The Only Good Lawyer - Jeremiah Healy

by Jeremish Healy

  "Uta," said the voice of Patricia from the door. "I left those files and messages—oh, sorry, I didn't know you . . ."

  "That's all right," said Radachowski.

  "Will you be needing me to do anything else?"

  "Not just now, Patricia."

  I heard shoes along the carpet outside.

  Radachowski shook her head. "Temp," she said to me, lightly. "Trying to do a good job, but a wee bit dense on matters of protocol."

  "Not to mention stepping on your line."

  The big-toothed smile. "As you've probably guessed, that man at my interview was Frank Neely. He got Leonard Epstein to swing with him, and the firm's hiring committee made me an offer."

  Hiring committee? "I thought they were the firm?"

  "I'm talking two stops ago."

  "Then I don't get what you mean."

  Radachowski spread her large hands on the desk. “The old firm that hired me was . . . Well, never mind the name of the place. Let's just call it A, B & C."

  "Okay."

  "A, B & C thought it was quite something for them to have hired a lawyer named 'Epstein' or even 'Neely' thirty years before me, if you get my drift."

  Meaning "restrictions" based on religion and ethnicity. "I understand."

  "Well, A, B & C began to lose some of their best players as those attorneys realized they couldn't change a partnership structure embedded in the nineteenth century. A number of the lawyers—including Frank and Len—broke off to form a new firm."

  "But since you said ‘two stops ago,' I take it that 'new' firm wasn't this current one."

  "Right."

  I thought back to my one year of evening division law school. "Am I also right in thinking that A, B & C couldn't impose a covenant not to compete on its former lawyers?"

  "You are. Violation of the Rules of Professional Responsibility, though I have to tell you, it's just a guild protection rule."

  "How so?"

  "If you're an engineer or a sales manager, your employer can get you to sign a covenant, then get it enforced—reasonably as to geography, duration, and scope of services—if you try to go work for a competitor. You're an attorney and your law firm tries that, it's against public policy."

  "Putting lawyers kind of above the law applied to the rest of us."

  "Kind of. Anyway, let's call the second firm D, E & F. Prank and Len insisted as a conditionof forming that firm that I be allowed to join it as a partner. There was still some resistance—you ever hear the term 'CASP'?"

  "Casp?"

  "C-A-S-P."

  "I don't think so."

  "It stands for ‘Catholic Anglo-Saxon Protestant! "

  The light dawned. "People who've been discriminated against themselves becoming—"

  "—that which they profess to despise the most. There were a few of them who wouldn't hesitate to use the words 'lezzie' and 'dyke'—or even 'Polack,' for that matter—when I wasn't around. But Frank and Len wouldn't stand for it."

  "So?"

  "So after some years there, we three decided to split off as a matter of principle and form our own firm. Only this time it looked as though D, E & F might go under first"

  "Why?"

  "Mostly mergers and acquisitions in the corporate world. Your client is the smaller fish, the law firm for the bigger fish eventually ends up handling all the combined fishes' legal matters. Also, there were a lot of clients simply getting more cost-conscious regarding the legal fees they were being asked to Pay."

  I considered that. "But Epstein and Neely thought they could take some of even those clients with them."

  "Right."

  "And again there was no covenant not to compete that could stop them."

  Radachowski nodded. "We still had to be careful, though." Another belly laugh. "All the hush-hush steps we conspirators took at D, E & F. The ambiguous memos, the out-of-office meetings. We even had a code name for the real estate broker helping us shop for our new office space here."

  "Code name?"

  "To put on telephone messages or appointments calendars, so the other partners at D, E or F wouldn't tumble to what we were doing."

  It was a nice education for me, and nostalgia trip for Radachowski, but I thought we should return to my case. "Woodrow Gant didn't join up until after you all were here, though, correct?"

  She stopped, seeming to remember why I was sitting in front of her. "Correct. Three—no, three and a half-years ago. Woodrow wanted out of the D.A.'s office, and we were a good fit for him."

  “How so?"

  "We didn't have anybody doing divorce, and in a small firm, it can be a profit center. Plus, Frank really believed in what he and Len did with me."

  "Meaning hiring for . . . diversity?"

  A little hardening again, more the cross-examination look than the jury one. "Meaning giving a person of talent a good base."

  "So things worked out well."

  "Very well. Woodrow thrived here, loved the open atmosphere."

  I thought about Imogene Burbage calling her boss, "Mr. Neely," but skipped it. "How do you mean?"

  "Woodrow was just . . . real loose. For example, he'd come up to me and say, 'Hey, man, this place is the ultimate comfort zone."

  Sounded off to me. "He called you 'Hey, man'?"

  Radachowski shrugged. "He called everybody that. Male, female, old, young, didn't matter. Universal greeting for Woodrow. Which was about the only formality he insisted on."

  "Formality?"

  "That we all use his full first name, 'Woodrow'—instead of 'Woody'? I think he didn't want anybody linking him even subliminally to that naive bartender on Cheers."

  I could see Gant's point. "Were you here the day Mr. Spaeth appeared for his deposition?"

  A sudden chill in the air. "No, but that doesn't mean I don't feel some responsibility for it."

  “How do you mean?"

  "I was the one who recommended Woodrow to Nicole in the first place."

  Remembering that Radachowski had used Mrs. Spaeth's first name before, I leaned forward.

  "When was this?"

  The eyes behind the thick lenses swam left-right-left for a moment. "I think I can tell you without violating any confidences. It was during the Boston Adult Literacy Fund benefit at the Charles Hotel in Cambridge? I spoke there seven or eight months ago." a flourish toward the wall of photos behind her, "and of course they introduced me as a lawyer. After my talk, this woman came up to me from the audience, said she needed a divorce lawyer and could I recommend one. Naturally, I gave her my card and Woodrow's name"

  "Didn't you say before that divorce work at a small firm can be a 'profit center'?"

  "Yes."

  "I might be missing something, but it's hard to see how Epstein & Neely could make any money on the Spaeth divorce, given that the husband was out of work."

  Radachowski showed me the big teeth. "You might be surprised, John. But that's why I said 'can be' a profit center. The firm doesn't make much off my charitable work, either, but we still believe it important."

  "Did you ever meet Alan Spaeth yourself?"

  “No. Never even saw him until . . . until the television coverage." Radachowski's eyes began to fill.

  I didn't want to lose her cooperation. "I'm sorry to put you through—"

  "John," a little harshly, to cut me off while she swiped at the tears with the back of her hand. Then, in the softer tone, "Do you really think you have to apologize to a litigator for anything you ask her about?"

  "I guess not."

  "So, go ahead."

  "There's no question Mr. Gant ate at a restaurant called Viet Mam with a woman that night. There's at least a possibility she also was present when the attack occurred."

  A sober nod. "That woman wasn't me."

  I said, "Do you have any idea who she might be?"

  "No. Woodrow had an . . . active social life, I think, but while we were good friends here at work, we didn't go out much together afterwards, and I don't remember him
mentioning anyone in particular as being a steady relationship"

  A subtle way to suggest Gant played the Held. But also a pretty elaborate answer to my pretty simple question. I said, "Do you have any suggestions on who might know the woman's identity?"

  "Sorry."

  Last shot. "How about Why Mr. Gant would have picked that particular restaurant?"

  "Try Deborah Ling."

  "One of the associates here, right?"

  A nod. "It seems to me that she recommended the place—no, that's not right. Deborah took him there once."

  "When?"

  "Oh, months ago."

  "How do you know?"

  Uta Radachowski steepled the lingers again, tapping her chin in tune to a silent melody. "The name of the place was unusual enough that I remember Woodrow telling me he didn't enjoy the food very much."

  Chapter 7

  COMING OUT OF Uta Radachowski's office, I was wondering why Woodrow Gant would return, apparently with a date, to a restaurant where he supposedly didn't like the fare. Then I saw the man I believed to be Elliot Herman rushing back into an office. I went up to the doorway and watched him shoveling file folders into an attaché case opened like a clamshell.

  Before knocking, I took in his workspace. It was spartan rather than barren, with just some diplomas on the wall, a mini-fridge against it, and two Marine Corps captain's chairs across from a cluttered desk. A paperweight in the shape of the Corps' globe and eagle held down a stack of correspondence next to his computer terminal. Standing on the cornerof his desk was a Lucite frame holding a portrait photo of an attractive woman about Herman's age with long, honey—blond hair. The frame was angled so she could be seen from the captain's chairs, a conversation starter should the current visitor not be into the Halls of Montezuma or the Shores of Tripoli. I rapped my knuckles lightly on the jamb.

  Herman looked up, the streak of white hair seeming to ride his head like a racing stripe. "Who are you?"

  "Mr. Herman?"

  "Yes, but—look, go back to the receptionist, and maybe she can—"

  "You're the one I want to see."

  "Not a chance." He went back to filling his briefcase. "I've got a meeting outside the office in ..." a glance at his watch ". . . fifteen minutes."

  "I'm John Cuddy. Did Frank Neely mention me to you?"

  Herman stopped with a file half on its way to joining the others. "Woodrow?"

  "That's right."

  He frowned. "Look, how about if we talk while I walk to my meeting?"

  "Fine with me."

  Herman crammed in two more folders, then closed the briefcase by leaning down on its corners with his palms before engaging the clasps with his thumbs. Viewed fully from the front, he had features matching the intense manner I'd seen in the reception area. His eyes were close-set around a strong nose and stronger jaw that looked like it enjoyed giving orders in the old days and chewing out anybody who didn't follow them to the letter.

  Herman came toward me briskly with the attaché case, setting it down only long enough to grab the jacket of his suit off a hook behind the door and shrug into it.

  As he reached again for the case, I said, "Your collar's up."

  "What'?"

  "The collar of your jacket is turned up, as though you're cold."

  "Oh. Thanks" Herman fixed it, then snapped his fingers, saying, "Cold, right." and went to the mini-fridge. He opened the door and took out a can of what looked like pineapple juice. Coming back, Herman grabbed his briefcase again and charged by me. As I caught up to him at the reception desk, he said to a woman I'd not seen before, "Out of the office. My wife calls, tell her I'll be back by five."

  "Back here, Mr. Herman?"

  "Yes," he said testily as he hit the elevator button and was saved a coronary by the door opening for him immediately. Once we started descending, Herman pulled a tab off the top of the can and began gulping.

  I said, "Juicing it?"

  "What?"

  I pointed to his drink.

  "Oh. Negative" Herman held the can so I could see the brand name on the label. "This is a liquid meal for people like me who don't have the time to eat."

  I nodded, thinking that maybe the cuisine hadn't improved all that much since his days in the Marines. "How does it taste?"

  "Like fast food from a can. But it keeps me going."

  We reached the lobby, and he was out of the elevator and moving fast in two strides, today's lunch back to his lips. I matched his pace as we hit the street.

  "All right." said Herman, throwing the already-empty can toward a trash receptacle screwed into a light pole. "So what are your questions?"

  I decided to use what time I had with him on the big issues. “Do you know anybody who had a motive to kill Woodrow Gant?"

  At the curb, Herman came to a full stop, apparently a rare enough occurrence for him that he teetered forward. "Yeah. Your client."

  "And if Alan Spaeth didn't do it?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "There's evidence to suggest that somebody else might have shot Mr. Gant."

  Herman stepped into the street, his head bobbing to gauge other pedestrians and vehicular traffic. "I thought the police found Spaeth's prints on the gun?"

  "The shells. But even if it was his gun, that doesn't mean he pulled the trigger."

  Herman glanced away from his navigating long enough to show me what he thought of that idea. "I do corporate and tax, Mr. Cuddy, mostly for closely held businesses. The last time I read up on criminal law was when I studied for the bar exam. But I was a Marine, too. OCS during college, then active duty before law school."

  Herman used his right hand to brush against the white streak in his hair. "In fact, I've got the Corps to thank for this."

  "Combat?"

  "What?"

  "The hair turned white under fire?"

  "Oh. Negative. I got hit by lightning."

  "Really?"

  "Really. Bolt struck a tree, and the shock jumped from it to the three of us nearby. Killed one, paralyzed the other. Me, all I remember is a flashbulb effect and a . . . tingling, spinning sensation, like I was drunk or dizzy. No pain, though, and the only physical vestige of the experience is this hank of hair. But that day next to the tree taught me something important"

  "Which is?"

  Herman glanced down at his watch. "Never waste any time, because you don't know how much of it you've got left."

  I didn't want to lose him to the client clock. "You were saying about Alan Spaeth?"

  "About . . . Oh. Right. Back in the Corps, I learned a lot about weapons, enough to sense that your client had something to do with Woodrow's murder, even if I hadn't seen the blowup at the firm."

  We were walking parallel to City Hall now. "Can you describe it for me?"

  "The blowup?"

  "Yes."

  "I was in my office that afternoon. When I went to get some coffee, I could see Woodrow seated with a bunch of people in our conference room. A deposition, given the stenographer. There was another woman and two other men, one with a beard, one without. Woodrow did mostly divorce, so I assumed one of the men was the husband, the other his lawyer."

  "Wait a minute. Why couldn't one of the men have been Mr. Gant's client?"

  Herman waited a beat too long before answering. "I suppose that's possible. But the woman was sitting next to Woodrow on the far side of the table, and maybe I recognized her from another time she was in the office. I don't know. What I do know is I'm pouring my coffee when all hell breaks loose."

  "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 truc
k. "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."