Client Privilege

by William G. Tapply

Sylvestro shrugged. “Everybody’s a suspect.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “We’re just trying to get some things clear. So we can understand.”

  “But am I a suspect?”

  “Right now, Mr. Coyne, you’re a witness. Actually, an important witness. Okay? If you were a suspect, we’d Mirandize you, bring in a tape recorder. Right now, we just want to ask you a few questions.”

  “Well, okay then,” I said. “Shoot.” I grinned. “Bad choice of words.”

  Sylvestro smiled appreciatively and glanced at Finnigan, who nodded but did not smile. Finnigan, I noticed, rarely smiled, and when he did it was not a pleasant smile. I tried not to take it personally that he didn’t smile at me.

  Sylvestro extracted a notepad from the depths of his topcoat and consulted it for a moment. “Okay, Mr. Coyne,” he said, looking up at me. “Now let’s talk about the night you met with Wayne Churchill at Skeeter’s Infield. You did meet with him there, am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And why was it you met with him?”

  “I told you before. I can’t say.”

  “For a client, I believe you told us.”

  I smiled. “I believe I did.”

  “And you don’t want to tell us who this client is.”

  “Right. I don’t. I can’t. You know this.”

  “Was the client Wayne Churchill?” said Finnigan.

  I turned my head and looked at him. He shrugged. “I tried,” he said.

  “Are you protecting this client?” said Sylvestro.

  “Well, sure. That’s what the client-lawyer relationship is all about. That doesn’t mean he’s involved.”

  “Then why…?” began Finnigan.

  Sylvestro turned to him. “Come on,” he said. Finnigan shrugged.

  “Mr. Coyne,” said the older cop, “you can see how this looks, you refusing to answer our questions.”

  “This has nothing to do with self-incrimination.”

  He nodded. “Sure. Incriminating somebody else, then?”

  “If that’s supposed to be a question, you know I can’t answer it.”

  Sylvestro sighed and nodded, as if he expected these answers. “Okay, then. Let’s go over the times again, Mr. Coyne. Now, what time did you arrive at Skeeter’s?”

  “Nine o’clock, give or take a couple minutes.”

  “And Churchill arrived—?”

  “A few minutes after that.”

  “And you had a discussion with him.”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you discuss?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “Why?”

  “Come on. I already explained that.”

  “Privileged information,” said Finnigan. He made the words sound vulgar.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  Sylvestro nodded. “Okay. Sure. Did you argue with Churchill?”

  “I’m not going to tell you what we talked about.”

  “A witness said it appeared that you argued.”

  I shrugged.

  “You don’t want to comment on that?”

  “No.”

  “And what time did you leave?”

  “Around nine-thirty.”

  “When did Churchill leave?”

  “Ten or fifteen minutes before me.”

  “Did you observe anybody leave with him?”

  “No. Wait. There were two women at the bar. They left after him, and before me.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us about them before?”

  “I didn’t think of it. It didn’t seem relevant, anyway.”

  “Can you describe these women?”

  “One was blond, one brunette. Both maybe thirty. Good-looking. Well dressed. That’s all I really noticed.”

  “Did you know either of these women?”

  “No. Never saw them before.”

  “Did Churchill appear to know either of them?”

  “He didn’t seem to even notice them.”

  “Okay. Now, what time did you get home?”

  “It must have been around ten. I walked home. I didn’t notice the time. But I did turn on my TV. The Celtics game had ended. I watched the very end of the Bruins. They were in overtime. Whatever time that was.”

  “You told us that you talked to your wife—”

  “My former wife. We’re divorced.”

  “Right. You talked to your wife at eleven. That right?”

  “No. It was about eleven-thirty.”

  “You told us before that it was eleven, Mr. Coyne.”

  “I told you I wasn’t really aware of the time. After the Bruins game I had a shower. Gloria called me while I was in the shower, left a message on my machine. I called her back around eleven-thirty.”

  Sylvestro frowned. “Now, hang on. I’m a little confused here. You got home at ten. Watched a couple minutes of the Bruins. Had a shower. While you were in the shower, your wife called you, and you didn’t call her back until eleven-thirty?”

  “I didn’t get into the shower the minute the Bruins were over.”

  “Well, what did you do before you got in the shower?”

  I called Pops, for one thing, I thought. He could easily verify I had left a message on his machine somewhere around ten. But I couldn’t tell Sylvestro that. “I made some tea. Relaxed. Called a client. It was probably closer to eleven when I got into the shower.”

  “This client. Wanna say who it was?”

  I shook my head. “Come on. You know better.”

  Sylvestro waved his hand, as if it were not important. “Mr. Coyne, the last time we talked, you told us that you phoned your wife at eleven. Now you’re saying it was eleven-thirty. Why have you changed your mind?”

  “I’m not changing my mind. I’m just remembering it differently.”

  “Had a chance to talk it over with her, huh?”

  “Yes. She and I talked after you visited her.”

  “She called you, then, right?”

  “Yes. She left a message on my machine.”

  “But you weren’t home when she called.”

  “I was home. I was in the shower.”

  “The previous time we talked, you didn’t tell us that she had called you and left a message.”

  “I didn’t think it was important.”

  “Do you own any weapons?” said Finnigan.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. I do. I bet you already knew that.”

  Finnigan gave me his unpleasant smile. He had small, pointed teeth, like a northern pike.

  “I own a Smith & Wesson thirty-eight,” I said. “It’s in my safe. Want to see it?”

  “What about a thirty-two handgun?” said Finnigan.

  “No. Just the thirty-eight.”

  “We don’t have a warrant, Mr. Coyne,” said Sylvestro. “Are you offering to show us your thirty-eight?”

  “Sure.”

  I got up and went to the wall safe that the architects of my building evidently felt every office suite should have. I have found no use for it except as a place to store my Smith & Wesson. I rarely remove the gun from its hiding place. I don’t like carrying it around with me. Once I shot a man with it, and the state police kept it for three months. When they returned it to me, I wasn’t that happy to see it.

  I lifted up the calendar I had hung over the safe, twisted the dials, and opened it up. I reached inside and found the chamois cloth that I kept the gun wrapped in. I took it out and brought it over to the cops. I handed it to Sylvestro.

  He unfolded the chamois. “You got a license for this weapon, Mr. Coyne?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thirty-eight,” he said to Finnigan. He sniffed the muzzle, popped the cylinder, and held it up to the light to peer into the barrel. Then he handed it to Finnigan, who also sniffed it. Finnigan wrapped the chamois around it and gave it back to me. I sat in the chair with the gun in my lap.

  “Own any other weapons?” said Finnigan.

  “No. Just thi
s one.”

  “Did you kill Wayne Churchill?”

  “No.”

  “Did you follow him to his house after he left Skeeter’s?”

  “No.”

  “Did you have an appointment to meet him there after your discussion at Skeeter’s?”

  “No.”

  “Did you threaten him when you argued with him at Skeeter’s?”

  “I told you. I can’t discuss what he and I talked about.”

  “He threatened you, then.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “How well did you know Churchill?” Finnigan was leaning toward me. Every time he asked me a question he pounded his right fist on his thigh.

  “I never met him before that night.”

  “Why did you meet him that night?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Oh, sure. Protecting a client.”

  Sylvestro put his hand on Finnigan’s shoulder. Finnigan was shaking his head back and forth. He leaned back and folded his arms. “You’re in big trouble, friend.”

  “Come on,” said Sylvestro to him. “Lay off.”

  “Are you intending to arrest me?” I said.

  Finnigan glowered.

  “No, Mr. Coyne,” said Sylvestro. “We didn’t come here to arrest you. We came here hoping you could help us understand what happened the night before last.”

  “Then you gentlemen are out of line.”

  Sylvestro nodded. “You’re right.” He shot a sideways frown at Finnigan. “I apologize, Mr. Coyne.”

  “Apology accepted,” I said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more. I don’t know who killed Wayne Churchill or why. But it wasn’t me.”

  Finnigan shook his head slowly back and forth and glanced at Sylvestro, who nodded. He stood up and Finnigan followed suit.

  Sylvestro held out his hand. I shook it. “Appreciate your time, Mr. Coyne,” he said.

  I shrugged. “I want to help.”

  “Sure,” said Finnigan.

  SEVEN

  I STOOD IN THE doorway and watched them leave. Julie was at her desk with the telephone tucked against her neck. She watched them too.

  After the door closed behind them, I went back into my office. I sat at my desk and swiveled my chair around to stare out the window. I hadn’t seen the sun in four days. The cityscape was painted in tones of gray. It was sullen and grouchy, just like me.

  Julie scratched at the door. Without turning, I said, “Come in. And I hope you brought coffee.”

  “I did,” she said.

  I turned around. She came and sat in the chair beside my desk. She had had her black hair cut short, which did good things for her fine cheekbones. She wore gold hoops in her ears. Her green eyes tried to smile but fell short. She put the old mug that Joey had made for me three years earlier in eighth-grade ceramics class in front of me. It was steaming. I picked it up and sipped from it. Julie had brought her own mug with her.

  “So what the hell is going on?” she said.

  I sighed. “I really can’t even talk to you about it.”

  “Oh, come on, Brady.”

  “That’s what’s so frustrating. I can’t discuss it with anybody.”

  “But this is me,” she said.

  “This is I.”

  She widened her eyes. “Hoo, boy. Look who’s correcting whose grammar.”

  “Reflex,” I said. “Sorry.”

  “Those guys look mean.”

  “They’re not that tough.”

  “They look tough to me.”

  “They’re no tougher than me,” I said.

  “Than I,” she said.

  I lit a cigarette and touched her wrist with my hand. “What’s on this morning?”

  “A bunch of desk work. We’ve got a pile of correspondence to answer. You’ve got some calls to make. Several clients who need to hear your reassuring voice. Then there’s Mrs. Covington.”

  “Huh?”

  “Mrs. Covington. Suing her dentist, remember?”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Christ, Brady. Where’s your mind?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Those guys’re getting to you, huh?”

  “I guess they are.”

  “Nothing you can tell me?”

  I shook my head. “No. Look. I’ve got to make a couple calls first. Then we’ll get to work.”

  After Julie left my office, I called my friend Charlie McDevitt. He’s a prosecutor for Uncle Sam, in the Boston division of the Justice Department. He’s got an office at Government Center. I had to be careful what I said to Charlie, because he knew Pops at Yale when I did. But Charlie’s my best friend. He’s the guy I talk to when I need to talk. He’s also a fine lawyer who understands a prosecutor’s mind better than I do. He’s been on that side of the fence a long time.

  I exchanged flirtations with his secretary, Shirley, who’s a dead ringer for the round-cheeked white-haired lady pictured on the frozen-fish packages. I made her giggle and admit she was blushing, as I always did, and then she put me through to Charlie.

  “Belize,” said Charlie, instead of hello.

  “Christmas Island,” I answered.

  “Either one. When?”

  “Would that I could,” I said. “Bonefish. Permit. Barracuda. One of these days.”

  “The other side of the world, Christmas Island,” he said dreamily. “Heaven.”

  “Which makes this side of the world…” I said, leaving the obvious thought unfinished.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “That bad.”

  “You’ve looked out your window, then,” said Charlie.

  “I have. Grim out there.”

  “We gotta get away.”

  “Agreed. That’s not why I called.”

  “Business, huh?”

  “Sort of. Charlie, I’ve got a delicate problem.”

  “Your hemorrhoids kicking up again?”

  “Yeah, but that’s not it. Charlie, you’re sort of a cop.”

  “Coyne, I find the comparison both spurious and odious.”

  “Pardon me. Let me put it this way. You think like a prosecutor.”

  “Hell, I am a prosecutor. What’s this all about?”

  “I think a couple cops are convinced I killed somebody.”

  I heard him chuckle. Good old Charlie. Just that chuckle gave me perspective. Brady Coyne, kill somebody? What a laugh.

  “Did you?” he said. He snickered again.

  “I’m not kidding. The thing is, my alibi, if that’s what you call it, is mixed up with a client.”

  “Aha,” he said. “Client privilege.”

  “Yeah. It makes me sound kind of guilty.”

  “It’s the price we pay sometimes. Generally we are well reimbursed.”

  “Yeah, well, in this case it’s damned awkward.”

  “Your client can release you, you know.”

  “I can’t ask him to. Not under these particular circumstances.”

  “Because he—?”

  “No, nothing like that.” If I told Charlie it was Pops, he’d understand. But I couldn’t tell him that, and I knew he wouldn’t ask.

  “So these cops are on your case,” he said.

  “Yes. And already there’s a television guy who’s got wind of it.”

  “These cops actually tell you they think you did it?”

  “Not in so many words, exactly.”

  “That’s cops for you,” said Charlie. “They accuse enough people enough times, somebody’s gonna cave in. Reminds me of something Burleigh Whitt was telling me recently. You remember Burl?”

  “The game warden?”

  “Right. Tiny Wheeler knows him. Burl’s way up there in the screaming Maine wilderness risking his life trying to track down jacklighters and those dirt-poor folks who shoot themselves a couple cow moose and three or four deer a year to feed the kids. Anyhow, Burl was telling me about this one particular old coot who he knew was poaching deer. Burl pretty well had it figured o
ut that this guy’d get up before dawn and get himself a deer and have it all dragged in and skinned out and butchered before the sun came up, and it was pissing Burl off that he could never seem to nail the guy in the act. Everybody knew he was poaching, and it was bad for Burl’s credibility that he couldn’t catch him.”

  “Charlie—”

  “No, listen. This is relevant. Burl decided he was gonna nab the old geezer red-handed. So he got up at two A.M. one morning and hid himself in the bushes by the old-timer’s cabin. Sure enough, about maybe four the light went on inside the cabin, and a few minutes later wisps of smoke began to come out of the chimney. Then the old guy came out onto the porch. ‘Mr. Warden,’ he called. ‘No sense of you layin’ out there gettin’ all cold and damp in them bushes. Whyn’t you come on in here and get yourself a nice cup of coffee.’ So Burl cussed himself and got up and went in there, had a cup of coffee with the old guy.

  “Burl remembered he’d told a couple guys in his office what he was gonna do. Figured one of them must’ve let it slip. So he waited a few weeks, and this time he didn’t tell anybody what he was up to. Again, got up early and hid outside the cabin while the moon was still high. The cabin was dark. He huddled there, freezing his ass off, and finally a light went on in the cabin. Then smoke appeared from-the chimney. Then the old poacher came out onto his porch. ‘Hey, Mr. Warden,’ he yelled. ‘Don’t go catching cold out there in them bushes. You come on in here, have some coffee and get warm.’ So Burl, very embarrassed, went in and had coffee with the old codger, and after that he gave up trying to catch him. He just admitted to himself that the old guy was too smart for him. You still with me, Brady?”

  I sighed. “I’m with you, Charlie. Is this going someplace?”

  “Course it is. Well, about a year later, Burl hears the old poacher’s had himself a coronary. He’s laid up in the county hospital. The scuttlebutt is that he’s not gonna make it. So Burl goes to visit him. ‘Nice you could come visit me,’ wheezes the old guy from his bed. ‘Sorry to hear about your sickness,’ says Burl. ‘Ain’t gonna make it, they tell me,’ says the poacher. ‘Sure gonna miss the woods.’ Burl hitches his chair closer to the bed. ‘You’ve got to tell me something,’ he says. ‘Those times when I was hiding out there in the bushes waiting for you. How in hell did you know I was there?’ The old geezer turns his head and grins. ‘I didn’t know you was there, son. Every mornin’ for thirty years I went out on my porch and yelled the same damn thing.’”