Pops paused and looked around the room. Almost instantly our waiter appeared. “Gentlemen?” he said.
Pops ordered a lamb chop. I had the swordfish. We both asked for the Bibb lettuce with the dill dressing.
After the waiter left, Pops said, “She was different, then, the night she told me she was pregnant. She was hard. I sensed it instantly. She felt I owed her. She wanted me to marry her. I refused. Point-blank. I told her to forget it. I’d never leave Marilee. I told her I didn’t even believe her. And if she was pregnant, how was I to know it was mine? She had a boyfriend. It could’ve been his. I expected her to cry and carry on, or threaten. But she didn’t. She just walked out. That unnerved me. It didn’t fit.”
“I know what happened next,” I said.
Pops nodded. “I stayed late the next night. I figured she’d be back. And she was. Told me she’d filed an application for complaint with the Clerk Magistrate. I felt like someone had slugged me in the solar plexus, Brady. It literally knocked the wind out of me. She was going to charge me with rape. Whether she could’ve made it stick or not was irrelevant. I was ruined. I asked her what she wanted me to do. She said marry her. I pleaded with her. She said, no, she’d thought it over. She’d even told her parents. And I had to marry her. I told her it wouldn’t work, we could never have a marriage on that basis. And she got a sly look, and I realized that she had another agenda. Finally it came out. She had a price. This sweet, seductive little nineteen-year-old girl had a price.”
“Ten grand,” I said.
He nodded. “Yes. Wayne Churchill’s price. Ten thousand dollars. Firm. It was as if she was selling a car. That was her price. Hell, back then ten grand was more than half a year’s salary. It was a lot of money. But I agreed. I came up with it. I had some back pay from the army, I borrowed against the equity in the house, I sneaked some out of our joint account, I sold off some stocks, and I came up with ten thousand dollars. And I felt like I was getting a bargain.”
Our salads arrived. We began to munch them. “Her part of the deal was to withdraw the complaint, quit her job, and never contact me again. Which she did. She was gone two weeks later. I checked upstairs and the complaint was filed away. Buried, as far as I could tell, forever. I heard later that Karen had gotten married within a month. It was assumed that’s why she quit. And until a week ago, that’s the last I heard of Karen Lavoie. Until I got that note in the mail.”
“So why the hell didn’t you tell me all this right then?”
“Embarrassment, plain and simple. I didn’t want you to think badly of me.” He shrugged. “I should have told you. I know. And I suppose I shouldn’t have been so cocky. Karen could have told someone. But there was no proof. I would have denied it all. The word of an eminent judge against hers? I really wasn’t worried.”
“Wayne Churchill came up with that old complaint,” I said.
Pops cocked his head at me. Then he nodded slowly. “I thought of that. Couldn’t figure out how. They’re supposed to destroy those old records. He must’ve been a hell of an investigator. Did he get Karen to talk?”
“No, I don’t think so. He had a girlfriend in the Clerk Magistrate’s office. Another one of the secretaries there—a woman named Helen, I met her—has been there since before Karen left. The office gossip, I gather. She might’ve mentioned something about you and Karen to Churchill’s girlfriend.”
“Nobody knew about us, Brady.”
“Don’t kid yourself, Pops. I bet everybody knew. You can’t keep that sort of thing a secret in an office. Anyhow and I’m just guessing here, I figure Helen told Suzie Billings, and she mentioned it to Churchill. How he learned about that complaint I don’t know. Helen again, maybe. But it wasn’t destroyed, and Suzie dug it out for him, made a copy. Churchill also talked to Karen’s father. I don’t know what he got out of him. He also tried to talk to Karen. She told me she refused to see him.”
Pops shook his head slowly. “That Churchill, you’ve got to give him credit.”
I nodded. “He was a good investigator, for sure. Anyway, I think Wayne Churchill had the story pretty well pieced together. He wanted confirmation from you. He probably had enough without it, but he’d been burned on stories before. So he felt he needed something out of you. Not direct confirmation necessarily. I doubt if he expected a tearful confession out of you. He probably was just looking for some behavior that would assure him he had the story right. That’s why he mentioned that figure to me. Ten grand. He wasn’t actually blackmailing you. He just wanted you to know that he knew what had happened.”
Pops grinned. “It would’ve been a helluva story, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes. Except Churchill got killed before he could write it.”
“I didn’t do it, Brady. Believe me, that never occurred to me. I don’t think that way. Oh, I was prepared to lie. I even lied to you. I would have brazened it out if I had to. I don’t know what it would’ve done to my appointment. Probably ruined it. Not so much what I did. But the publicity. That complaint. I would’ve had to ask Teddy to withdraw my name. But I never would’ve admitted it. For Marilee’s sake, I couldn’t. And when I heard that Churchill was killed, I figured there was a God after all, that the golden boy here still had a little more luck going for him.”
“Even when you knew that I was a suspect.”
“God help me, Brady, I’m sorry. I just knew that you didn’t do it, and I figured you’d work your way out of it.”
I wiped my mouth with my napkin and sat back in my chair. “You want to know what I know?”
He nodded cautiously. “Yes.”
“Karen Lavoie married a guy named Peter Roland Gorwacz. They had a son. He’s sixteen or seventeen now.” I arched my eyebrows and smiled at him.
Pops stared at me. “You think—?”
“Yeah, I think. I think the kid was yours. The timing fits.”
“Oh, man,” said Pops, shaking his head. “I figured she’d get an abortion, if she really was pregnant. I just assumed that’s what she did. It never occurred to me…”
“I’ve met her parents,” I said. “I would judge them to be simple folks, good Catholics, who raised their daughter that way. Roe v. Wade was brand-new law back then. These people would never tolerate abortion, Supreme Court or not. Nor would Karen. I figure she married her high school sweetie quickly by telling him she was pregnant with his kid. So your secret was her secret, too. She had as much reason to keep it quiet as you did.”
“So it had to’ve been that secretary who told Churchill.”
“I don’t know. Maybe it was Karen. She’s divorced now. Maybe her husband found out. Maybe she told him. Maybe she doesn’t care who knows about the paternity of her boy anymore. The husband could’ve told Churchill. Hell, Paul, the son, he could’ve, too. I just don’t know.”
“My kid,” whispered Pops. “Jesus!”
“I don’t know this. It’s a guess.”
He stared at me for a long moment. “Then,” he said slowly, “who do you guess killed Churchill?”
I shrugged. “My best guess is still you, my friend.”
He smiled at me, shaking his head. “You are a tough son of a bitch, Coyne, know that?”
I shrugged. “You could have set up that little demonstration back there in the parking garage. Make me think, hey, if someone’s trying to shoot Pops, it must be the same guy who shot Churchill. Right?”
He rolled his eyes. “Look,” he said. “I didn’t do it, okay? Listen. I know the law. You know I do. Suppose I told you I did it. Gave you all the gory details. What could you do?”
I spread my hands. “I’d be in a helluva tough spot, Pops. What could I do? In the final analysis, absolutely nothing. I’m your lawyer. I got no choice.”
“Exactly. I know you. You wouldn’t peep a word. You know the ethic. And you’re an ethical man. Besides which, nothing I told you would be admissible. Knowing this, both of us, if I had killed Wayne Churchill, it would be in my best interest to tell you everyt
hing. Ironic but true. Lay it all out for you. Every detail. The more I told you the safer I’d be. So I’d have nothing to gain, and everything to lose, by not telling you. Agreed?”
I nodded. “Agreed.” I hesitated. “Except for one thing.”
He frowned. “What?”
“I know you, Pops. You’re a decent human being. Even if you killed a man, you’re still a decent person. You care what people think of you. You’d be embarrassed to tell me you killed Wayne Churchill, just as you were too embarrassed to tell me about Karen. It’s human nature to lie. To friends, to wives, to lawyers. For all I know, that’s what’s happening right now.”
He stared at me for a minute. Finally he said, “Christ, Brady. I’m not like that. I’m not the kind of guy who goes around killing people.”
I shrugged. “You’re not the kind of guy who diddles with nineteen-year-old secretaries, either.”
TWENTY
WEDNESDAY. NINE DAYS SINCE Wayne Churchill had been murdered. I spent the morning in a conference room at the Suffolk County courthouse negotiating, and then persuading the wealthy Anne Covington to accept a fat settlement from the dentist who had, in the process of performing a root canal, permanently severed one of her facial nerves. As a result, Mrs. Covington’s new smile looked like a death rictus.
Anne Covington rarely smiled, anyway. And before her surgery her smile had frightened small children and household pets. The new version could almost have been considered an improvement, something my adversary Carl Dalton, the dentist’s attorney, had the good sense to imply without stating. There was no telling how significant a judge might find that information, as we both knew. A trial would have been a crapshoot. We both considered the out-of-court settlement a victory, which Carl and I celebrated at Marie’s in Kenmore Square over linguini with clam sauce and a bottle of something musty and red.
I did Julie’s bidding for the rest of the afternoon. I left the office a little after six, strode across the square and bought a bedraggled bunch of carnations from the Puerto Rican lady on the corner, and took them back to my car. By the time I got to Mt. Auburn Hospital it was nearly seven.
All the seats in the waiting room were taken. One of them was occupied by Detective Orvitz of the Cambridge police, who nodded to me when I walked in as if he had been expecting me. I jerked my head in the direction of Karen Lavoie Gorwacz’s private room and raised my eyebrows. He got up and came to me.
“The family’s in there with her,” he said.
“Her parents?”
“Yes. And her son.”
“I better wait.”
He nodded. “This is a social visit?” he said, cocking his head inquiringly.
“You suspect the criminal has returned to the scene of his crime?”
“You never know, Mr. Coyne.”
I shrugged. Orvitz returned to his seat. I picked up a copy of Today’s Health from a table and scanned an article on colon cancer while leaning against the wall. Uplifting stuff.
After about twenty minutes they came out. Mr. and Mrs. Lavoie looked grim. Paul, Karen’s son, looked angry. When he saw me he stopped for an instant, whispered something to his grandmother, then came to me.
“Hi, Paul,” I said, holding out my hand to him.
He hesitated for an instant, and then took a hard backhanded swipe at my hand.
“Hey!” I said.
“You son of a bitch,” he said. “You dirty prick.”
He grabbed the front of my coat with his left hand and drew back his right fist. I tried to twist away from him. Detective Orvitz was suddenly there, hugging both of Paul’s arms against his sides.
“Easy, there, pal,” said the cop.
“He’s the guy,” said Paul. “He’s the one that beat up my mother.”
“Your mother says no.”
“She’s afraid,” said the boy. “She’s afraid he’ll do it again.”
Orvitz moved in front of Paul, so that he was standing between us. “Now, don’t try something that’ll get you in trouble, son.”
Paul glowered at me over Orvitz’s shoulder. “I’m gonna get that bastard,” he said.
“No you’re not,” said Orvitz softly.
Like a hockey player rescued by a referee from a fight before his manhood was actually tested, Paul gave me one final look that was intended to frighten me and then went back to his grandparents, who had been watching the scene with matching frowns on their faces.
“You okay?” said Orvitz to me.
“Fine,” I said. “Thanks.”
“I expect you could’ve handled the kid. But we don’t want a scene.”
“No, we don’t. Think it’s okay if I go in and see her now?”
“You brought her flowers. You ought to deliver them.” He paused. “I’ll be right here,” he added, which, translated, meant “Don’t start beating on her again.”
As I walked past Mr. and Mrs. Lavoie, I said hello to them. They nodded to me and said nothing.
Karen’s bed had been cranked up so that she could sit. Her hair had been brushed and she was wearing a pale blue robe over a lace-trimmed nightgown. The bruises on her face had darkened and spread so that the entire left side of it was a uniform purple. The swelling had increased. She looked considerably worse than the previous morning when I had first seen her.
I held out the carnations. “Hi, Karen,” I said.
Her swollen lips tried to smile. It came out one-sided. “Hi,” she croaked. “Pretty,” she added, referring to the carnations. “You can stick ’em in that vase.”
A large cut-glass vase perched on the windowsill beside her bed. It contained a spectacular bunch of pink roses. I went over and jammed the carnations in with the roses, then returned to Karen’s bedside. A pair of straight-backed chairs had been drawn alongside. I sat in one of them.
“How are you feeling?”
“Oh, boy,” she said. Pain pinched her face, and her voice was hoarse. “Like an elephant stepped on me.”
“Your family. How are they taking it?”
“Scared. They’re frightened. They think someone wants to kill me.” Her smile worked only on one side of her face. It looked cynical.
“Hard to blame them.”
She looked at me through her one good eye, then shrugged.
“Have you told the police yet who did it?”
She turned her head away from me.
“Karen,” I said, touching her arm. “Was it Pops? Did the judge do this?”
Slowly her head rotated back. She stared at me for a long moment. Then the tears came. “Please go away,” she said.
“I know all about the two of you,” I persisted. “Pops told me. I know about Paul. I know that Wayne Churchill found out. Whoever did this to you is probably the same one who killed Churchill, you know. You’ve got to let the police do their job.”
She was shaking her head back and forth. “I told them you didn’t do it, Mr. Coyne. So please. Just mind your own business.”
“Karen—”
“Go away. Leave me alone.”
I looked at her for a moment, then shrugged. I stood up. She was looking toward the vase of flowers, away from me. “Well, good-bye, then,” I said. “I hope you feel better.”
I started for the door.
“Mr. Coyne,” she whispered.
I turned.
“Thank you for the flowers.”
I smiled and nodded. Then I left.
The crowd in the waiting room had thinned out. Orvitz was still in his seat. Mrs. Lavoie was sitting beside him, staring blankly at a magazine that was spread open on her lap. Her husband and Paul were not there.
She looked up at me with her eyebrows upraised. I nodded to her. She got up and went into Karen’s room.
I went into the corridor to the elevator and pushed the button. The elevator was on the third floor. It was moving down. It would have to complete its trip down before it came back up. It would be a while. I leaned my back against the wall to wait.
&nbs
p; A minute or two later, Mrs. Lavoie approached me. Her head was bowed. She held a handkerchief in her hand. She stood beside me and looked up at the lights.
“I already poked the button,” I said.
She turned to look at me. Her eyes were red and her cheeks glistened with tears. She had not been crying when I had seen her in the waiting room.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded and looked away.
“I hope you know,” I persisted, “I didn’t do this to Karen.”
The handkerchief went to her eyes. “Oh, I know that,” she said with a sort of short choking laugh.
“It must be very difficult for you and Paul and your husband,” I plowed on, feeling awkward but abhorring a conversational vacuum.
She glanced at me, then looked up at the elevator lights.
“I don’t understand why Karen won’t tell the police who did this to her,” I said.
“I’m sure you don’t, Mr. Coyne,” she said, still studying the lights.
The lights indicated that the elevator had begun to ascend. We watched them blink their way up to our floor. The elevator stopped with a muffled clunk and the doors slid open. Mrs. Lavoie and I stepped aside to allow two doctors to get off. Then she and I got in. I jabbed the button for the lobby.
“Where’s your husband?” I said to Mrs. Lavoie as we rode down.
“He took Paul home. The policeman suggested it’d be better if he didn’t stay there after…”
“He’s upset. It’s understandable.”
“We didn’t want a scene anyway. John drove Paul back to our house. He’s staying with us while Karen’s—until she can go home.” She looked up at me and tried to smile. “It was nice of you to come visit her.”
I shrugged.
“We—my husband and I—I hope you don’t think we’ve been rude to you.”
“No. I understand. Your privacy is important. It’s just—”
“I know. I appreciate your point of view. I hope you can appreciate ours.”
I nodded. “Sure.”
We came to a stop and the doors slid open. We walked out into the lobby. Mrs. Lavoie touched my arm. “Mr. Coyne, you don’t happen to know where there’s a pay phone?”
Client Privilege Page 20
