Black Diamond

by John F. Dobbyn

  And constantly hovering over my private mental din was the picture of Danny, with his wife, Colleen, just three years married, and the two-year-old bright light of his life, Erin, who would also have to endure that stinging absence for the rest of their lives.

  I became aware that Hector was speaking, and I had to reach a decision.

  “—because I can give you $10,000 right now.”

  He laid an envelope on my desk. I was focused on other things.

  “I was at the track yesterday, Hector. I saw Danny fall. It was—unnatural. Like he just lost control of his arms and legs. I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt for the moment. Assuming it wasn’t contact with you, what else could have caused it?”

  Hector sat back in the chair, still rigid, but his silence and body language spoke of stalling.

  “That’s a question, Hector. I haven’t taken your case yet. I want an answer. You were the closest to it. What’s your explanation?”

  “I don’t want to say anything about Danny. This shouldn’t come from me.”

  “Really. Then who else? I’ll be straight with you, Hector. You know Danny and I were close. Like brothers. I need a reason to take this case. It’s only fair to you too. What caused Danny to lose control in the middle of a race?”

  I could sense that I was going to get minimal information from this source. Hector’s stalling was tipping the balance to the side of all those nerve fibers that were screaming, “Stay the hell away from this.”

  He finally broke the silence.

  “There was some talk around the jockeys’ room, Mr. Knight. Like maybe Danny was back into some heavy stuff before the race.”

  “What stuff? You mean drugs?”

  Hector held up his hands.

  “It was probably just talk, Mr. Knight. I didn’t know Danny that well. The Latinos tend to hang together. Mind our own business. But there was a buzz around the other part of the jockeys’ room yesterday about Danny. I could just pick up traces. It was a big race for him. Coming back. You know. He seemed—”

  “What?”

  “Jumpy. Maybe he took something that caused a seizure. I only know it had nothing to do with me.”

  “Did you ever see him take anything?”

  “I didn’t pay that much attention. Like I said, the Latinos were at one end of the jockeys’ room. He was at the other.”

  This was getting complicated. If we took the case, we might have to bring out ugly things about Danny to save a client. On the other hand, I brought my own answer to that question right out of my gut. Danny had cleaned up his act. He would not have taken even a diet pill before that race. My certainty was so deep that it pushed me into half a commitment.

  “Here’s where we stand, Hector, so you know. I don’t buy that drug theory. That said, I’ll go this far with you. I’ll do the investigation and the pretrial work. I’m doing this partly for Danny anyway. If I find you’re clean, I’ll go all the way with you.”

  He bounced up like a spring toy with his hand out to seal the deal. I stayed where I was.

  “Understand the other half. If I find you had a hand in Danny’s death, even remotely, you’ll be looking for another attorney. Do we understand each other?”

  “We do.”

  The hand was still out there. On those terms, I shook it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The lines on Mr. Devlin’s Mount Rushmore features deepened the further I got into explaining the circumstances of our new maybe-client. A day of combat in the criminal session of the Suffolk Superior Court left him more depleted of energy than I liked to see. I knew it was not the best moment to broach a subject that left even me with second, third, and fourth thoughts, but the timing couldn’t be helped.

  “You’ve thought about this, Michael.”

  It was a question.

  “Not for any—No. There was no time. That’s why I left the escape hatch open. If our investigation shows that he’s guilty, we withdraw.”

  He leaned back, folded his arms, and gave me that look.

  “You have trouble with that, Mr. D.?”

  “I’m sitting here praying to God that my junior partner has an equal amount of trouble with it.”

  The eyebrows went up, and he waited.

  “I know. You’ve always told me that you can’t base a defense on the belief that your client is innocent.”

  “And the reason?”

  I’d often thought he was a frustrated law professor.

  “They lie. Then you find yourself up the creek and paddling backward, to quote your words. I’m still not totally convinced of that theory.”

  An argument always brought him up with his elbows on the desk.

  “Then let’s play it your way, Michael. What possible evidence, other than his word, do you have of this jockey’s innocence?”

  “That’s why I left the escape hatch.”

  That had him up and pacing.

  “Let me set the scene. We take this case on. Judge whoever-it-is sets a trial date, which rapidly approaches. You turn up something down the road that suggests perhaps that our client is not altogether innocent. You make a motion to withdraw from the case.”

  “I see where this is going.”

  “I’m just getting warmed up. The judge asks, ‘On what grounds, Mr. Knight?’ You say, ‘I want out because my client is guilty.’ Ninety percent of the defendants the judge tries are guilty. The judge says, ‘If I let lawyers out on those grounds, this court would look like musical chairs. Denied.’”

  “That’s not exactly—”

  “Oh, that’s right. There’s another ground. ‘Your Honor, the victim was my good friend.’ ‘Oh,’ says the judge. ‘That’s different. I’ll disrupt my trial schedule. We’ll put off giving this defendant a speedy trial under the constitution while another lawyer gets up to speed. We wouldn’t want you to have conflicted feelings, Mr. Knight.’”

  His pacing had brought him next to me. I felt his hand on my shoulder. He said one word that carried with it a paragraph.

  “Michael.”

  “Doesn’t play, does it?”

  “Not in this lifetime. You have my sympathy, but you’ve got to fish or cut bait. We’re in or we’re out. You make the call. Either way, I’m with you. But there’s no halfway.”

  I knew he was right before he even started. On the other hand, Hector Vasquez didn’t. And yet he accepted my representation with a trapdoor that would throw his case into turmoil if it were ever sprung. That was some indication that he was innocent and he knew I’d never have cause to use it.

  Mr. D. was still waiting. On the basis of little more than instinct, I said two words.

  “We’re in.”

  Mr. D. nodded, and we were committed to a road we could both have lived a happy lifetime without traveling.

  “Where is he now?”

  “I told him to wait in my office.”

  “Good. If he was indicted this afternoon, there’s a bench warrant out for his arrest. We’ll arrange to have him turn himself in. That’ll give us bargaining chips with the D.A.’s office. Which raises the question, how did he learn about the indictment in time to come to you before he was arrested?”

  “That’ll be my first question. My second is how did this journeyman jockey put together ten thousand dollars in cash for our retainer on short notice.”

  Mr. D.’s eyebrows lifted. “The cards are not all on the table, are they, Michael?”

  “Are they ever?”

  He ignored this self-serving observation on his way back to a seat and a sturdy grip on the telephone. I marveled at how the challenge of a new legal set-to could start the juices flowing through a body that had been running on low fuel.

  I filled him in on what little I knew about the case. When I finished, he punched in the numbers of the Suffolk County District Attorney’s office and put it on speakerphone. The receptionist recognized his courtroom baritone as soon as she heard it. I could hear the smile in her voice. I always had the feeling that
she favored Mr. Devlin in his verbal jousts with her employer, District Attorney Angela Lamb.

  “Good morning, Susan. Let me speak to the brains of that shop of yours.”

  “You want the district attorney, Mr. Devlin?”

  “Susan, don’t be political. I said the brains of the outfit.”

  Since apparently no one was within earshot, Susan had no need to be coy about transferring the call directly to Billy Coyne. Billy was one of the extremely rare career veterans of the office. As deputy district attorney, he was the constant rock that kept the office functioning at a professional level through the ins and outs of the political climbers who passed through the top title of district attorney. As two old war horses who had tested each other in a hundred courtroom joustings, Billy and Mr. Devlin had developed a rare mutual respect, trust, and, truth be known, affection for each other.

  “Good morning, Lex. And to what do I owe this profound honor?”

  “It’s your lucky day, Billy. I have something you want and I’m offering it to you on a silver platter.”

  “And that crock of Irish bull feces means I have something you want, and I’m about to get the horse trading of the week. What’ve you got, Lex?”

  “I have your newest indictee, Hector Vasquez. He’ll turn himself in. Michael will personally walk him right into your office.”

  I could hear Billy’s low whistle of surprise.

  “That little son of a gun moved fast. The ink is still wet on the indictment. And here he is on your doorstep already.”

  “The same thought occurred to us, Billy. Who do you suppose tipped him off to the indictment before the arrest warrant was executed? Sounds like there’s a hole in your little boat over there.”

  “It sounds to me like maybe he’s connected to people you don’t generally get into bed with, Lex.”

  That idea was nudging me too when I thought of that envelope with $10,000 on my desk. Someone wanted Hector to be well represented in this case for reasons that might go beyond Hector’s personal welfare.

  “Not to change the subject, Billy, but in gratitude for our putting Hector on your doorstep, I thought you might like to share a little information.”

  “Here it comes. Just remember, I’m as Irish as you are. What do you want, Lex?”

  “A modest request. What have you got on Hector?”

  I could see Billy rock back with a laugh you could hear in Charlestown.

  “Why don’t you just come over so I can give you the key to our files?”

  “Now, now, Billy. You’ll have to disclose most of it eventually. Let’s just make it a fair fight.”

  “We have the race films. They show Vasquez riding next to Danny Ryan on the right. He has his whip in his left hand. Ryan’s horse is taking the lead. All of a sudden, Ryan shoots out of the saddle and tumbles over the rail. Ryan winds up dead.”

  “I see. And the film clearly shows beyond a reasonable doubt that Vasquez poked Ryan out of the saddle with his whip.”

  Mr. D. winked at me. I had mouthed to him what Hector had said about the films.

  “No, Lex.”

  “Oh, that’s unfortunate, Billy.”

  “Nor does it show that he didn’t.”

  “Then what does it show that you’re going to build a case on, my optimistic friend?”

  “The opportunity.”

  “And exactly how are you going to spin that into a conviction?”

  “Did you ever hear of the old Latin concept res ipsa loquitur? The thing speaks for itself.”

  “They mentioned it in law school. They also said it only applies in civil cases.”

  “It has a counterpart in criminal cases. It’s called circumstantial evidence. Works all the time.”

  Mr. D. rocked back in his chair, and the little smile was gone. “Uh-huh. Now let’s get to the heart of it, Billy. You’ve got a case that’s as weak as dishwater. You rush to a criminal indictment in what has to be record time in a situation that would be handled in every other case by the track stewards, the racing commission at the most. What the hell’s going on?”

  There was a moment’s pause that was significant enough to set both of our spines on edge.

  “A jockey died. That’s more than the stewards’ office can handle.”

  “And you think Hector deliberately murdered him. Billy, have you lost the few marbles you have left? It was a freak accident. Jockeys have survived spills twice that bad. There are more certain ways of doing him in if that was the plan.”

  “It’s felony murder, Lex. Someone died during the commission of a felony.”

  “And the felony is?”

  “The race was fixed.”

  “You don’t mean it. A race fixed at Suffolk Downs? Please say it isn’t so.”

  I could almost feel the sarcasm wash over my shoes.

  “Billy, do you remember when we were kids, the ninth race at Suffolk was called ‘the jockeys’ race’? The jockey’s would pick a long shot, bet on it, and then make it happen. You and I used to stay for the ninth just to guess which long shot it was.”

  “And may I remind you, that it’s been a few years since we were kids. Times change.”

  It was Mr. D’s turn to pause.

  “You don’t want Vasquez. Fixed race or not, he’s like swatting a mosquito. This sounds like the machinations of our eminent district attorney. Angela Lamb wants to nail Hector to get him to flip. On whom, Billy? She must smell some headlines. Who’s she after?”

  “You’re fishing, Lex.”

  “Am I? You got that indictment before the sun went down on Danny Ryan’s body. That means you had a grand jury in session investigating something that ties into that race. And it’s one hell of a lot bigger than little Hector Vasquez.”

  “You have a fertile imagination. You’ll want copies of the race films and the autopsy report on Ryan. I’ll send them over. That’s the best I can do for you.”

  “And for that you expect me to deliver Vasquez like a Thanksgiving turkey?”

  “No. You’ll deliver Vasquez to avoid a charge of harboring a fugitive.”

  “And that’s all I get after a lifetime of personal favors to you, Mr. Coyne?”

  “That would be correct. When can we expect Vasquez?”

  They arranged for me to bring Hector directly to Billy Coyne’s office. At least we’d have the arguing point before the jury that Hector voluntarily surrendered to the D.A. A bit disturbing was the fact that Billy told us to use the rear entrance with an elevator directly to the district attorney’s offices. The reason for that bit of added security escaped us at the time, but it set off alarms in the central nervous system.

  Before Hector and I left our offices, the three of us had a chat about the race the previous day. He denied knowing anything about a fixed race then or ever at Suffolk Downs. Mr. D. and I exchanged looks that said we had a client who was selective about his moments of truth telling.

  We also quizzed him about who tipped him off to the indictment before they could serve an arrest warrant. That was a dead end too. He mentioned an anonymous caller that afternoon and stuck to his story. His answer to our questions about the source of the $10,000 was simply his savings account.

  I came to the uncomfortable conclusion that the only word out of Hector’s mouth since I met him that came within a mile of the truth was that he did not cause Danny’s death. And that was a leap of faith.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I explained the situation to Hector and escorted him to the district attorney’s office as promised. Billy met us and took Hector into custody. The arraignment was scheduled for the following morning. There was no rush, since Hector already had counsel, and any bail that he could post was not an option in a felony murder case.

  That done, I turned to something I had been anxious to do, and yet dreading all afternoon. I drove to Danny’s home in Beverly.

  Danny’s success as a jockey took him all over the East Coast, from Saratoga Springs in New York to Gulfstream in Florida, but h
is heart always remained on the north shore of Boston, where he and I had spent the better part of our teen years with our foster-father, Miles O’Connor.

  Miles had a daughter, Colleen. He raised her from the day his wife died in childbirth. If she’d been raised in a convent, she’d have had a more liberated upbringing. At the top of the list of negative worldly influences to be kept as far outside of her world as humanly possible were Miles’s live-in rescues, Danny Ryan and myself. We barely knew she existed until she was in her teens. But the day that the gate that separated the stables from the wing of the mansion that was her castle was accidentally left ajar, Danny and Colleen caught a glimpse of each other face-to-face. It was actually little more than a glimpse, but it was as if Danny’s heart and mind were locked tight, and only one soul on earth had the password.

  I won’t say Danny never dated during the years I was in college and law school and he was working his way up the list of leading jockeys, but we kept in close contact, and I could sense that something kept him from getting serious with any of the girls he dated.

  It’s strange, or perhaps fatalistic, that it was Miles who ultimately brought them together. After a lifetime of vacuum sealing Colleen in schools for young ladies, Miles died of the trial lawyers’ curse, a heart attack, and Danny and Colleen saw each other for the second time at Miles’s funeral. Maybe it was the common bond of a love for Miles that united them instantly, but my money is on that glimpse of each other that had occurred eight years earlier.

  Whatever the cause, Danny and Colleen were like the negatively and positively charged particles of an atom from that moment on. The obvious love between them was so tangible that it seemed to put smiles on the faces of anyone who came into their presence. The only thing on earth that could have deepened that love was the birth of their daughter, Erin.

  All of this ran through my mind on the drive to their home in Beverly. I was just barely holding it together when I thought of the hole Danny left in my life. But when I thought of the enormity of Colleen’s loss, I had no idea how I’d be able to pass on the strength I wanted to give to her.