The Only Good Lawyer - Jeremiah Healy

by Jeremish Healy

  "Independent investigation." I said.

  "Yeah, like the lawyers' board there. I figured maybe they'd be more . . . believable, they found out I was right."

  "More believable where?"

  "With the judge in my divorce case, of course. Why else would I do it?"

  "Then why didn't you ever mention it to me?" said his divorce lawyer.

  Spaeth ran a hand through the black clots of hair on his head. "I don't know. That Jeppers, he didn't seem to think much of it, either. And, remember, I was doing a lot of drinking around then. I must've just . . . forgot."

  "Forgot to tell me," said Rothenberg.

  "Yeah."

  I watched Spaeth. "But you didn't forget to tell your son."

  The man flared. "The fuck does Terry have to do with this?"

  I said, "He told me his father shared those suspicions about his mother."

  "The fuck was I supposed to do? All the judge's orders against me—that 'personal liberty' shit Steve here said I had to obey—I couldn't go near Nicole myself."

  I could see by Rothenberg's expression that he didn't get what Spaeth meant. "Steve, your client asked Terry to spy on his mother."

  Rothenberg's voice dropped. "Alan, you haven't made this any easier."

  "Easier?" Spaeth began to boil over. "You try living with a woman for sixteen fucking years, loving her and having a son by her, then getting ordered out of your own fucking house. And ordered to keep paying the fucking mortgage and every other fucking thing anyway. When you don't have a job anymore, and nobody wants to hire you for another one. See what you'd do, with the booze and all."

  I said, "One thing I wouldn't do is ask my son to spy on his mother."

  A sneer. "You married, Cuddy?"

  A memory of Beth in her hospital bed flashed back on me. "Widowed."

  Didn't slow Alan Spaeth down. "Yeah, well, think about it anyway, sport. How would you feel, you thought a lawyer was fucking you over the coals in a divorce and punching the wife you still loved to boot?"

  I got out of there before I decked him.

  * * *

  "You okay?" asked Steve Rothenberg, genuine concern in his tone.

  "No," I said, leaning against the corridor wall outside the client interview room, staring down at the floor.

  Rothenberg leaned with me. "Alan Spaeth's a bigoted, insensitive lout."

  "He's all that, and more."

  "But you still think my client didn't shoot Woodrow Gant, don't you?"

  I glanced at Rothenberg, then away again. "That may not be enough, Steve."

  "It has to be, John. I need you to follow up on the alibi witness, the gang aspect, the restaurant—"

  Restaurant? "Christ." I checked my watch. Almost 12:45, and Nancy had said 1:00. "Steve, I'm sorry, I've got to go."

  "John—"

  "I'm not quitting. At least, not yet."

  There was a sigh of relief as I made my way back down the corridor, but it didn't come from me.

  * * *

  Cricket's is located in the South Market building, catercorner from Fanueil Hall itself. The hall is where great debates have been held since the American Revolution. You can see the red-bricked structure from the greenhouse dining area, though the only debate you're likely to hear in Cricket's is whether to go with the club sandwich or the daily catch.

  I walked into the main entrance of the restaurant proper, the woman in a print dress at the hostess stand watching me, probably because I looked as nervous as I felt.

  She said, "Mr. Cuddy?"

  "Yes."

  "Your party's already here. This way, please."

  I followed her into the greenhouse extension, spotting Nancy as soon as I cleared a potted tree. She sat at a table for two, the sunlight slanting through the glass making her features glow, like something you'd see in paintings or films of the Tuscan hills. Two menus lay in front of her, but Nancy's attention was directed to a touristy couple outside on the cobble-stones. The couple talked to a man in a business suit and gestured with their camera in a sign-language way, implying that they didn't speak English very well but wanted him to take their picture.

  When the hostess delivered me to the table, Nancy and I both said "thank you" to her simultaneously. Everybody laughed, the hostess a little more naturally than either of us. I sat down, extending my right hand across the table. Nancy took it, gave me a quick squeeze, and then let go. "Right on time."

  I made a pretense of looking at my watch. "I was tied up, afraid I might be late."

  "No, I was early."

  We received a reprieve from that soul-numbing exchange thanks to the waiter coming by for our drink orders.

  "Wine?" I said to her.

  Nancy spoke to the waiter. "Just iced tea for me, please." I wanted something stronger, but said, "Same."

  After the waiter over—described a couple of lunch specials, we both watched him walk away.

  I took a deep breath. "When he's out of sight, we have to start talking again."

  A pause before, "I know."

  I looked back at Nancy. "What is it?"

  Her chin was down, like she was reading the menu instead of me. "I'm beginning to think this wasn't such a good idea."

  "What wasn't?"

  "Meeting for lunch like this. I thought we'd be able to talk first, build up to it."

  "Nance, I'm afraid that until I hear what the 'it' is, I don't know what we should be talking about."

  The waiter was brutally efficient, our drinks arriving in tall glasses with twists of lemon still circling the straws like milk-maids around a maypole. I think he could sense something was wrong between us, though, and he left the table without asking for our food orders.

  Nancy put some sugar into her tea. Stirring it, she said, "When you got back from out-of-state last week, and we first talked about Woodrow Gant, you asked me if I knew him."

  "I remember."

  "Do you remember what I said?"

  “Something like, 'I'd met the man, but I never worked with him.' "

  "Close enough." Nancy drew some tea through her straw.

  "Years before we . . . before you and I got together, there was a continuing legal education conference for prosecutors, a long weekend down on Nantucket. A.D.A.'s from all over the state attended."

  I nodded.

  "That's where I met Woodrow Gant."

  I nodded some more.

  "And that's where I . . . slept with him."

  I tried to nod, but couldn't.

  Nancy closed her eyes. "This is what I was afraid of."

  "What?" It didn't sound like my voice.

  She opened her eyes. "Your reaction, John."

  "What reaction? I haven't said—"

  “The way you're looking at me."

  I could feel my blood rising. "Nance, at least give me a chance to say something?"

  She watched me, but wary, like a cat that's been yelled at. "Go ahead."

  I lowered my voice. "Why didn't you tell me this at Thai Basil?"

  A hardening. "Rather than walk out on you?"

  I kept my voice low. "Why didn't you tell me then?"

  "Because you're such a . . . such an 'innocent' about sexual things."

  "Nancy——"

  "Put yourself in my shoes, okay? When we met, I fell in love with you—almost at first sight—but you put me off because you were still mourning Beth. I could handle that, I even respected you more for it. And then last month, when you helped me through the cancer scare, I felt so close to you I almost couldn't stand it."

  I wasn't following her. "Stand what, the feeling?"

  "Yes, but more the worry. I'd always been so independent, but the cancer scare made me realize how much I needed people, how much I needed you, above all. And what I couldn't stand was the thought of losing you."

  "Nancy, you're not losing me."

  She closed her eyes again. "When I just told you I slept with Woodrow Gant, your expression told me I might."

  "Nance . . .
" I tried to measure out the words. "I don't know how to describe what was on my face, because I can't see it the way you do, even if I were staring into a mirror. But I know what's in my heart, and what you did or didn't do before we met is your past, not our present"

  Her eyes opened, welling with tears. "That's what I wanted to hear, John."

  I reached across the table for her hand. "Great."

  Nancy let me take the hand, but when I squeezed, she didn't squeeze back. "Only we still have a problem."

  "Now what?" I said.

  "Until the Gant case is resolved, we can't see each other."

  I felt the blood rising again. "Nance, that's—"

  She wriggled her hand free. "Please, John, let me finish?"

  I withdrew my hand, too. In the low voice, I said, "All right."

  “I'm not working the Gant case as a prosecutor. As soon as it came in, I told my boss I couldn't. So there's no technical conflict of interest in your helping the defendant. But I didn't give my boss the whole story."

  "I can understand that."

  "Then I hope you can understand what I'm about to say, too. It would tear me up to be seeing you, eating across from you, especially . . . making love with you while I knew you were still working the case. I couldn't be myself, and it would be miserable for you as well."

  "Why, Nance? Because you once had an affair with the man?"

  "It was just that one weekend, but if you need a label, call it loyalty to an ex-lover."

  "Loyalty misplaced."

  "John, a minute ago, you told me what was in your heart. Trust me now on what's in mine. It may not be rational, or even wise, but my heart tells me I can't be with you until the Gant case is resolved."

  "Nancy . . ." I cleared my throat. "Nance, I trust you. That's not the problem."

  "Then what is?"

  "The case. It could drag on for months."

  Her tone changed. "Does it have to drag on with you still in it?"

  That stopped me. "You mean, quit the case?"

  "Can you?"

  I wanted to. Nancy's feelings, Spaeth's attitudes and actions, the evidence already piled up on the prosecution's side of the scales. Against all that, there was just one—

  "John?"

  "No," I said. "I can't. The guy's an asshole, but I still think he's innocent. And I have loyalties as well, to my profession, to Rothenberg .... "

  I stopped again as Nancy swiped at a tear with an index finger, then reached her other hand across the table to close on mine.

  She said, "You know, almost all of me wanted to hear a different answer. But I think—for our future—that's the best answer you could give."

  "Our future, not our present."

  Letting go of my hand, Nancy stood up. "Good-bye, John. Call me when . . . whenever."

  I watched her walk away, taking what appetite I might have had with her. Our waiter caught my eye, and I made a tab-signing gesture to him. When I turned back for some iced tea to deal with the taste in my mouth, I saw the touristy couple walking hand-in-hand, the camera swinging at his side, her going up on tiptoes to peck him on the cheek.

  I looked down into the glass. My job for Rothenberg was to find enough reasonable doubt to get Spaeth off come trial, months away. If I couldn't quit the Gant case, maybe I could accelerate things by going a step further and finding out who really killed him.

  As the check arrived, though, Alan Spaeth's voice kept going around inside my head. The conversation with him at the jail less than an hour before.

  Specifically, the part about What I'd do if I found someone else had been sleeping with the woman I loved.

  Chapter 12

  I WALKED BACK up State Street to Tremont.

  Inside the entrance of my office building, I chose the stairs instead of the elevator to help clear my head. Coming down the second-floor hall, though, I still must have been a little dazed from Nancy, because my key was almost in the lock before I noticed my door was already ajar.

  I pushed it halfway open.

  "About time, Mr. Private Eye," said an accented voice from behind my desk.

  A slim man sat in my chair, his feet in cowboy boots and resting on the secretarial pull-tray. He had a clean-shaven face, with sallow skin and blurry Asian features, as though the angles of eye sockets and cheekbones had been arrested in early development. His hair was black, combed back along his head in a moussed wave. He wore a double-breasted jacket with lapels wide enough to challenge a zoot suit, just a yellow T-shirt underneath. The eyes were somewhere between blue and green, focusing on me the way a lizard does watching a bug it hasn't yet decided is worth the effort. His right hand held some of my opened mail up to the light from the window behind him.

  Staying on the corridor side of the threshold—and relieved not to see my photo album with the twenties tucked in it—I said, "Anything interesting come for me today?"

  "Just bills." He fanned himself with them. "You ought to pay these, man, you don't want a bad credit report on your ass."

  A little more Boston flavor in his voice with more words in the air.

  He laid the papers on my desk. "What's the matter, you don't want to come in your own office?"

  “Not until I see who's behind my door."

  A small smile, the tip of his tongue just peeking out between the lips. "Oscar?"

  I heard shoes shushing on my carpet, and another man came into view, backing up toward my desk with his hands behind his spine like a soldier moving at parade rest. Oscar was only about five—ten, but well over two hundred, his shoulders and bent arms seriously straining a single-breasted, camel-hair sports coat that probably measured a size fifty-four to start with. His skin tone went a shade lighter than mocha, the hair harder to judge since it was shaved like a recruit's in boot camp. I thought Oscar's nose had been broken twice to the right and thrice to the left, though the sloping eyes above the broad cheeks blazed in a way that made me seriously doubt he'd even noticed the pain involved. His ears were barely bigger than the buttons on his coat, the right one cauliflowered.

  I said, "If he's Oscar Huong, that would make you Nguyen Trinh."

  A broader smile from the man behind the desk. "Call me 'Nugey,' everybody else does."

  "Let me guess. The first time you got busted, the booking officer didn't know which was your family name and which was your given name."

  "That's pretty good, Mr. Private Eye." He looked to his friend. "Oscar's momma, now, she give him a real American name, easy to spot over here. Mine, she more . . . traditional. But I use 'Mr. Trinh' now, anyway. Gonna be in America, you gotta adapt to the culture, huh?"

  Trinh stood up, at almost six feet a little taller than he appeared sitting down. His hand made a Macarena motion toward my desk chair. "Make yourself comfortable."

  As I moved into the office, Huong backed up farther, keeping himself between me and his boss. We all then did a slow-mo minuet, rotating so that I ended up at my desk chair and they one each behind my client chairs. Trinh and I sat down, but Huong remained standing.

  I looked at them. "How badly did you hurt my door?"

  A shrug from Trinh. "We didn't have no tools. I figured, man's in business, he gonna have his office open, you know?"

  "So, Oscar put his shoulder to it."

  "Didn't have to," said Huong, speaking for the first time. Not exactly easy listening, either. His voice sounded as though whoever rearranged the nose had gone after the throat, too. Then he brought his hands out from behind his back, raising them as he said, "These were good enough."

  Usually when you look at hands, they seem in rough proportion to the rest of the body. But Huong's were huge, and there were bumps and callouses on the knuckles in places you don't usually see them.

  I said, "Okinawan karate?"

  Huong just grinned at me.

  Nguyen Trinh said, "Oscar, he learn lots of shit back when we juvies in DYS. You do the bare-knuckle push-ups on those hard floors, man, you get like him, too. Don't nobody mess with us
, they see Oscar's hands."

  "How about before Oscar's hands got like that?"

  Any humor faded from the sallow face. Trinh said, “You were over there, right?"

  "Vietnam'?"

  "No. Waikiki fucking Beach."

  I tried to relax in my chair. "You do some research on me?"

  Trinh almost smiled again. "Don't have to, Mr. Private Eye. You got the look. I was five years old when my momma put me on that plane. But I remember the look."

  "What plane?"

  Trinh seemed a little surprised, but he said, "The do-gooders, they called it 'Operation Babylift'. Back in 'seventy-five, just when the Commies was coming over the walls. The do-gooders, they figured the Cong gonna kill us, cause we got the American devil-blood inside. Color of my eyes, color of Oscar's skin. So we get loaded on these planes—didn't have seats or nothing, just mattresses and that net stuff, hold down cargo. And that's all we was, too, cargo they sending to the place our poppas come from. Only thing is, we land in Boston, and guess what? Ain't no poppas waiting at the gate with cameras and teddy bears. Lots of the kids, they was just babies, but Oscar and me, we old enough to see what's going on, know what's happening to us."

  "And what did happen?"

  Trinh swallowed, kind of hard. "We ain't cute like the little babies, everybody want to adopt. We don't got no English, either, except a couple words our mommas remember. Oscar and me, we get put in this orphan place, and then foster homes, but there was nobody really wanted us. Even in school, man, you sit down for lunch, all of a sudden you hear this noise. You don't got much English, first time you don't know what it is. Then you do. All the kids at your lunch table, they saying it under their breath, chanting like they monks or some shit."

  "Chanting what?"

  " 'Gook, gook, gook'. "

  Huong broke in. "Or 'Nigger gook, nigger gook'."

  I wished I couldn't picture it. "Kind of a jump to doing home invasions in the suburbs."

  Trinh did smile this time. "You the one doing research on us, Mr. Private Eye."

  "Some."

  "Yeah, well, we didn't go right to the big stuff, you know. We start small, pay our dues. Oscar beat up the kids said things to us, and that got us into DYS the first time. Once we there, we learn pretty quick what's what. You got to fight, or you get turned out."