by John Dobbyn
He understood everything I said up to “Good morning.” I, in turn, understood even less of what he was saying. Together we got into a hot debate over water chestnuts without ever exchanging a thought; but more to the point, Harry had free access to the back room.
It took about three hour-long minutes for Harry to locate what he was looking for. Then all hell broke loose. It started with one loud pop! in the back room that brought the old man’s head up and sent his glasses flying off his head. I knew then that Harry had located the stash of fireworks left over from the Chinese New Year. Mei-li had told us where they were.
The second and third pops turned into what sounded like continual bursts from an automatic rifle. Then crates of fireworks exploded in such rapid succession that it sounded like rolling thunder. Sparks spit in every direction, and a cloud of gray smoke billowed out into the store.
Seconds later there was a flash that lit up the rear half of the room. The blasts became deafening as the flames in the back room reached the cherry bombs and possibly M-80s.
The old man was frozen in panic. The two galoots at the front door made a charge for the back room that carried them past Harry and the old lady. They started beating away at flames with old burlap bags until the bags themselves caught fire.
As soon as they passed, Harry hustled the old lady down the aisle toward the front door. As he ran, I noticed he held a razor blade against the fifty-pound sacks of rice on the shelves. It was a beautiful sight to see a waterfall of rice consuming the floor behind him.
When I saw Harry coming, it was my turn to bolt for the door and get the van. I got to within two feet of the door when I ran smack into a wall of flesh. The door was crammed full of the muscle-bound goon we’d seen in the office the day before. He stood there like a zombie, watching the Fourth of July blow the back off the store, while the old man screamed in high-pitched Chinese.
There was no way past him. I heard Harry yell, “Do it, Mike!”
The zombie focused on me. Before he could move, I dropped on my back in a crouch. I kicked both heels straight out with a thrust that came from the spine. I caught him square in the crotch. He doubled over with a groan that drowned out the screaming old man. He fell forward, inside the door. I figured if he ever turned out to be an innocent bystander, I owed him one whale of an apology.
I looked back and saw the two punks in the rear. They’d seen what happened up front and made a charge up the aisle that looked to me like the entire Chinese army coming down on us. They got about to the canned bean sprouts when they both did an upender as if someone had cut their feet out from under them. The rice that covered the floor made it like running on ball bearings. They tumbled in lopsided cartwheels, spewing out Chinese that I didn’t want translated.
I was on my feet and through the open door by the time Harry closed the gap. The old woman was somewhere in between.
I cut left to get to the van and ran head-on into the arms of the two punks that had been at the door of the brothel the day before. One of them grabbed me in a grip that pinned my arms. I could feel my feet leaving the ground. My legs just waved in the air as the grip around my chest tightened.
I could feel the breath squeezed out of me, and I couldn’t get air back in. Everything was going from color to black-and-white. My only conscious thought was of the pain that meant that in another instant ribs would start cracking.
Just before that instant, everything came loose. As fast as I was gripped, I was released. I heard the sound of Harry’s slicing hand on his neck just before I dropped to the ground like a rock. The kid who had the grip fell to the ground beside me. I lurched away from him, but I could see he was unconscious.
I saw Harry standing behind him. Harry spun around to square off for combat with the other punk.
Harry shouted, “Get out of here, Mike!”
I ran for the van.
Fortunately I had left the keys in it for a quick start. I pulled up to the sidewalk beside the shop. I saw Harry exchanging open-fist blows with the second boy. I knew he was in no condition to take on the Karate Kid. I jumped out of the van to help.
Harry yelled, “Get back in the van!”
I was torn between the two, but Harry yelled, “Do what I said, Michael!”
At that moment, Harry took a step back and dropped his arms to his sides with his hands behind his back. He stood still and waited.
The young enforcer froze in confusion for an instant, then seized the moment. He drove in close enough to go for a chop to the base of Harry’s neck. Harry’s hands moved so fast I could hardly see them. He twisted left so the blow glanced off his shoulder. In the same fraction of an instant he grabbed the top of the coat of the attacker in his right fist. He pulled it open with the right while he stuffed something inside with the left. Meanwhile the kid used his position to chop away at Harry’s ribs.
Orders or not, I was about to bolt for the neck of the kid when there was an explosion that sounded like a muffled stick of dynamite. The kid was blown halfway across the street.
Harry half–straightened up, clutching his ribs. He was heading for the van, when I caught sight of three more punks of the same cut as the two Harry had just leveled coming at a full charge down the sidewalk. They were at twenty-five yards and closing. I rammed the van into first and floored it. I swerved around Harry onto the sidewalk and played the three like making an easy spare. They jumped, but I made enough contact to put them out of commission.
I threw the van into reverse and backed up to the shop. Harry pulled open the back hatch. He grabbed the arm of the old woman who had been following close behind and practically threw her into the back of the van before jumping in himself. I floored it again—this time on the street.
We made two right turns on the left two tires and one left turn on the right two tires before I let up on the gas. I brought it down to cruising speed once we were clear of Chinatown.
I headed south, as we’d planned. When we stopped at the next light I checked the backseat. Mei-Li had pulled off the gray wig and bulky clothes that had turned her into an old lady. She had found them in the aisle at the back of the grocery shop where Harry had set them down in the shopping bag he brought in. She was able to slip into the back room long enough to age forty or fifty years.
I yelled back, “Stay down, Mei-Li. Just in case.”
I looked over at Harry, who was leaning heavily to his right. “You OK, Harry?”
He let out the breath he was holding. His voice sounded strained. “Why do they always go for the ribs? I’ll be all right. Keep moving.”
“My every wish. What did you drop in that kid’s jacket? It blew him halfway to Montreal.”
“I kept a couple of cherry bombs from the fireworks box. I thought they might be useful.”
I just whistled at the thought.
WE DROVE ALONG an open roadway south and west of Toronto along Lake Ontario. I found the small motel in a lakeside village where I’d made a reservation the night before.
I went in and registered in my name while Mei-Li got back in costume. I hustled her into the motel room while Harry rested his ribs in the front seat of the van. I’d bought a few things for her for overnight, since I knew she’d be traveling fast and light. I left some money for meals through the next day.
She was obviously still shaken by the escape, but she seemed to have no injuries or regrets.
“I’ll be back for you tomorrow sometime, Mei-Li. Stay in the room till I get here. You can order out for lunch and dinner from the pizza shop. Just don’t call a Chinese restaurant. I’ll give you a call tonight to see if you’re all right. Here’s the number at my office if you need me. Don’t speak to anyone else. You understand?”
“Yes. Will you be seeing Anthony?”
“I don’t know. Time’s short.”
“If you see him, would you tell him I’m safe?”
“Sure.”
The wind bit on the walk back to the van. We could have used breakfast, lunch, Scotch,
any number of things. Harry could probably have used a doctor. But more important was catching the earliest plane back to Boston.
26
HARRY AND I CAME OFF the flight ramp at Logan airport a little after one o’clock. I had less than an hour before meeting Mr. Devlin for the pretrial conference at the courthouse. The judge had accommodated the DA by holding the hearing on Saturday. My first move when I hit solid ground was to call Lanny’s room at Mass. General. My heart nearly came through my ribs when she answered the phone herself.
She said she was doing fine, all things considered. I thought it was pretty gutsy, considering all the things there were to be considered. It was not your average first date.
I promised to get over to see her as soon as possible. She understood the necessary flexibility in the schedule since I had filled her in on most of what was going on.
HARRY WAS STILL HOBBLING a bit, but he had managed to straighten up. I had one last favor to ask.
Before we left the airport, I called information for the number of the Ming Tree restaurant. I dialed it and handed the phone to Harry.
“Harry, see if you can get Mrs. Lee on the phone. I’ll need you to interpret. I’ll tell you what to say when you get her.”
I listened to the exchange. I guessed by the inflection of Harry’s Chinese that she wasn’t there. Harry hung up, and we headed for the taxi stand.
“Not only is she not there, Mike. I asked, and they haven’t seen her at the restaurant for the last couple of days. No idea when she’ll be in. Is that a surprise?”
“It’s a disappointment, not a surprise. They’ve got her hidden away. She’ll be back for the trial.”
“You’re starting to think like they do, Mike. You’ve been paying attention.”
“I had a good professor. I figure they realized we could get to her at the restaurant. She’s Kip Liu’s insurance policy as long as she doesn’t change her testimony.”
We split into separate taxis. I headed directly for the courthouse. I led the driver to believe the tip would be doubled if she beat her best time through the tunnel. She apparently took me seriously. She burned a route through back streets of East Boston that don’t appear on maps. They brought us to the very head of the killer line of airport traffic at the entrance to the tunnel. She squeezed into line with a horn and an endangered left fender. I made good on the tip, and jotted down her name for future needs—Carlotta something.
I GOT THROUGH SECURITY at the courthouse as soon as possible and met Mr. Devlin at the bank of elevators. We rode in silence up to the eighth floor.
Before going into courtroom 809, Mr. Devlin hustled me into a small, unoccupied lawyer’s conference room. We had five minutes. I used four of them to fill him in on the Toronto details.
He took in every word with his chin on his fist and his eyes locked on mine. There were no interruptions, but two veins were pulsing in his temples by the time I finished.
He looked me over.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, sir. Harry’s a bit under, but he’ll come around.”
The veins were hammering at this point. It took him three seconds to spit out, “If you ever …”
“I won’t, sir. I won’t. The rest is easy.” It seemed an injudicious moment to mention that I still had to get Mei-Li across the U.S. border.
He just looked at me. I had no clue what was going on in his mind, but it seemed a good time to break the train of thought by filling him in on Harry’s call to the Ming Tree.
He spent another twenty seconds in thought after I ran out of words. I gave him the space until he bounced up and checked his watch. He grabbed his briefcase.
“You have to make up tactics as you go along, sonny. Sometimes a good hunch is better than logic. This one should get their attention. Let’s go.”
WE WADED THROUGH THE BUZZ of newspaper and TV people who packed the six-row spectator section to SRO. Pretrial conferences are generally held in a judge’s chambers. I assumed that this trial was drawing so much public attention, especially among the people in Chinatown, that the judge wanted everything done in the open.
Ms. Lamb was sitting expectantly at prosecution’s table. She bared her teeth in her version of a smile for Mr. Devlin’s benefit. He cast a slight bow in her general direction, and we took up residence at defense counsel’s table.
We were just seated, when the “All rise!” brought us back up. Judge Posner mounted the bench with a sprightly step. He was just shy of fifty, with the neat, graying look of dignity that befits the bench.
He had the reputation for being a no-nonsense, down-the-middle, neither defense- nor prosecution-oriented judge. He held a tight rein, but let the lawyers try the case.
The clerk called the case of Commonwealth v. Bradley. There was little to deal with at this particular pretrial, since there was not much by way of scientific evidence to exchange and no evidence that called for motions for suppression. The defendant admitted being at the scene at about the time of the killing. The only question was whether or not he pulled the trigger. The actual murder weapon had not been recovered.
The primary business of the conference was to fix a trial date. The court called for counsel to state their preferences. Ms. Lamb was first on her feet. She came out swinging. Mr. Devlin kept his peace during her impassioned plea for swift justice—the swifter the better. The people were ready “at any moment” to bring the defendant to justice.
I thought to myself, “If we could try him this afternoon, waive the appeal, and sentence him at dawn, she could file her candidacy for the governorship in time for a campaign breakfast tomorrow morning.”
The real translation of Ms. Lamb’s position was that she had her ducks in a row and ready to quack—they being the two eyewitnesses. The sooner she could get the case to trial, the less time we’d have to find counterwitnesses or work on her two stars.
When she had run her course, Mr. Devlin rose slowly and addressed the court quietly. She had neatly laid the burden on the defense to come up with a good reason for delaying the trial.
“May it please the court, Ms. Lamb is zealous as always in her representation of the people. I think her zealousness carried her beyond her intentions this time. She couldn’t possibly mean that the commonwealth is ready to try this case.”
He paused, as if groping for the next word. I knew something was up. Mr. Devlin had never groped for a word in his life.
Ms. Lamb jumped into the pause with both feet.
“Mr. Devlin underestimates the commonwealth’s sense of duty in preparing this case, Your Honor. This is a vicious crime that has the entire Chinese community watching and waiting to see if justice will be done. I want it on the record that any delay will be the result of the failure of defense counsel to put his case in order.”
Mr. Devlin took the grandstanding in better grace than I would have predicted. In fact, he seemed to enjoy it.
“I’m impressed, Your Honor, but I can’t believe the district attorney would consent to anything short of a two-month period before trial.”
She was on her feet, grinning a grin that I last saw on the lips of a trout just before I set the hook. “Your Honor, I assure you and Mr. Devlin that the people are ready to begin this case this afternoon.”
She was looking at the judge, but her insufferably smug body language was aimed at Mr. Devlin. The eyes of the judge and every reporter in the courtroom were on Mr. Devlin, while he played with the papers in front of him. I was more anxious than the rest to see what delaying tactic he could pull out of the air.
He looked up from the counsel table with an almost imperceptible grin.
“Your Honor, let’s call her bluff. I move for a trial date of this coming Tuesday.”
My eyes shot to Ms. Lamb. It was as if she had asked for a toy and got the toy store. Her eyes bulged. She had to forcibly close her mouth. I have to admit, it took me a few seconds to get my own breathing started again.
The judge registered something bet
ween controlled shock and indignation.
He was on his feet and heading for his side door when he issued the command, “I’ll see counsel in my chambers.”
He was at his desk, in robes, drumming a tattoo on the arm of his chair with his fingers, when our little band of Ms. Lamb, Mr. Devlin, and me paraded in. He didn’t bother to invite us to make ourselves comfortable.
“I don’t know what you’re up to, Mr. Devlin, but I’ll give you the ground rule. No one plays games in my court. This case is going to be tried by the book.”
Mr. Devlin accepted the noninvitation and sat down. Mr. Lamb followed suit. As for me, there were only two chairs.
Mr. Devlin calmly bit the words off in dead earnest. There was not a trace of a smile.
“This is no game, Your Honor. I’ve got a boy who could be sentenced to life here. There isn’t anything on earth I take more seriously. You say we try it by the book. The book says that defense counsel has the right to decide how his case is to be tried, as long as he isn’t shown to be incompetent. I’ve never been accused of that.”
The judge’s steam subsided.
“What’s this business about beginning this case on Tuesday?”
Mr. Devlin leaned back. “Anthony Bradley is the son of Judge Bradley. I’m sure you know that. I say that not to ask for special favors. But it does create a problem. The longer he remains incarcerated with men his father may have sentenced, the greater the chance he could be executed before the trial. Prison precautions are never perfect.”
Mr. Devlin nodded to Ms. Lamb, who was perched like a raven on the edge of her seat. She had the look of one who was beginning to look her recent gift horse in the mouth and wasn’t sure that anything that came that easily from Mr. Devlin could be totally in her favor. Mr. Devlin set the hook a bit deeper.
“The district attorney says she’s ready. In fact, she’s on record before the court and about fifty newspeople bragging about it. The defense is ready, Your Honor. You have my word. I say let’s get on with it.”
Judge Posner looked to Ms. Lamb for reaction. She was stymied. If Lex Devlin wanted a trial date that close, it had to be for a reason that could only endanger her glorious victory. On the other hand, Mr. Devlin had boxed her in nicely with the reminder that she’d be quoted in every evening edition and news broadcast as champing at the bit for quick justice. Hard to go back on that one.
