by David Hosp
The firm had, of course, noticed her death. In fact, it became a central topic of speculation and gossip in the weeks after she was found. The circumstances of her murder and the link to the murders of the six prostitutes tickled the other lawyers’ hunger for sordid detail and appealed to their natural fascination with the dark side of human nature. Many of them showed up at her funeral, but Finn wondered how many had merely put in an appearance out of curiosity—like rubber-neckers on the highway, eager for a glimpse of pain, and blood, and death. The interment had been delayed for a week, as a thorough autopsy pulled her body apart piece by piece, until there was barely enough left to sew back together. In the end, a closed casket had been required.
All of this was painful enough for Finn, who felt he was one of the few people who had been a true friend to Natalie, but what made it worse was that there was no one he could talk to about it. He was a natural loner, probably because of his past, and to the extent that he felt like he fit in at the firm, it was because of Natalie. He thought of talking to Preston about how he was feeling, but although they were exceptionally close, Finn was unsure how his mentor would react to such a show of weakness. He liked Nick Williams, but they certainly weren’t confidants. As a result, he was left simply to churn through his daily routine.
There was a ton of work for him to churn through, though. That much, at least, was a blessing. The Tannery case was a monster to get his arms around. Between the state agency that oversaw the security program, and Huron Security, the lawyers at Howery, Black had overseen the disclosure of more than a million pages of documents, from simple purchase orders and requisition forms to complex reaction plans prepared in case of nuclear or biological attack. The case was a far cry from the relatively simple white-collar criminal and securities matters Finn was used to working on. Those cases usually involved fewer documents and fewer legal issues, and winning them depended on finding a simple hook that would resonate with the jury. By contrast, the Tannery case required exacting attention to detail. It became clear to him early on that, to win this case, he must acquire an encyclopedic knowledge of the facts.
He threw himself into the task with fervor, reading and analyzing every document, reviewing prior deposition testimony, and even visiting the security company’s offices twice. He wasn’t sure his efforts were paying off yet, though. His mind worked better with broad themes than with detail. That was another reason Preston had originally chosen to put Natalie on the case instead of him. Sure, it helped that she was a woman, but she was also better suited to the kind of work that was required here. Holland had pointed that out to him. “She’s a great case manager,” he had said. “You’re a great trial lawyer, but your case management skills are not top-notch.” It had hurt Finn to hear that, even more so because he knew it to be true. Now that he’d waded hip deep into the case, he felt renewed admiration for Nat and her skills.
His struggles in dealing with her loss made working on the Tannery case more difficult, too. Every day he came across memos or briefs bearing her name. Just when he’d lost himself in the case and had forgotten about her death, he’d notice her handwriting in the margins of a document, and the memories would come flooding back.
The clients didn’t make things any easier. They were, without doubt, the most obstinate, obfuscatory group of people he’d ever dealt with. Finn supposed that that was normal in the security business, where secrecy and discretion were cornerstones, but it nonetheless presented significant difficulties. He’d been working for two weeks straight, and still felt like he had no idea what the case was really about.
McGuire was particularly difficult to handle. He was a wily bastard—much more intelligent than Finn had initially given him credit for—and that made defending his deposition all the more difficult. As Finn sat in the conference room at the plaintiffs’ lawyers’ office, he knew he was about to have a battle on his hands.
“I can’t recall,” McGuire was saying again. Apparently he’d taken Finn’s advice to heart; that was at least the twentieth time he’d professed his ignorance in the face of the most basic questions.
“What do you mean, you don’t recall?” There was anger in Fred Barnolk’s voice now. Fred was the lead attorney for the plaintiff, and a real character. He’d nearly flunked out of law school, and it had reportedly taken him three tries to pass the bar exam. Once he passed, though, a nose for big payoffs and a talent for righteous indignation had led him to represent high-profile plaintiffs against large corporations, and more than one jury had awarded his clients into the hundreds of millions of dollars. As their lawyer, Fred was entitled to one-third of that—an enormous amount of money by any standards—which he used to fund additional lawsuits. He had long, jet black hair that curled over the collar of his designer shirt.
“I mean I don’t remember,” McGuire said calmly.
“You’re saying you don’t remember how many people work under you?”
“That’s what I am saying.”
“Well, can you give me a rough estimate?”
Finn interrupted. “I’m going to object to that question, Mr. Barnolk. The witness is not here to speculate in his answers at this deposition, and he should only answer from his personal knowledge.” He looked at McGuire. “You can respond to the question if you know the answer.”
McGuire looked at Barnolk and smiled. “As I said, I’m really not sure of the exact number of workers we have, and I wouldn’t want to guess.”
Barnolk’s face was now bright red, and contrasted nicely with the deep blue of his shirt. “Let me just say, Mr. Finn, that this is the most deplorable deposition behavior I’ve ever encountered in more than twenty years of practice. You may think that the best way to handle this case is to stonewall us, but you’re dead wrong. My client and her family are victims of America’s war on terror, and they’re entitled to answers.”
“Be careful, Mr. Barnolk,” Finn interrupted. “It’s starting to sound like you’re blaming the terrorists who bombed the train instead of my clients whom you’ve sued.”
“My client and her family are the victims of corporate greed in the manner in which the war on terror has been conducted,” Barnolk corrected himself without missing a beat. “And they’re heroes. They’ll have their day in court, and they’ll prevail regardless of whatever sleazy tactics you employ here.”
“Mr. Barnolk, you may have noticed that there’s no jury in the room. Nor are there any newspaper reporters present, so I’d suggest you save the speeches for your closing argument. As far as the witness’s ‘behavior’ during this deposition goes, it’s been exemplary. He’s answered every single one of your questions honestly and without speculation. Furthermore, the specific information you are asking for is contained in the documents that we have turned over in response to your discovery requests.”
“You turned over two rooms’ worth of documents. We don’t have the time or the resources to go through a production like that. We’re not a big white-shoe firm like Howery, Black & Longbothum.”
“Then you shouldn’t have asked our client to turn over such a broad range of documents. Besides, I happen to know that with the tobacco settlement fees you received last year, partners in your firm made more money than the partners at Howery, so the David-versus-Goliath routine is a little disingenuous, don’t you think?”
Barnolk turned back to McGuire. “Mr. McGuire, how many security guards were assigned to each train as of September 12, last year?”
McGuire leaned back in his chair and brought his giant hands together at the tips of his fingers, staring up at the ceiling as though lost in contemplation. “I’m not sure what the exact number was at that time, really. I’m sure I could look it up. It must be in one of the documents our lawyers gave to you guys.”
Barnolk stared at McGuire with such malice it might have been disconcerting if he didn’t cut such a comic figure in his tailored suit and oversized gold cuff links, his jowls hanging over his two-hundred-dollar Hermès tie.
�
��This deposition is over for today,” he said finally. “But I want it on the record that Mr. Finn has, at best, failed properly to prepare the witness for this deposition, and has, at worst, prepared the witness specifically to frustrate the purposes of discovery and conceal relevant evidence. In either case, I believe that he has violated his ethical obligations to the judicial system, and we intend to bring this behavior to the attention of the court.”
“Well, you can obviously bring whatever motions you want before the court, Mr. Barnolk,” Finn retorted calmly. “But I have no doubt that the court will see clearly that the only reason you’ve become frustrated during this deposition is because you were woefully unprepared at the outset. That’s obviously neither the witness’s fault nor my fault, but it is something we can discuss with the judge. In any event, we won’t make this witness available again unless the court orders it. You’ve had a full and fair opportunity to question him, and we will not allow the safety of other rail passengers to be jeopardized while you waste the time of those who are charged with the heavy responsibility of administering public safety.”
Finn and McGuire were standing now, and they pushed their chairs out from the table and started walking toward the door. As McGuire passed Barnolk on the way out, he smiled at him again. He leaned over the prissy lawyer, and his huge right hand swung toward him. In a moment of horror, Finn thought McGuire was actually going to punch Barnolk. That would be difficult to explain to the judge under any circumstances. Barnolk clearly had the same thought, because he threw himself sideways in his chair, knocking his notes off the table, and almost falling out of the chair himself. It was only then that Finn saw that McGuire’s hand was opened, and he was offering it in a handshake to Barnolk.
McGuire laughed heartily, and left his hand out. “It was a pleasure to meet you,” he said through his own laughter.
Barnolk looked up, clearly still shaken. Tentatively, he held his hand out to shake, and McGuire’s paw enveloped his.
As they shook hands, McGuire leaned in and whispered something into Barnolk’s ear. When he turned back toward the door to head out, he was no longer laughing, but he was grinning from ear to ear. Over McGuire’s shoulder, Finn could see that all the blood had drained from Barnolk’s face.
Back in the street outside Barnolk’s office, McGuire hailed a cab. He turned to Finn and held out his hand. “Thanks a lot, Counselor. I think it went pretty well in there. You were a pistol on those legal arguments.”
Finn looked at the hand, caught in the memory of the bizarre exchange he’d witnessed up in the office between McGuire and Barnolk. He hesitated for just a second before he shook the hand. “Are you sure you don’t want to go back to my office and do a little postgame analysis to figure out where we might have taken any hits?”
McGuire shook his head. “Nah, I gotta get back to my own office and see what’s happening there. We did well today, though. I already know it.” McGuire smiled again as he stepped into the cab.
Finn couldn’t hold himself back from asking the question that was weighing heavily on his mind. “Hey, what was that between you and Barnolk up there?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
“What was what?” McGuire asked.
“When you whispered to him, what did you say?”
“You don’t need to worry about that, Counselor.”
“I’m not worried, I’d just like to know,” Finn protested.
McGuire laughed again. “I just told him you lawyers are the dumbest people I’ve ever had to hang around with,” he said. Then he roared with laughter one more time. “Listen, Counselor, don’t sweat it. You did great in there, and I’ll make sure Holland knows it.” With that, he nodded to the taxi driver to head out and closed the door.
As the taxi pulled away, Finn looked down at his hand, still lost in the feeling that he’d witnessed some moment of import in the office upstairs. Something about the exchange made him feel queasy, as if an event of significance had occurred right before his eyes and he’d missed it. He hated that feeling. It made him question whether he was really in control of the case. The uncertainty was all the more difficult to deal with because Natalie wasn’t there to lend her support. She’d have been able to help him sort everything out. Of course, if she hadn’t been killed, he never would have had this case to deal with in the first place.
Finn shook himself and started back to his office. The August heat was oppressive, and he loosened his collar and tie. Everything had changed. The sky seemed a different color, and the buildings and people around him seemed less friendly. It had been more than a week since he’d had anything to drink, but he sure felt like he needed something now.
Chapter Sixteen
TIGH MCCLUEN, a giant of a man with dark hair, sat on a stack of packing crates in a warehouse at the edge of Southie. The old man sitting in front of him was taking his time, as was his habit, reading every entry in Tigh’s ledger with care, and adding the figures in his head with greater precision than any Harvard MBA.
“You got a few stiffs you’re carrying here,” the old man said at last.
“Long-standing customers,” Tigh offered with a wink. Although he’d been in the United States for more than two decades, his accent still rang with the cadence of the shores of Donegal on the west coast of Ireland. “They’ll pay, and in the meantime it gives me leverage to get whatever I want out of them.”
“What could you possibly want from them?”
Tigh pointed at the ledger, halfway down. “That man there’s a doctor at Mass General. Remember the tiff that Johnny and Viles got into last month?”
The old man nodded. “With Frankie’s old crew, right?”
“Right.” Tigh nodded. “Johnny took a slug in the leg. Nothing serious, it missed the artery, but it still needed tending. The good doctor was kind enough to pay a house call—off the record. At the hospital there would have been a police report, which would have presented a bit of an embarrassment.”
He slid his fingers down to another red entry. “That man there is a waiter.”
“What the fuck good is a waiter?”
“He’s a waiter at Olives,” Tigh explained. “It’s the mayor’s favorite restaurant. I told his Honor to ask for Sean whenever he goes to eat there. Sean cuts the check down to nearly nothing, and the mayor is very appreciative when we need him to be.”
“How about this guy, here?” the old man asked, pointing to the bottom of the page. “Billy Zern?”
“That’s a separate issue entirely,” Tigh said, smiling. The old man looked at him expectantly. “I fancy his sister,” Tigh explained with a wink.
The old man laughed. “I swear to fucking God, Tigh, if you didn’t bring in as much money as you do, I’d have had you clipped years ago for that mouth on you.” He shook his head. “You’re just lucky you’re good at what you do.”
Tigh chuckled. “Funny, that’s just what Billy Zern’s sister said to me the other night. You two been sharing secrets, now?”
“You think that fuckin’ charm can get you through anything, don’t you?”
“It’s worked so far,” Tigh pointed out. “I stepped off the boat from the motherland when I was twelve with nothing in my pockets and no one in the world who cared about me. Now look at where I am.” He waved his arms around the warehouse, which smelled of decay and had rats scurrying noisily in the corners. “Heaven!”
The old man shook his head again. “You do okay. Not as well as you would have in the old days, but you do fine.” He rubbed his face in his hands. “When I was younger, all you needed were some balls and the muscle to back them up. Now the plays are bigger and you need more. You need brains. Guys like you and me are a dying breed.”
Tigh scratched his head. “Like you said, I do fine.” He nodded toward the ledger. “Everything all right in there?” he asked.
“Yeah, you’re fine. Just don’t give the stiffs too much rope, okay?”
“Understood.”
“There’s one other thin
g, Tigh. I got the word this morning that we need your help.” The old man looked up from the flimsy card table that served as his desk.
“I’m listening,” Tigh said after a moment of silence.
The old man blew out his breath heavily. “You know this Little Jack fuck that’s been killing some of the local girls?” he asked.
Tigh nodded. “Only what I read in the papers.”
“Yeah, well the organization wants him stopped. It’s fuckin’ up business and scaring the girls off the streets. Pussy ain’t the meal ticket it once was, but it still provides a good, steady income stream. We’d like your help in putting an end to this fuck.”
Tigh was silent for a moment, weighing his response. “What can I do?” he asked warily.
“You can do what you can do,” the old man said. “You know the streets better than anyone. Hell, when you were younger you owned the streets. Get out there and find him. Talk to people…use those fuckin’ connections you got.”
Tigh shook his head. “I don’t think my connections will be of much use,” he said. “We’re not dealing with a local hood, here, we’re dealing with a psycho. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
