “and they’re furious at the newspeople for getting them into this mess.”

  “Well done, Cynthia,” W.W. said as he joined us. “I have no patience with those people. They’re far more pompous than their ability merits.”

  Jack Riordan drifted down the corridor after the lawyers. Smiling proudly, Nuala joined us.

  “Haven’t I just paid a deal, just like a real Chicagoan?” she asked us.

  “A deal?” Cindy sounded skeptical: Nuala was adorable but not a lawyer. Only lawyers made deals.

  “Didn’t I suggest to that silly young man that they could have a great scoop, if they put our little act on the five o’clock news? And didn’t I hint that if they did, wouldn’t we consider dropping our suit against Channel 6 altogether? He’ll be calling you Cindy in a half hour or so. And, Dermot Michael, I’ll not let you go on television unless you buy yourself a blue sport coat that does not clash with your eyes. We can walk over to that nice Paul Stuart place in your building, can’t we now?”

  Cindy looked at me. Both of us laughed. We turned to W.W., who also laughed, something which, according to all reports, he rarely did.

  “I believe you’re an accountant, young woman?” he asked genially.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, quickly donning the shy child mask.

  “She also sings,” I added.

  “If you ever grow weary of your present occupations, I think you’d make a splendid lawyer.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And I’d like to hear you sing, too.”

  My magic Nuala would charm anyone, even WASPs.

  “Would you ever like to have a copy of me first album?” she said, reaching into her purse and producing a copy of Nuala Anne.

  “Thank you very much,” he said with a gracious bow. “My wife and I will listen to it first thing this evening since we won’t be flying up to Dorr County.”

  Cindy said, “Thank you very much, W.W.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, Cynthia.”

  Nuala Anne led us out to the elevator, her nose pointing in the general direction of the moon.

  I did not dare offer an argument about a new blue sport coat.

  A CLIP FROM THE 5:00 NEWS

  (Setting is Channel 6 newsroom. Present are Jack Riordan, Dermot Michael Coyne—in new blue sport coat—and Arjay Douglas, chief sound engineer for Channel 6.)

  JR: (looking at the chart of two voices which the magic machine has just generated) You’re saying, Arjay, that these two voices are not the same?

  AD: That’s right, Jack. The first line represents Dermot’s voice, which we have just recorded. The second line is the voice which is alleged to be Dermot’s in the tape from the U.S. Attorney. Clearly they are very different voices.

  JR: Then it could not have been Dermot whom the FBI recorded.

  AD: If this really is their tape, absolutely not.

  JR: So it looks like Dermot was framed?

  AD: It certainly does.

  JR: (Outraged) And the FBI used Chicago media to help frame him!

  AD: It certainly looks that way.

  JD: Do you have any comment on that, Dermot?

  DMC: (Charming smile) I have said all along that I never participated in such a conversation. I am grateful that Channel 6 has set the record straight.

  JD: Myles McLahren, our vice president and station manager has issued the following statement, Dermot (reads from statement): Channel 6 deeply regrets the embarrassment caused to Mr. Coyne and his family by the false tape furnished us by the U.S. Attorney. We should have checked on the tape before we played it and we did not. We apologize for this failure. We promise we will learn from our mistake. Furthermore, we call for a full investigation of this apparent conspiracy and prosecution of all those responsible.

  DMC: That’s a very handsome apology, Jack. Please tell Mr. McLahren that I accept it.

  JR: Do you think this revelation will clear your reputation, Dermot?

  DMC: It will help, I’m sure. I doubt that my good name will ever be completely restored.

  JR: Now you and your fiancée will be able to go on your honeymoon without any worries, is that not the case? (Camera cuts to said fiancée, who is smiling happily.) DMC: That all depends on Judge Crawford.

  We returned to Cindy’s office after the news broadcast and waited for the phone calls. Joe Hurley joined us to help with the calls. They were already pouring in by the time we got there. Cindy decided to stay at the phone till all wards were heard from. By seven-thirty every lawyer had checked in with a proposed apology. Cindy grimly insisted on wording in which they admitted negligence. Eventually, they all caved in.

  Nuala Anne leaned back in Cindy’s “judicial chair” and beamed contentedly, taking credit, as well she might, for the speed of the deal.

  “Didn’t we destroy them altogether?”

  “It looks like you’re completely out of the woods, Dermot.”

  “We still have to contend with Dale Quade and Judge Crawford. I don’t think Quade will give up. Nor will the judge risk a chance to get her name in the papers again. The fight is not over.”

  Cindy glanced up from her yellow, legal-sized notepad.

  “Possibly Dermot, but not even Dale Quade would refuse to move that the indictment be quashed in the present circumstances. The principal support for the indictment has been impeached beyond repair. She could go back to the grand jury and seek to indict you with other evidence, but my guess is that she’ll forget about you and go after someone else.”

  Maybe Marie Mangan, as she called herself now, was our ace in the hole. But could she really force Jarry to admit his fraud? She was a nice old woman, but he was a twisted young man who would not easily admit anything.

  “With Jarry’s tape as evidence?” I replied to Cindy. “Operation Full Platter is dead. Her only hope to salvage something is to put me in jail.”

  “She’ll never do that, Dermot,” Joe Hurley insisted. “If Judge Crawford continues to be obnoxious, Cindy can ask for another judge. Anyone else on the Federal bench will throw out the indictment. Even Dale can fig
ure that out.”

  “The woman’s sick,” Nuala interjected.

  “Not that sick,” Cindy insisted.

  I could not be optimistic. We had only a week left. We would win eventually. There were worse things than a wedding with an indictment hanging over one’s head—such as an indictment with a canceled wedding. My gut, however, told me that the web of evil which Jarry Kennedy had spun would not disappear easily. The bitter end was not just yet.

  The phone rang again.

  “Hurley,” Cindy snapped at it—my sister the tough litigator.

  “Yes. I assume that the indictment will be quashed on Monday morning. What! She said that! I am astonished! Yes, you may use that as my response. You may add that when this is over I am going to cite Ms. Quade to the Bar Association and the Ethical Practices Review Board.”

  She slammed down the phone.

  “City News Bureau,” she said glumly.

  “They had a comment from Dale?” Joe asked.

  “They sure did. She said that our dog and pony show—her words—was nothing but a clever media trick to strengthen our hand in plea bargaining. I’m sure she’ll be calling her columnist friends to spin the story the same way.”

  “So,” I said wearily, “the game goes on.”

  “We’ll be shopping tomorrow for Dermot’s trousseau,” Nuala said. “Sure, won’t we be keeping Galena in mind. I hear it’s a lovely place in autumn.”

  29

  NUALA AND I took our respective parents to the Yacht Club for lunch. Annie and Gerry marveled at the beauty of the city and the Lake on a crisp fall day.

  “Sure,” Annie said, “doesn’t it put Galway Bay to shame?”

  “Och, Ma, doesn’t me darlin’ man say that we shouldn’t make comparisons like that?”

  “And isn’t he right when he says that?” Gerry agreed.

  Nuala was uneasy about the coming week. Apparently the “family council” she had refused to attend was taking place in New York, despite our triumph the previous evening. The event had not been reported in the New York Times and thus had not officially happened.