The Only Good Lawyer - Jeremiah Healy (23 page)

"Jeppers." I said.

"Yeah, 'Jeffers' except with 'P's,' I remember
now. This Jeppers guy said what I told him would be confidential."

Rothenberg shook his head. "But why did you go
there in the first place?"

"I thought it could help." Spaeth grew
earnest now, trying to sell us on the package. “Look, I thought
Gant was fucking Nicole—I heard plenty of guys say their wife's
lawyer did the same thing in their cases."

Rothenberg said, "She was separated from you."

"I don't care. We're still married, it's
adultery in my book, a fucking betrayal of loyalty. But I figured I
told you about her and him when you started representing me-and you
didn't do anything about it—then maybe some kind of . . .
independent investigation would help."

"Independent investigation." I said.

"Yeah, like the lawyers' board there. I figured
maybe they'd be more . . . believable, they found out I was right."

"More believable where?"

"With the judge in my divorce case, of course.
Why else would I do it?"

"Then why didn't you ever mention it to me?"
said his divorce lawyer.

Spaeth ran a hand through the black clots of hair on
his head. "I don't know. That Jeppers, he didn't seem to think
much of it, either. And, remember, I was doing a lot of drinking
around then. I must've just . . . forgot."

"Forgot to tell me," said Rothenberg.

"Yeah."

I watched Spaeth. "But you didn't forget to tell
your son."

The man flared. "The fuck does Terry have to do
with this?"

I said, "He told me his father shared those
suspicions about his mother."

"The fuck was I supposed to do? All the judge's
orders against me—that 'personal liberty' shit Steve here said I
had to obey—I couldn't go near Nicole myself."

I could see by Rothenberg's expression that he didn't
get what Spaeth meant. "Steve, your client asked Terry to spy on
his mother."

Rothenberg's voice dropped. "Alan, you haven't
made this any easier."

"Easier?" Spaeth began to boil over. "You
try living with a woman for sixteen fucking years, loving her and
having a son by her, then getting ordered out of your own fucking
house. And ordered to keep paying the fucking mortgage and every
other fucking thing anyway. When you don't have a job anymore, and
nobody wants to hire you for another one. See what you'd do, with the
booze and all."

I said, "One thing I wouldn't do is ask my son
to spy on his mother."

A sneer. "You married, Cuddy?"

A memory of Beth in her hospital bed flashed back on
me. "Widowed."

Didn't slow Alan Spaeth down. "Yeah, well, think
about it anyway, sport. How would you feel, you thought a lawyer was
fucking you over the coals in a divorce and punching the wife you
still loved to boot?"

I got out of there before
I decked him.

* * *

"You okay?" asked Steve Rothenberg, genuine
concern in his tone.

"No," I said, leaning against the corridor
wall outside the client interview room, staring down at the floor.

Rothenberg leaned with me. "Alan Spaeth's a
bigoted, insensitive lout."

"He's all that, and more."

"But you still think my client didn't shoot
Woodrow Gant, don't you?"

I glanced at Rothenberg, then away again. "That
may not be enough, Steve."

"It has to be, John. I need you to follow up on
the alibi witness, the gang aspect, the restaurant—"

Restaurant? "Christ." I checked my watch.
Almost 12:45, and Nancy had said 1:00. "Steve, I'm sorry, I've
got to go."

"John—"

"I'm not quitting. At least, not yet."

There was a sigh of relief
as I made my way back down the corridor, but it didn't come from me.

* * *

Cricket's is located in the South Market building,
catercorner from Fanueil Hall itself. The hall is where great debates
have been held since the American Revolution. You can see the
red-bricked structure from the greenhouse dining area, though the
only debate you're likely to hear in Cricket's is whether to go with
the club sandwich or the daily catch.

I walked into the main entrance of the restaurant
proper, the woman in a print dress at the hostess stand watching me,
probably because I looked as nervous as I felt.

She said, "Mr. Cuddy?"

"Yes."

"Your party's already here. This way, please."

I followed her into the greenhouse extension,
spotting Nancy as soon as I cleared a potted tree. She sat at a table
for two, the sunlight slanting through the glass making her features
glow, like something you'd see in paintings or films of the Tuscan
hills. Two menus lay in front of her, but Nancy's attention was
directed to a touristy couple outside on the cobble-stones. The
couple talked to a man in a business suit and gestured with their
camera in a sign-language way, implying that they didn't speak
English very well but wanted him to take their picture.

When the hostess delivered me to the table, Nancy and
I both said "thank you" to her simultaneously. Everybody
laughed, the hostess a little more naturally than either of us. I sat
down, extending my right hand across the table. Nancy took it, gave
me a quick squeeze, and then let go. "Right on time."

I made a pretense of looking at my watch. "I was
tied up, afraid I might be late."

"No, I was early."

We received a reprieve from that soul-numbing
exchange thanks to the waiter coming by for our drink orders.

"Wine?" I said to her.

Nancy spoke to the waiter. "Just iced tea for
me, please." I wanted something stronger, but said, "Same."

After the waiter over—described a couple of lunch
specials, we both watched him walk away.

I took a deep breath. "When he's out of sight,
we have to start talking again."

A pause before, "I know."

I looked back at Nancy. "What is it?"

Her chin was down, like she was reading the menu
instead of me. "I'm beginning to think this wasn't such a good
idea."

"What wasn't?"

"Meeting for lunch like this. I thought we'd be
able to talk first, build up to it."

"Nance, I'm afraid that until I hear what the
'it' is, I don't know what we should be talking about."

The waiter was brutally efficient, our drinks
arriving in tall glasses with twists of lemon still circling the
straws like milk-maids around a maypole. I think he could sense
something was wrong between us, though, and he left the table without
asking for our food orders.

Nancy put some sugar into her tea. Stirring it, she
said, "When you got back from out-of-state last week, and we
first talked about Woodrow Gant, you asked me if I knew him."

"I remember."

"Do you remember what I said?"

“
Something like, 'I'd met the man, but I never
worked with him.' "

"Close enough." Nancy drew some tea through
her straw.

"Years before we . . . before you and I got
together, there was a continuing legal education conference for
prosecutors, a long weekend down on Nantucket. A.D.A.'s from all over
the state attended."

I nodded.

"That's where I met Woodrow Gant."

I nodded some more.

"And that's where I . . . slept with him."

I tried to nod, but couldn't.

Nancy closed her eyes. "This is what I was
afraid of."

"What?" It didn't sound like my voice.

She opened her eyes. "Your reaction, John."

"What reaction? I haven't said—"

“
The way you're looking at me."

I could feel my blood rising. "Nance, at least
give me a chance to say something?"

She watched me, but wary, like a cat that's been
yelled at. "Go ahead."

I lowered my voice. "Why didn't you tell me this
at Thai Basil?"

A hardening. "Rather than walk out on you?"

I kept my voice low. "Why didn't you tell me
then?"

"Because you're such a . . . such an 'innocent'
about sexual things."

"Nancy——"

"Put yourself in my shoes, okay? When we met, I
fell in love with you—almost at first sight—but you put me off
because you were still mourning Beth. I could handle that, I even
respected you more for it. And then last month, when you helped me
through the cancer scare, I felt so close to you I almost couldn't
stand it."

I wasn't following her. "Stand what, the
feeling?"

"Yes, but more the worry. I'd always been so
independent, but the cancer scare made me realize how much I needed
people, how much I needed you, above all. And what I couldn't stand
was the thought of losing you."

"Nancy, you're not losing me."

She closed her eyes again. "When I just told you
I slept with Woodrow Gant, your expression told me I might."

"Nance . . ." I tried to measure out the
words. "I don't know how to describe what was on my face,
because I can't see it the way you do, even if I were staring into a
mirror. But I know what's in my heart, and what you did or didn't do
before we met is your past, not our present"

Her eyes opened, welling with tears. "That's
what I wanted to hear, John."

I reached across the table for her hand. "Great."

Nancy let me take the hand, but when I squeezed, she
didn't squeeze back. "Only we still have a problem."

"Now what?" I said.

"Until the Gant case is resolved, we can't see
each other."

I felt the blood rising again. "Nance, that's—"

She wriggled her hand free. "Please, John, let
me finish?"

I withdrew my hand, too. In the low voice, I said,
"All right."

“
I'm not working the Gant case as a prosecutor. As
soon as it came in, I told my boss I couldn't. So there's no
technical conflict of interest in your helping the defendant. But I
didn't give my boss the whole story."

"I can understand that."

"Then I hope you can understand what I'm about
to say, too. It would tear me up to be seeing you, eating across from
you, especially . . . making love with you while I knew you were
still working the case. I couldn't be myself, and it would be
miserable for you as well."

"Why, Nance? Because you once had an affair with
the man?"

"It was just that one weekend, but if you need a
label, call it loyalty to an ex-lover."

"Loyalty misplaced."

"John, a minute ago, you told me what was in
your heart. Trust me now on what's in mine. It may not be rational,
or even wise, but my heart tells me I can't be with you until the
Gant case is resolved."

"Nancy . . ." I cleared my throat. "Nance,
I trust you. That's not the problem."

"Then what is?"

"The case. It could drag on for months."

Her tone changed. "Does it have to drag on with
you still in it?"

That stopped me. "You mean, quit the case?"

"Can you?"

I wanted to. Nancy's feelings, Spaeth's attitudes and
actions, the evidence already piled up on the prosecution's side of
the scales. Against all that, there was just one—

"John?"

"No," I said. "I can't. The guy's an
asshole, but I still think he's innocent. And I have loyalties as
well, to my profession, to Rothenberg .... "

I stopped again as Nancy swiped at a tear with an
index finger, then reached her other hand across the table to close
on mine.

She said, "You know, almost all of me wanted to
hear a different answer. But I think—for our future—that's the
best answer you could give."

"Our future, not our present."

Letting go of my hand, Nancy stood up. "Good-bye,
John. Call me when . . . whenever."

I watched her walk away, taking what appetite I might
have had with her. Our waiter caught my eye, and I made a tab-signing
gesture to him. When I turned back for some iced tea to deal with the
taste in my mouth, I saw the touristy couple walking hand-in-hand,
the camera swinging at his side, her going up on tiptoes to peck him
on the cheek.

I looked down into the glass. My job for Rothenberg
was to find enough reasonable doubt to get Spaeth off come trial,
months away. If I couldn't quit the Gant case, maybe I could 
accelerate things by going a step further and finding out who really
killed him.

As the check arrived, though, Alan Spaeth's voice
kept going around inside my head. The conversation with him at the
jail less than an hour before.

Specifically, the part about What I'd do if I found
someone else had been sleeping with the woman I loved.