I called the office of the clerk of the Supreme Judicial Court and reached Conrad Munsey. He sounded surprised, but not hostile.
“What’s up, kid?”
“You remember the conversation between you and me about a mutual acquaintance, Mr. Munsey?”
There was a tentative, “I do.”
“I could use some information.”
There was a pause. I heard his office door close, and he was back on the line.
“I hope you’re not stirring up trouble nobody needs. Especially you-know-who.”
“I hope the same thing. Isn’t anything better than the status quo?”
“I don’t know. What do you need?”
“The name of the district attorney who tried the Dolson case. It was before my time.”
“Yeah, I guess it was. The DA of Suffolk County was a well-connected gentleman by the name of Martin Shortbridge. He tried the case himself.”
“Do you have any idea where he is now?”
“Sure. As I say, he was well connected. He went into private practice with the Dunlevy firm. They handle a lot of private banks. He found his niche. Right now he’s the president of the American Fidelity Mutual Fund. What about it?”
“I need to see him.”
“Kid, you’ve got spunk. I hope you’ve got the brains to match. This is major-league wealth and power.”
“Well, you remember the old saying, Mr. Munsey. ‘The bigger they are, the harder they fall.’”
“You’re a piece of work, kid. Just be sure nothing falls on Lex.”
I called information for the number of the American Fidelity Mutual Fund. It occupied a building on State Street, the top floor of which was the office of Martin Shortbridge.
After a number of transferred connections, I reached his secretary. I knew that would be the end of the line for Michael Knight. On the other hand, as Oliver Shortbridge, nephew of the aforesaid Martin Shortbridge, calling with urgent news of the health of the latter’s sister, Letitia Shortbridge, I got the word that Mr. Shortbridge was “at luncheon” at the Parker House. I wouldn’t ordinarily play games with the health of any of these people; but since they were all fictitious, I took the liberty.
The maitre d’ at the Parker House was kind enough to point out Mr. Shortbridge. He was, in fact, a short and portly soul. He’d been well rounded over the years, no doubt, on such dishes as the lobster thermidor that was currently before him.
He was seated with three other pin-striped suits of the same cut and price tag. Painful though it was to disturb his probably profitable repast, I had him paged.
When he arrived at the maitre d’s desk, his expression was somewhere between curiosity and aggravation. He looked around, ignoring me, for someone who looked important enough to page him. I presented myself and spoke civilly.
“Mr. Shortbridge, my name is Michael Knight. Please forgive the intrusion. I need to see you on a matter that is seriously overdue. Approximately ten years.”
He looked at me and seemed to have difficulty believing what was standing in front of him interrupting his “luncheon.”
“This shouldn’t take long. They’ll reheat your lobster.”
The curiosity was gone. It was pure aggravation.
“I don’t think so, young man.”
He signaled the maitre d’ to come at once, presumably to bounce this paragon of impertinence on his posterior.
I leaned over and whispered, “Perhaps I should join you at your table. I came to discuss the Dolson case. Your friends might enjoy a good story about jury fixing.”
The blood drained from his rosy English complexion. When the maitre d’ arrived, he waived him off. He took me by the arm and escorted me around the corner to a quiet spot. When we stopped, his mouth was at my ear. I could feel a hissing stream of moisture with each word.
“Who are you? Who sent you?”
I slowly pried the grip of his fingers off of my arm. I was delighted to have his undivided attention. Now the trick was to gain control. I remembered Mr. Devlin’s advice about not facing Angela Lamb on her own turf.
“My name’s Michael Knight, Mr. Shortbridge. And nobody sends me. Including you.”
He lost some of the bravado, but control was still in his court on his turf.
“We have business to do, you and I. It’s been a long time coming, but I assure you it’s here. You know exactly what I’m talking about. In five minutes I’ll be alone at a table at the McDonald’s on Washington Street. If you’re not there within ten minutes, I’ll presume you have no interest in righting an old wrong. Then we’ll see what surprises lie in store.”
I’ll admit it was a touch dramatic and the phrasing was a bit stilted. I did, however, relish the symbolism of the transfer from the Parker House to McDonald’s. That nuance came to me at the last minute.
The pleasure, however, was fleeting. After my exit line, I rushed to McDonald’s and found an open table. I had five minutes to grow butterflies the size of armadillos.
Shortbridge had not only gained back his color, he had redness to spare when he came through the door of McDonald’s, probably for the first time in his life. He found me, and I waved him to a chair. He sat. I took no small delight in the fact that he was responding to my hand signals. Then he put things back in perspective.
“Young man, I don’t know who you are, but I’ll find out. You will be broken in every way possible. You won’t be able to shine shoes in this state. Who do you think you’re dealing with?”
“‘Whom,’ Mr. Shortbridge. You mean, ‘Whom do I think I’m dealing with?’ Please, there are children here.”
He bolted to his feet.
“Enjoy it now, young man. It will be a very long time before you’ll enjoy anything again.”
I remained seated, calm, and as quiet as Clint Eastwood.
“To answer your improperly phrased question, Mr. Shortbridge, I’m the person who can haul your larcenous, jury-fixing ass out of that tower on State Street and put it in Walpole State Prison where it belongs.”
He stopped everything, including breathing, for a moment. He made an instant check to see if anyone was within earshot and scuttled back into the chair. I slid a photocopy of the paper signed by Frank Gallagher across the table. He scanned it, and then went back over it to read every word. When he finished he threw it back across the table.
“That’s what you’ve got? That’s what you dare to threaten me with? There isn’t a court in the state that would admit that in evidence. And that drunken bum, Gallagher? You think you can put his word against mine? You don’t have a shred of evidence.”
He was back in control of his life when he stood up to his full five feet six inches. I retained the Clint Eastwood calm.
“You couldn’t be more correct, Mr. Shortbridge.”
He was nodding vigorously and on the verge of launching into another self-redeeming threat of financial annihilation.
“On the other hand, I never intended to take it to court. I never threatened you with prosecution. That would be a crime, as you know. It does, however, have news value. Imagine the smoke and fury the news media in this small town of Boston will raise when they see this. I can think of two tabloids and at least three radio talk shows that’ll be delighted to put you in center stage. You’ll be wishing I had taken you to court. At least there you’d have a chance to prove your innocence. No, you’re going to find yourself skewered in the forum of the media, gossip, public opinion. I wonder if an operation that calls itself the American Fidelity Mutual Fund can afford a president that everybody knows got away with jury fixing in an arson case that resulted in homicide. Here, you keep this copy for a souvenir. I have plenty of others.”
I flipped it back to him. It landed in front of him, but he didn’t see it. He was just staring at the edge of the table. No one knew better than he did how the liberal powers behind certain media would celebrate the destruction of his conservative reputation. His mind went through several seconds of deflating computati
on before he muttered, “What do you want?”
I let it hang there for a few seconds to let him anticipate the worst.
“I’ll tell you what I don’t want. I don’t want you. I don’t give a damn if you eat lobster thermidor for the rest of your self-pampering life. I want information, and I want a signed statement. If I get it, I may never need to make it public. I can’t promise that, but it’s your only option.”
He lifted his head to meet my eyes. His breathing had become labored. I wanted to finish this thing before he expired at McDonald’s, giving the restaurant a bad name.
“If I don’t get the truth, and I know most of it, I’m on my way. You get one shot at it. You understand?”
He nodded.
“Let’s start with a simple one. The first trial of Dolson. Was the jury fixed?”
It took a second, but he nodded.
“I’d like to hear it out loud.”
“Yes.” It sounded as if a frog had taken residence in his throat. He cleared it and repeated the answer.
“That’s right. That was a test. Were you in on the fix?”
He looked in both directions. There was a mother with three small children just sitting down two tables away. He leaned over and whispered.
“Do we have to do this here?”
“Yes. Were you in on the fix?”
He both nodded and whispered, “Yes.”
It was time to go for the gold.
“Lex Devlin represented Dolson. Did Lex Devlin know anything about the fix?”
He thought for a long moment while everything inside of me stopped.
“I don’t know.”
“I want the truth or you’re a dead duck.”
“I swear I honestly don’t know. I never talked to Devlin about it. I don’t know if anyone else did.”
I could feel the pit of my stomach drop three inches. One more domino had dropped, and I was still chasing pay dirt. I didn’t know how many more of these I could survive. Anthony’s trial was coming up the following day. Time was short, but I needed to push it to one more level before putting it on the shelf. I regrouped and tried to sustain the bravado, which was at this point running low.
“One more question. And you’d better find an answer for this one. This is the deal-breaker. Who put the pieces together to fix that juror? The money, the contact, all of it. Who actually did it?”
The sheet of moisture that covered his forehead beaded into drops that began coursing down his cheeks. I could see his hands clutch the edge of the table to stop the shaking. He took a deep breath and shook his head.
“I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“He could… destroy me.”
He was stymied with fear. The only thing that could drive him through it was a smack in the rear with a greater fear. I blocked out the overwhelming urge to cave in out of pity by focusing on the ten years of pain he had caused Mr. Devlin without a thought.
I leaned over the table.
“Look in my eyes, Mr. Shortbridge, and read the truth. He could destroy you. I will destroy you.”
He shook until even the table couldn’t steady him. It came out of him in a whisper.
I leaned closer. “What?”
“Loring. Robert Loring. He put it together. We all agreed to the plan, but he put it together.”
It was like releasing a pressure valve. His whole body sank back in the chair as if it had been deflated. I recognized the name. Loring was the general partner of the limited partnership that owned the buildings that burned with the one that had been torched.
I let him catch his breath while I took out a legal pad and pen. I put it in front of him and told him to write it in detail. He took the pen and looked up.
“You said…”
“I said I may not have to make it public. I have just one interest in this business. Where it goes from there is out of my hands.”
He nodded and started to write.
30
It was two thirty in the afternoon when Shortbridge and I parted company under a giant grinning cutout of Ronald McDonald. I had one more part to play before I could get my mind fully back to the Bradley case.
Information gave me the number for Robert Loring’s office on Federal Street. I had gotten the address earlier from Gene Martino.
Loring’s secretary had an upscale coolness in her voice.
“Mr. Loring’s office.”
“Hello. May I speak to Mr. Loring?”
“I’m afraid not. Mr. Loring is out of the office for the afternoon. May I inquire what this is in reference to?”
I overlooked the fact that she was unashamed of ending a sentence with a preposition.
“It’s in reference to his meeting with me in the Public Garden tomorrow morning.”
“That’s not possible. Mr. Loring has appointments in-house through tomorrow afternoon. Who is this speaking?”
“This is a man who wants Mr. Loring to know that he’ll meet him tomorrow morning at nine o’clock at the bench in the Public Garden where they start the swan boats.”
There was a little condescending laugh that sent my Latino blood well above 98.6. I nonetheless cooled it and let her finish.
“I’m afraid you’ll be waiting there alone, whoever you are. Mr. Loring has no intention…”
“I’m not in the habit of giving legal advice freely, miss, so consider yourself among the elect. My very best advice to you is that you treat this as a 911 call and reach Mr. Loring as if his life depended on it. Tell him about the appointment at the swan boats tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. And in the course of the conversation, mention the name of Frank Dolson to him. When you do, have a chair behind him and two aspirin in your hot little hand. Have you got all that?”
There was nothing but pause on the other end. I figured I got her attention. I wished her a delightful afternoon and hung up.
There was one last base that I wanted to touch before Anthony’s trial began. I drove over to Harvard and found Terry Blocher just coming back to Dunster House from class. It seemed like the first time all day I’d talked to another human being without trying to trick or coerce him into saying something he’d rather keep deeply buried.
Terry seemed open and anxious to help any way he could. His first words were a sincere inquiry about Anthony. It struck me that he really cared as a friend, but then, my experience so far with this case had forced me to reevaluate my intuitive judgment of character.
He invited me in, and we settled down behind a couple of Cokes.
“Terry, I’m trying to piece together exactly what happened on that Sunday. Could you give it to me again? Give me all the details.”
I appreciated the fact that he thought about it before beginning.
“I went down to Anthony’s room here at Dunster about two in the afternoon. I think I asked what he wanted to do. He said he wanted to go into Chinatown for the New Year’s celebration and have dinner. I said OK, so we went.”
“And Anthony picked the Ming Tree restaurant?”
“That’s right. It was new to me.”
“Think back, Terry. Did anyone join you at the dinner?”
“No. Well, actually what happened was during the dinner Anthony excused himself and went into the back room. It looked like he was going into the kitchen.”
“Could it have been the men’s room?”
“No. That was off to the side. He was there for a few minutes. Then he came back to the table. There was a Chinese man with him. He introduced him, but I can’t remember his name.”
“Tall, thin fellow? Well dressed? Speaks excellent English?”
“Right. Exactly. Anyway, he asked if I was staying in Chinatown for the celebration. I had to tell him I was probably going back to Cambridge right after dinner. The noise when we came in was too much for my ears.”
“So then?”
“That was it. We finished. We split the bill. Anthony and I walked downstairs. I left Anthony on the sidewalk. He wanted t
o see the dragon or lion or whatever it was coming up the street.”
“What about the Chinese man?”
He thought for a minute.
“He walked downstairs with us. They were together on the sidewalk when I left.”
I had a better picture of that afternoon. Unfortunately, it could have suited either Anthony’s or the witnesses’ version of the killing that followed.
“One last question, Terry. Are you a member of that group called ‘The Point’”?
He shook his head. “No. I have trouble enough getting myself through the courses.”
Tuesday morning was a little milder than it had been, but the chill and the clouds let you know that it was clearly still February.
It was also the day Anthony Bradley’s trial was to begin, at Mr. Devlin’s request. I knew I should have been meeting Mr. Devlin at the courthouse, but I had to do this one other thing while momentum was overcoming the fact that I was petrified. They’d use the morning to pick a jury, and then Angela Lamb would come to bat for the prosecution. Heaven knows Mr. Devlin didn’t need my help for that.
At nine o’clock, I was standing by the swan-boat pond in the Public Garden. It was frozen over with the exception of a few circles of moisture that reminded me that someday this long winter would end.
The walking Boston office workers had passed earlier along the paths that led to the office buildings that ring the garden. I was alone, except for a woman on a bench a distance along the pond.
At exactly two minutes past nine, I saw an older man walking a little faster than what I imagined his usual gate might be. From the gray hair and the way the flesh hung on the bones of his face I figured that he looked a good bit older than he was. It made me wonder what had aged him. The Chesterfield coat over a gray, pin-striped suit of the finest wool said it certainly wasn’t poverty.
He looked at me uneasily and took a seat on the bench. I walked over. No need prolonging his purgatory.
“Mr. Loring, you’re right on time.”
“I don’t have time for this. Who are you?”
He would have sounded dominating and self-assured but for two things-the quiver in his voice, and the fact that he was there. That told me he was more frightened than I was.
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