Irish Whiskey

by Andrew M. Greeley

  “Incorrigible, Dermot,” Cindy whispered. “But brilliant.”

  I hadn’t been trying to be brilliant.

  “You’d better learn quickly, Mr. Coyne,” she warned me. “I don’t like your attitude.”

  “I’ll try, Your Honor.”

  “You’d better.”

  “This could be fun,” I told the Adversary.

  YOU’RE CRAZY, he replied.

  The judge ordered that I be bound over for trial the following March.

  “Your Honor,” the Wicked Witch floated up closer to the bench. “I am going to ask that bail be denied in this case. The defendant is charged with a major crime. There is every reason to believe that he is dishonorable and will flee if he is released on bail.”

  Cindy blew up.

  “Counselor, that is an absolutely absurd suggestion and you know it. My client has never been charged with any violation, not even a traffic ticket. He is a responsible citizen and a generous member of the community. There is no grounds for such a punitive motion.”

  “I’ll determine what is responsible in this courtroom, Counselor. If you talk like that again I will hold you in contempt of court.”

  “I am only asking, Your Honor,” Cindy said softly, “that my client be treated fairly.”

  “All right, I’ll treat him fairly. A million dollar bond. He has all that money; let him put it at risk. Moreover, I forbid you, Mr. Coyne, to leave this jurisdiction. If you as much as cross the Indiana line to go to your fancy house in Grand Beach, you’ll be in jail the next morning. Is that clear?”

  I nodded.

  “A nod won’t do, Mr. Coyne. Say ‘Yes, Your Honor,’ or I’ll hold you in contempt.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” La Quade said triumphantly. “I believe that is a reasonable arrangement.”

  The judge turned to Cindy.

  “The matter is settled, Counselor. I won’t tolerate another word from you. Understand?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “I suppose you intend to appeal the bond.”

  “I believe that is my privilege, Your Honor.”

  “I just want to remind you that I won’t forget it if you do.”

  Cindy looked startled. “You ought not to say something like that, Your Honor.”

  I wondered if the judge was either drunk or on some kind of drug.

  “Don’t you dare tell me what I should say … Now I want both of you back in this courtroom first thing Monday morning. I have a crowded docket and I will not clutter it with trials that are not going to happen. Understand? And remember that I don’t automatically approve plea bargains. Ten-minute recess.”

  She struggled to her feet. I glanced behind me to see how my love was dealing with this show. She was glaring intently at the judge. The judge tripped and stumbled as she descended from the bench, losing what little dignity she had left. Nuala smiled faintly.

  Had she put a hex on Judge Crawford? She ought not to do things like that.

  YOU’RE HOPING SHE DID, the Adversary informed me.

  “Shut up.”

  “Is she drunk?” I asked Cindy.

  “More likely on drugs. Everyone in the building knows she uses them … Don’t worry, Dermot, as she knows I’ll get the bail cut this afternoon and maybe the restriction to the jurisdiction. If I don’t win the latter, I’ll be back to them on Monday with an emergency motion. Count on the honeymoon.”

  “We’re not worrying about that,” Nuala said firmly.

  “I am,” I said with a laugh.

  “Wherever you are, me darlin’ man, is honeymoon enough for me.”

  Before we could finish that potentially delightful discussion, Dale Quade swaggered over to us, a contented leer on her face. She ignored me and spoke directly to Cindy.

  “Face it, Cindy, your brother will have to do time. If you plead him, we’ll try to see that it won’t be too much time. However, he’ll have to cooperate in our further investigations.”

  “I don’t know whether you or Elvira are crazier,” Cindy said evenly. “And I think it is deplorable for you to expose your child to a courtroom like this.”

  The United States Attorney turned pale, her lips tightened, her eyes narrowed.

  “You’ll regret saying that, Cindy. You’ll have to apologize to me before I am ready to consider a plea.”

  “I’ll see you in hell before I plea,” Cindy shot back.

  Nuala intervened in the confrontation. Slipping in front of Cindy, she pointed at Dale Quade, stared at her with deadly eyes, and in a voice colder than dry ice spoke solemnly in Irish. La Quade recoiled just as Larry McGrail had.

  “You’re cursing me!” she said almost hysterically.

  Nuala continued her imprecations. Sobbing, Ms. Quade turned and ran away. Somehow no one else in the courtroom noticed this scary little scene.

  “Did you really curse her, Nuala?” Cindy asked softly.

  “Och, sure, would I be doing such a terrible thing?” Nuala grinned and rolled her eyes. “Wasn’t I just repeating the words of a lullaby?”

  “You scared the shite out of her,” I said.

  “Wasn’t I trying to do just that? The poor woman is about to go over the deep end and I thought I’d just give her a little nudge.”

  “I’ve never seen Dale react that way,” Cindy said.

  “She’s never been cursed by a Druid princess before,” I said.

  “Druid goddess,” Nuala corrected me.

  SHE LOVED DOING THAT, the Adversary whispered to me. THAT ONE IS REALLY DANGEROUS.

  “Now you tell me,” I whispered back.

  I would be held temporarily in a room in the building till bond was arranged. Cindy assured me that would be unnecessary because she would get a reversal in an hour or two.

  Judge Crawford’s bailiff, an officious wimp, led me out of the court to the holding room.

  It took three hours for a judge in the appellate court to overrule the bail requirement and free me on my own recognizance. However, he refused to agree to let me leave the jurisdiction.

  So we would honeymoon in Galena.

  The media were waiting for us as I emerged from the holding room.

  “Will you miss your honeymoon, Dermot?” one of them demanded.

  I put my arm around Nuala Anne.

  “Wherever my bride is, that will be my honeymoon.”

  I had shamelessly stolen her line.

  “What about you, Ms. McGrail?”

  She smiled modestly and said, “I’m not worrying about that at all, at all.”

  “What are you worrying about?”

  “Who will play Judge Crawford in the movie.”

  EDITORIAL

  We applaud the firm stance Judge Elvira Crawford has made on the granting of bail to indicted novelist and former commodity trader Dermot Coyne. In the past we have criticized Judge Crawford for her seemingly arbitrary style in the courtroom. In this case, however, she has acted properly. The commodity exchanges are and have been for many years a cesspool of trickery and corruption. Previous attempts by Federal prosecutors to clean up the commodity market mess have been frustrated by judges who have been entirely too soft on suspected criminals who exploit their customers. Mr. Coyne is accused of monumental theft. Moreover his lawyers have launched an assault on the freedom of the press in what we fervently hope will be a vain attempt to protect him from public scrutiny. We have no sympathy for Mr. Coyne. If he must give up his elaborate plans for a honeymoon, few will feel commiseration for him; most young people must be content with much less expensive wedding trips. We hope that Judge Crawford will bring him to a speedy trial and thus begin the long overdue reform of the gambling casinos at the foot of LaSalle Street.

  TRADER DENIES HE WAS CHEATED

  By Sean Cassidy

  Sam Harris, the famous Chicago investor who is alleged to be the victim of Operation Full Platter target Dermot Coyne, denied vigorously today that he had been cheated by the novelist a
nd former trader.

  “It’s an insult to my reputation to suggest that I would let a kid like Dermot put something over on me,” Harris said.

  “I can’t understand why they didn’t call me before the grand jury. Hell, I’m supposed to be the victim and they apparently didn’t care about my version of the incident. Dermot made a mistake and he was lucky. Everyone knows that those things happen all the time in the trading pits.”

  Asked if he had made money on the trade, Harris replied, “You bet your life I did. Dermot delivered to me contracts at the going price on the day I ordered them. I held on to them and sold just before the market peaked out two weeks later. I made more than he did.”

  Asked if he would testify for Coyne in his forthcoming trial, Harris replied, “I don’t like to go over to that jungle. It’s a trap for innocent people. But if Dermot wants me to appear in court, I’ll try to explain to those idiots how the commodities market works.”

  10:00 NEWS

  Anchor: Channel 6 has learned exclusively that a plea bargain agreement has already been reached between lawyers for novelist and commodity trader Dermot Michael Coyne and the Office of the United States Attorney. Coyne will plead guilty to one count of simple fraud and will be sentenced to three years in federal prison and a fine of two hundred thousand dollars. With time off for good behavior Coyne could be free in twenty months. He could have been sentenced to twenty years in prison if convicted of all the charges against him. Coyne must also promise to cooperate with the government in its attempt to net bigger fish for its Operation Full Platter sting. One fly in the ointment is that the approval of Judge Elvira Crawford is required. Judge Crawford has a reputation for shooting down plea bargains.

  24

  I DIDN’T recognize Annie and Gerroid McGrail when they came out of the customs hall at O’Hare. Only when Nuala, with a whoop of joy, broke away from me and bounded like a frolicsome filly towards the well-dressed couple, did I realize that they were “Ma and Da.”

  She had been fretting nervously at my side as we waited for them. What if they had missed the plane? What if the INS was detaining them? What if they had landed at the wrong airport? What if they had become frightened and changed their minds?

  After all, Dermot Michael, they’ve never been on an airplane before in their lives, never left Ireland, and rarely left the County Galway. Sure, shouldn’t I have gone over and brought them back?

  All her doubts and worries were swept away when she embraced the two of them in a mighty hug.

  I also understood in that moment where Nuala had derived her ability to change roles instantly to fit the situation in which she found herself. If there were peasants left anywhere in Western Europe and poor peasants at that, they were the small dairy farmers out in the rocks and peat bogs of the Irish-speaking region of Connemara who supplemented their living by “giving teas” for busloads of tourists. Yet this smiling, well-dressed couple, both in conservative gray suits, looked and acted like experienced travelers and sophisticated cosmopolitans. They would fit in at dinner tomorrow night at the Oak Park Country Club like natives, though perhaps more handsome than most of the natives of their age. Supplied with money by herself, they knew how to play the game.

  They hugged and kissed and praised me and told me that I looked, “grand, super, brilliant.” They charmed my parents who, being what they are, responded in kind.

  The trip over was brilliant, too. Everyone was so nice; they loved it in the first-class section; no one seemed to realize that it was their first time in an airplane and their first time out of Ireland. And, sure, isn’t this a gorgeous city now, with all its big buildings and that wonderful lake? Weren’t they looking forward to their month’s holiday in America? And didn’t Nuala Anne look lovely and herself already talking like a Yank?

  Irish-American.

  So she had bought them first-class tickets and arranged for a month’s trip around the country. Good for Nuala. Frugal for herself, she knew how to spend money when it would do good for others.

  They were to ride to my parents’ home in River Forest with herself and meself in my car. Then we’d have a light supper—with all our family there of course—and they’d live in the coach house till after the wedding. Nuala had vetoed a hotel. They had to live where Nell Pat and Bill had spent the last years of their lives.

  “Your generosity to them makes me fall in love with you all over again,” I said to her as I helped her in the car.

  She replied with tears.

  She was, I realized again, really a shy child, a shy and poor peasant lass from the Gaeltacht. She was also a lot more, too.

  They talked in soft, melodious Irish as I drove out of the parking lot and waited to pay the fee. I knew what was being said. Yes, Dermot had been indicted and arraigned. No, he wasn’t going to jail. No, the trial wouldn’t be for months. The case would probably be thrown out of court. Yes, the honeymoon was a bit uncertain. Absolutely not. No change in wedding plans. As for that amadon Laurence, he had better stay out of her way.

  Ah, sure Nuala, we love you and himself very much and we wouldn’t miss this wedding for the world. He’s such a nice sweet young man.

  Grand. Then we went into English and I played tour guide when we were able to escape the Kennedy Expressway rush-hour mess at Cumberland and wend our way down Thatcher eventually and into River Forest.

  My future in-laws were appropriately impressed but not overawed. No wonder Nuala was who she was.

  The supper, hardly light by any reasonable standards, was a huge success, enough Irish charm all around to melt the winter snows—and singing and telling stories and even a bit of dancing.

  The little bishop had brought my uncle Bishop Bill out from the cathedral where he was staying. Retirement seem to suit him well. What a rotten job being a bishop had become.

  Our little bishop, however, seemed to prosper. He drifted around the party, looking bemused as always, as if he were not sure where he was or why he was here, but enjoying himself nonetheless.

  He kind of materialized in a corner where Nuala, Cindy, and Joe Hurley were marveling again about how young her parents seemed.

  “Doubtless this regrettable unpleasantness will arrange itself appropriately early next week,” he said during a lull in the conversation.

  “It will take a lot longer than that, Bishop,” Cindy said. “It may be a year before we go to trial.”

  “I would have thought that a comparison between Dermot’s voice and that on the tape would have settled the matter.”

  “Sure it would, but they’re not going to let us have a copy of the tape for a long time.”

  “Patently they will play it on television, arguably tomorrow night.”

  We were all silent for a moment.

  “They wouldn’t be that dumb, would they?” Cindy asked dubiously.

  Nuala, thick as thieves as always with the little bishop, grinned happily.

  “Sure, isn’t your man right? Aren’t they just that dumb?”

  As much as I admired their joint detecting ability, I didn’t think we could possibly be that lucky.

  Much later, at our pub (our “regular,” Nuala had come to call it), Nuala and I were both drinking caffeine-free diet cola and feeling dejected.

  “Too much for one day,” I said, head in my hands.

  “Too much altogether,” she agreed.

  “I had almost forgotten about your brother. What’s he up to?”

  “Isn’t the amadon flying all around the country, stirring up trouble? He’ll be to see Pedar and Podraig in New York tomorrow.”

  “Paying his own airfare?”

  “Unless he can find some way not to.”

  We both laughed hollowly. She laid her hand on my arm.

  “I suppose he’ll have a grand time with today’s events.”

  “Won’t he ever?”

  “The man’s mad, Nuala Anne.”

  “Aren’t they all.”

  “Nuala, how do we attract the crazies?�
�

  “Take your hands away from your face, Dermot Michael; I want to admire your good looks.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  Her affectionate smile made my heart skip a couple of beats and picked up my spirits for a moment or two.

  “You know what me da says about crazy people?” She rubbed her finger along my lips, forcing me to smile.

  “What does your da say?”

  She said something in Irish and pounded the table. I assumed that the blow to the table was a required part of what her da would say.

  “And that means fockmall?”

  “It does not. My da never uses that kind of language, at least when I’m around.”

  “So what does it mean?”

  “Isn’t it difficult to translate?”

  She was having me on, anything to make me keep smiling. The woman would be a grand spouse (super and brilliant, too) at any time in a life, but especially when the going was rough.

  “Try.”

  “Well it means stay out of the way of the daft folk and when they get in your way, go around them.”

  “Sane advice.”

  “Tis a lot better than advising a good punch in the jaw.”

  “I won’t punch Larry in the jaw, not unless the provocation is intense.”

  “Och, Dermot, don’t you have to go through them sometimes?”

  “Speaking of going through people, did you put a hex on the judge this morning?”

  She became the picture of injured innocence. “Dermot Michael Coyne! I don’t put hexes on people, not at all, at all. Didn’t I know she was going to trip and herself so pompous?”

  “Didn’t help her just a little bit?”

  Smirk.

  “She didn’t need me help … Now that poor Quade woman is altogether daft. Isn’t she going to be roaring insane before this is over?”

  “And your mumbled lullaby will facilitate that process?”

  “Sure, it might just, poor woman.”

  “Sociopaths are clever, Nuala. She may be round the bend, but she’s been getting her way.”

  “Not for much longer.”

  Nuala seemed supremely confident that we would win. What did she know that I didn’t know?