Close to the Bone (3 page)

“Next year,” I said.

“Yeah. You keep saying that.”

“Just call me. I’ll come.”

“You willing to arise before the sun and witness the dawn of a new day from the deck of
Olivia
with me?”

“Absolutely. And how is Olivia?”

“You mean the boat or the wife?”

“The wife. I know you take good care of the boat.”

“Olivia’s good. Asks after you all the time. Keeps saying we should get together. Wants to meet your Alex. Olivia’s been kicking some serious water-polluting ass. Her little group’s got three civil suits and two criminal cases pending. She’s really into it, and I admire the hell out of her. Some weeks we hardly see each other. She’s off watchdogging local zoning- and planning-board hearings, testifying before legislative subcommittees, making speeches, harassing lawmakers, organizing fund-raisers, and I—”

“You, I understand, are kicking some serious butt yourself, Paul.”

I heard him sigh. “I’ve won a few cases.”

“What I hear, you’ve won some impossible cases.”

“The presumption of innocence is a powerful ally, Brady.”

“And the assembled might of the state’s district attorneys makes a powerful adversary. No kidding, you’ve pulled some out of a hat.”

“Yeah, I guess.” He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “So what’s up?”

“I’ve got a case for you.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You know who Roger Falconer is.”

“Sure. Everybody knows Falconer. What’d he do?”

“Nothing. Or at least nothing that anyone’s going to indict him for. It’s his son.”

“Glen’s his name, right?”

“Yes. He’s about to be charged with vehicular homicide.”

“DUI?”

“You got it.”

“Did he do it?”

“He was driving the car, all right. They got him on the Breathalyzer. The woman died yesterday.”

“Aw, shit,” he said.

“So what do you say?”

“I gotta check a few things. I’ll get back to you this afternoon.”

Paul called back around three and told me that Tarlin and Overton was inclined to accept the Falconer case, but before he made a firm commitment he wanted to meet with Glen. We agreed to assemble in my office at seven that evening.

I asked Julie to call and set it up. “Roger’ll probably want to be in on it and try to talk you into holding the conference out in Lincoln. That’s unacceptable. If Roger insists on joining us, fine. But it’s got to be here. I want Glen in my office at seven, or else he’ll have to do his own shopping for a lawyer.”

Julie grinned. “I can do that.”

“I know,” I said. “You do it better than I do.”

“You don’t do it at all.”

“That’s because it’s your job,” I said.

She buzzed me five minutes later. “All set,” she said. “The old man grumbled and wanted to talk to you. I told him you were tied up. They’ll be here at seven.”

“Both of them?”

“That is my inference, yes.”

“Sure,” I said. “Roger’ll want a firsthand look at Paul. I don’t think he lets Glen blow his own nose without telling him which hand to use.”

“He lets his son drive drunk, though, huh?” said Julie.

“Driving drunk,” I said, “is evidently the way Glen asserts his independence.”

Glen Falconer arrived about a quarter of seven and, as expected, Roger was with him. Julie escorted them both into my office and offered coffee, which we all accepted.

Roger and Glen sat beside each other on the sofa. I took the armchair across from them. “Paul Cizek will be here shortly,” I said. “He’s the miracle worker I mentioned.”

“Cizek?” said Roger.

I nodded. “He’s with Tarlin and Overton in Cambridge. He sort of specializes in
Mission Impossible
criminal cases. Which is what this one looks like.”

Roger leaned forward. “What kind of name is Cizek?”

“Huh?”

“I said—”

“I heard what you said, Roger,” I said. “I just didn’t believe it.”

“We don’t want some sleazy—”

“Gotcha,” I said quickly. I stood up, went to my desk, and buzzed Julie.

“I’m brewing some fresh coffee,” she said over the intercom. “It’ll be a few minutes.”

“See if you can reach Paul Cizek,” I said to her. “Tell him to forget it.”

“Wait,” said Glen.

“Hang on,” I said to Julie. I looked at Glen. “Your father doesn’t want a lawyer with a
Z
and a
K
in his last name defending you.”

“You don’t understand,” said Roger.

“Of course I understand,” I said. “I understand perfectly. It’s really not that complicated.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You said enough.”

Glen glanced at his father, then said, “I don’t care what the man’s name is. I need somebody good. I don’t care if he’s sleazy, as long as he’s good.”

“What’s it going to be, gentlemen?” I said.

“Why don’t you tell us about him,” said Roger.

“Here’s what you need to know,” I said. “You asked me to get Glen a lawyer. I have done that. Paul Cizek happens to be a good friend of mine. I’m his family lawyer, just like I’m yours, although that’s not relevant here. More to the point, Paul’s simply the best lawyer in Boston for Glen’s case, in my professional opinion. You have retained me because you are willing to pay me money to hear my professional opinion on the legal matters that present themselves to you. My opinion on legal matters is arguably more acute than yours, or else you would not have retained me. Ergo, your choices are to accept or to reject my opinion. Which is your choice, Senator?”

Roger stared at me for a moment, then smiled. “You never call me ‘Senator,’ ” he said.

“Only when you piss me off, and even then rarely to your face.”

“I guess I do piss people off sometimes. Sometimes I do it on purpose. Sometimes it just happens. I like it best when people tell me up front that they’re pissed at me. That’s why I like you.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, Brady. I value your opinion. It’s more reliable than mine. Your opinion is worth money to me.”

“So?”

“So maybe we need a lawyer with unusual consonants in his last name.”

“Julie?” I said to the intercom.

“I’m listening,” she said.

“Cancel the call to Paul.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

I went back and sat across from Glen and Roger. “I would’ve kicked you both right the hell out of here if you’d started that discussion in front of Paul,” I said to Roger.

“Times keep changing, Brady,” he said. “I’m an old man. I have trouble keeping up.”

“You have trouble keeping your prejudices to yourself, and you’ve got to try harder.” I turned to Glen. “Paul Cizek is a helluva good lawyer, and he’s on a roll lately. About a year ago he defended a guy accused of molesting the children at a day-care place in Arlington—”

“Jesus,” said Glen. “I remember that one. It was all over the news. Guy name of Benson.”

“Actually it was Benton,” I said. “Victor Benton.”

“Right,” said Glen. “Benton.”

“Never heard of him,” said Roger.

“He made films,” Glen said. “Kiddie porn. Little kids, they were, grammar school. He made them undress at rest time, told them to—to do things to each other. Sometimes he did things with them. He got it on his camcorder, made tapes, sold them in Canada. That’s what he was accused of, anyway. They thought they had the guy absolutely nailed.” Glen turned to me. “This Cizek, he’s the one who got Benton off?”

“Paul negotiated a plea bargain,” I said. “Now the guy’s doing community service and seeing a shrink. As long as he stays out of the day-care business and away from little kids, he’s a free man.”

“He would’ve lasted about a week in prison,” said Glen.

“Not many lawyers could’ve gotten Victor Benton off,” I said. I looked directly at Roger. “Paul has done some work for the Russo family, too.”

Roger’s eyebrows went up. “Russo,” he said. “They’re—”

“Mafia,” said Glen. “I remember a recent case. A hit man, wasn’t it? It was all over the television. Was that Cizek, too?”

“That was Paul Cizek,” I said.

“He got the man off,” said Glen. “The DA thought he had an airtight case. But they ended up with a hung jury.”

“Paul Cizek is very good at what he does,” I said.

“I want this guy,” said Glen.

Roger had been sitting there frowning. “Child molesters and Mafia hit men?” he said softly. “This is the man to defend a Falconer?”

“No, Roger,” I said. “This is the man to defend a drunk driver by any name. Listen. He’s not defending you, and he’s not defending your family name. He’s defending Glen, who got loaded, not for the first time, and climbed into his car and drove it into another car and killed a woman. Paul might not be able to win the case. But if anybody can, it’s Paul Cizek. That’s my opinion. Okay?”

“Sure, Brady.” He shrugged. “Okay.”

Julie brought in a tray with a carafe of coffee, three mugs, sugar, and milk. She placed it on the low table beside me and said, “Anything else?”

“That’s great,” I said. “When Paul gets here, just bring him in.”

Julie turned and left the room. Glen followed her with his eyes.

I filled the three mugs with coffee, sipped from mine, and lit a cigarette. “Just so you don’t embarrass me in front of Paul with more irrelevancies,” I said to Roger, “there are some other things you probably should know. Paul did not go to Harvard or Yale or Princeton. Not BC or BU, even. His old man was an immigrant Polish cobbler in Medford who was disabled by a stroke when Paul was fifteen and didn’t die for another five years. His mother was a checkout clerk at K Mart and cleaned office buildings at night to put food on the table for Paul and his four siblings. Paul commuted to UMass Boston, then got his law degree from Suffolk, part-time. It took him about ten years to get through college and law school. He earned his way by waiting tables and tending bar at Italian restaurants in the North End, and probably met a lot of future clients in the process. The Middlesex County DA hired him for about fifteen grand a year to handle a caseload that would overwhelm an entire State Street firm. Within two years Paul Cizek was prosecuting homicides and getting convictions at an astounding rate. All the fancy downtown firms courted him, but he went to Tarlin and Overton in Cambridge because they wanted to keep him in front of juries, where he belonged. He’s been with them almost five years. Paul’s about forty now. He’s got a nice house in Lynnfield and a Boston Whaler and a wife who went to Wellesley, who’s a lawyer herself.” I paused. “Let’s see. Anything else I should tell you before he gets here?”

“He sounds like our man,” said Roger.

“I hope you won’t be startled by his appearance,” I said.

He shook his head and shrugged.

I smiled. “But you probably will be.”

I figured Roger had Paul Cizek pegged as a fat, big-nosed, toothpick-chewing caricature of a sleazy defense lawyer, a swarthy, foreign-looking man in a shiny suit with red suspenders and a flowery necktie and pointy shoes. In fact, Paul had fair skin, blond hair, ice-blue eyes, and the chiseled features of Butch Cassidy—or maybe it was the Sundance Kid. The Newman character.

When Julie escorted Paul into my office, Roger, to his credit, didn’t blink. Paul was wearing chino pants and a cableknit sweater under an expensive tweed jacket. He shook hands graciously all around, declined Julie’s offer of coffee, then said, “I’ll need to talk to Glen for a few minutes.”

I touched Roger’s arm. “He means alone,” I said.

Roger looked up. “Huh? Oh, sure.”

Roger and I went out to my reception area, and about ten minutes later Paul and Glen came out.

“Okay,” said Paul to me.

“You’ll take the case?”

He shrugged. “I like challenges.”

T
HANKSGIVING, CHRISTMAS, NEW YEAR’S
Eve. Celebrations of family and tradition and peace and love and hope.

In the decade since Gloria and I had split, I had been finding the entire season disorienting and depressing and lonely, and I always greeted the arrival of the new year with relief because it marked the end of the holidays.

This year Alex made it different. At her insistence, we cooked a Thanksgiving turkey with stuffing and squash and sweet potatoes and giblet gravy and cranberry sauce and mince pie, and my old friends Charlie and Sarah McDevitt came over to share it with us. Then Alex bought a tree for my apartment, and we decorated it with homemade strings of popcorn and cranberries. On Christmas Eve we ate chili and drank eggnog and sang along to the entire
Messiah
and talked to my sons on the telephone and made love, and on New Year’s Eve we drank champagne and watched the ball descend over Times Square on television, and the next day I realized that I’d made it through the whole time without once feeling disoriented or lonely or depressed.

It was a revelation.

I was staring out my office window at a cloudless January sky and dreaming of trout rivers and mayflies when Julie buzzed me. “Mr. Cizek, line two,” she said.

I hit the button and said, “I was just counting the weeks until I might go fishing. I ran out of fingers.”

“Try not to think about it,” he said. “Better yet, let me buy you a beer.”

“That might help. When?”

“Tonight? Say around six?”

“None too soon. Name the place.”

“Skeeter’s.”

“I’ll be there.”

I had talked to Paul a couple of times after the November meeting in my office, when he agreed to take Glen Falconer’s case. I’d filled him in on Glen’s legal and personal history and given him a few tips on dealing with Roger, whom he had instantly pegged as an obtrusive pain in the ass. The week after Thanksgiving a Middlesex County grand jury handed down an indictment, as expected, and Glen Falconer’s trial was scheduled to begin the first week of February.

When the indictment came in, the Globe ran Alex’s story on the bottom left of page five, without a photo. She had been assigned to cover the trial and kept me updated on the case. Her boss had not at first seemed especially intrigued with the human-interest appeal of the Falconer story. Alex and I both suspected that the tentacles of Roger’s influence had wiggled into the Globe’s editorial offices. But gradually the juicy details of the Falconer family history and the tragedy of the fatal automobile collision found their way into her stories.