The Only Good Lawyer - Jeremiah Healy (19 page)

"We wouldn't have to spend all that much time
'speaking'."

"Thanks again, but no."

"Pity," said
Jenifer Pollard, finally breaking the pillow pose. "You seemed
about the right . . . size, too."

* * *

I drove slowly down V.F.W. Parkway in West Roxbury,
the section of Boston that lies farthest from downtown. The houses in
West Rox are mostly modest single-family homes, the demographics
heavily white. I found the Spaeths' street and turned onto it, both
sides lined with small ranches.

The address I had was 396. In front of 388, four
early-teen kids were playing in the street under the lights. Wearing
baggy shorts, sleeveless sweatshirts, and backward baseball caps,
they'd arranged themselves in a rough rectangle, tossing what looked
like an orange toy football in a diagonal pattern, corner-to-corner
among them. Rather than break up their game, I parked and began
moving down the sidewalk toward the Spaeths' house.

As I drew even with the closest boy, a throw to him
went a little awry, the football spiraling down near me. That was
when I heard the whistling howl of incoming artillery and almost hit
the deck before the thing landed six feet away.

"Sorry," said the kid, wearing a San Diego
Padres cap and a little silver ring through his left eyebrow. "But
it wasn't, like, going to hit you or anything."

I watched as the boy came over and picked up his
"toy." It was football-shaped upfront, all right, though
plastic fletching—like a giant throwing dart—stuck out from the
back. When the Padres kid tossed it to his friend, I could hear the
artillery whistle again. "What is that?"

The boy said, "A Howla."

" 'Howla'?"

"Yeah. Sounds just like a cannonball coming at
you. Cool, huh?" The word "cool" came out in two
syllables, "koo-uhl." The kid then said, "You want to
know where you can buy one?"

I thought back to a time before the lads were born,
when I wasn't that much older than them, and the other side's
"howlas" were for real. I said, "Thanks, anyway,"
and walked on. When I reached 396, there was a Mazda hatchback in the
driveway and lights coming through the windows. As I went up the
path, a dried yellow leaf, shell-shaped, skittered across the
flagstones like a crab scrabbling over a dock.

Shortly after I rang the bell, the door was opened by
a woman in her mid-thirties, with sandy-brown hair clipped like a
helmet that stopped at the tops of her ears. Nudging five-five in
sneakers, she also wore a lemon-colored sweater and blue jeans. I'd
have called her attractive, with haunting hazel eyes and full lips,
but right then she looked more tired than fetching. There was a
hardcover book with a clear plastic cover in her right hand, the
index finger marking her place.

“
Nicole Spaeth?"

“
Kind of late to be selling something, don't you
think?"

A tired voice, too. "My name's John Cuddy. I'm
investigating the killing of Woodrow Gant."

Her eyes narrowed, her tone deepened. "I've
already talked to the other police officers."

"I'm not the police, either."
 
Spaeth moved her left hand, as if to close the door.
"No reporters, no interviews."

"I'm working for the attorney representing your
husband."

She hesitated, her eyes suggesting she was trying to
work something through.

"Mrs. Spaeth, please. I won't take very long,
and you might be able to help me help him."

"That's pretty funny," she said, as though
it were anything but. "Okay, I'll talk to you."

I followed her into a living room with wall-to-wall
carpeting, that sculpted style popular fifteen years back. There was
matching but also aging furniture, all the wooden surfaces 
shining as though freshly polished. Spaeth laid the book on an end
table and waved me toward a chair while she took the sofa, sitting
straight up rather than leaning back into the cushion.

A lot like Helen Gant, once you noticed it.

From the chair, I said, "Just so you know where
I'm heading, I think there's some possibility your husband didn't
shoot Woodrow Gant."

"I don't," she said, stonily. "But ask
your questions."

I thought back to my talk with Alan Spaeth at Nashua
Street. "You're a teacher, correct?"

"Sixth grade." She named a district three
towns away. "Not exactly a great job, either."

"How do you mean?"

"All I do is try to keep track of the students,
not really teach them anything that might be considered academic. The
courses are supposed to get them 'in touch with their feelings' so
they can 'develop to their fullest potential'. "

"Glorified day care."

"More like horrified night-mare. But, it pays
the mortgage and gives us medical coverage, thank God. And Terry's
old enough that I don't have to worry too much about him when I have
parent—teacher meetings at night"

I remembered her husband telling me that Terry was
the son. "So, your job provided the bulk of the family income?"

"All of it." Spaeth seemed to hesitate
again. "No, that's not really fair. Before he got laid off, Alan
was a good provider. I must even have loved him, once upon a time."
She sounded as tired as she looked. "But since Alan lost his job
and started drinking, Terry and I have been on our own in more ways
than one."

"Mrs. Spaeth, other people described the way
your husband behaved at Mr. Gant's law firm the day of the
deposition"

"I hope that means you don't have to ask me."

"It'd be a help to hear your version."

"My version." She closed her eyes. "My
version is that Alan was—and is—crazy. Maybe not legally,
technically crazy, but functionally. He imagines things, then blows
even the things he imagines way out of proportion."

"Could you give me some examples?"

"You name it, Alan overdid it. The drinking, the
hunting stuff with Terry."

Her husband had told me that, too. "He took your
son hunting?"

"After deer, without discussing it first. No,
that's not fair to my side of things. Terry was excited about going,
but I said no, and Alan took him anyway."

"How old was your son at the time?"

"It was last year, so only thirteen. Can you
believe it?"

Didn't seem completely "crazy" to me, but
then I'm neither for nor against the sport. "Mrs. Spaeth,
witnesses at a restaurant say a woman was with Mr. Gant the night he
was killed."

Her eyes narrowed again. "So?"

"So I was wondering if maybe he mentioned
something to you about who he was seeing."

The eyes now became slits. "Why in the world
would Woodrow do that?"

"As a matter of small talk. You were a client,
he would have spent time with you."

"No. No, Woodrow never said anything about his
personal life to me. All we ever talked about was my divorce. Which
is another headache."

"Headache?"

"Now I need to find somebody else to finish the
case."

Frank Neely and Imogene Burbage had said they were
referring Gant's clients to other attorneys. "Can't the law firm
help you with that?"

Spaeth drew herself up a little straighter on the
couch. "Mr. Cuddy, Woodrow was a fine man." Her voice began
to crack. "He helped me through the hardest time of my life,
divorcing a husband who flew off the handle over every little thing.
And I don't think it's fair to make his firm relive its own loss by
trying to help me anymore."

"Especially since it was a member of the firm
who put you in touch with Mr. Gant in the first place."

Spaeth grew stiff this
time, reaching up a finger to wipe away a sudden tear. "That's
right. Now, if there's nothing else?"

* * *

"Hey, like, what were you doing in my house?"

It was the kid with the Padres hat and eyebrow ring.
He stood on the sidewalk at the end of the flagstone path, his
friends nowhere to be seen.

I finished coming down the path. "Terry, right?"

A jaundiced look. "Who are you?"

I showed him my identification, which he had to angle
up to the streetlight to read. "A private detective?"

"Investigator. Detectives are on police forces."

"But this is so cool," the two-syllable
variety again. "What're you trying to find out?"

"Let's start with the eyebrow ring. Doesn't it
hurt?"

A laugh. "Everybody asks me that. No, it didn't
hurt to have my eyebrow pierced, account of it's only skin there. You
don't have any, like, nerve endings or stuff. And it doesn't hurt to
keep the ring in, either. Only real pain was when . . ."

"When what, Terry?"

"I got into a fight at school. Over what my dad
. . ." Then he seemed to remember why he stopped me. "So,
what were you talking to my mom about?"

"I'm trying to help your father."

It was like a curtain came down, ending the first act
abruptly. "Because he killed Mom's lawyer."

"That's what the police think, and why your
father's in jail. But I think maybe he didn't do it."

"Hey, that's pretty lame, you know? I can read.
The police have his fingerprints."

"Which is just evidence."

“
Yeah, well, I was staying over at my friends for
Bachelor Pad that night, so what can I tell you?"

"Bachelor pad?"

"Space Age pop music. You gotta be old enough to
remember that instrumental stuff from the fifties and sixties. Neal
Hefti, Quincy Jones, all those dudes."

I was having trouble with this. "You and your
friends listen to that music?"

"Yeah. It's major cool. You can go to the old
shops that sell used vinyls, or there's some fresh tracks coming out
on CD. They even have fan mags and a website you can browse."

I shook my head. "Look, Terry, I'm trying to
help your father with—"

"Yeah, well, I'm not gonna help you."

"Why not?"

"My dad's been a shit from day one in this whole
thing, and my mind's, like, on overload just thinking about it."

"But what if he didn't kill Mr. Gant?"

"He did, dude." Terry compressed his lips,
having trouble himself with what he was about to say. "You heard
about my dad going, like, nuts at the law firm, right?"

"Right, but—"

"No but's, just listen, okay?"

"Okay."

"Just before that, he calls me when Mom's not
home. Says he thinks her lawyer's been hitting on her."

"Hitting . . . you mean, sexually?"

An exasperated huff. "Of course, 'sexually'. My
dad claimed that wasn't right, that he was gonna report the guy to
the lawyers' thing."

Uh-oh. "The Board of Bar Overseers?"

"I don't know the name of it, okay? But what got
me is, my dad wanted me to spy on Mom for him. Like, can you imagine
that? The guy turns into a drunk, leaves us with zero money, and he
expects me to . . " Terry shook his head.

“
Did your mother and Mr.—"

"I don't know that either, okay? I just know
what my dad wanted me to do, and I wouldn't do it. Now, I've told
you, so be prepared, okay?"

Absently, I said, "The Boy Scout motto."

Terry looked at me, confused now. “Boy Scout . . .
?"

"Motto. 'Always be prepared'. "

A smirk. "I was thinking more, like, condoms
against AIDS, dude."

As Terry Spaeth walked up
the path, I had to keep reminding myself: A different world, they're
growing up in a different world.

* * *

Since Nicole Spaeth had stressed that her
relationship with Woodrow Gant had been strictly professional, I
decided to talk with Steve Rothenberg and his client before pushing
her. But that could wait till the morning. Another stop shouldn't.

After pressing the bell button and hearing the
dentist's drill noise, I waited under the center portico of the
Chateau. A few minutes passed, but I didn't want to tick off
Vincennes Dufresne by ringing again if I could help it.

The big door took a hit from the interior side before
creaking open. Dufresne peered out at me, the head cocked and a
half-glass of red wine in his right hand. "You again, eh?"

"John Cuddy, Mr. Dufresne."

"I'da remembered that."

"I was wondering if you'd seen Michael Mantle."

"Not since the last time you was here."

"Mind if I check his room, anyway?"

"I don't exactly feel like hiking up two flights
with you."

"A good chance I can find it myself."

"I'll have to give you the master key."
Digging around in his pocket, Dufresne lowered his eyelids and
recocked the head. "And then there's another viewing fee, of
course."