"Perhaps if you told Mr. Neely I'm here investigating the death of Woodrow Gant?" I put one of my business cards on the desktop, but before the woman looked down, her whole face drooped.
"Please . . ." A more hushed voice now. "Please be seated for a moment."
Arranged in a corner were a love seat and two wing chairs, the same polished teak as the desk and upholstered in fabric that picked up more of the carpet's wine than its gold. I took one of the chairs as the receptionist touched something on her board. Before she could speak into the mouthpiece, a man in his thirties with a military walk and suspendered, pleated suit pants entered the reception area from a side corridor.
He said, "Imogene, I just got off a conference call, but there weren't any messages on my voice mail."
She pointed at the machine in front of her, then lowered her hand, palm down, toward it.
"Again?" said the man. "That's the third time this week, and it's only Wednesday."
Imogene just glared at him, now pointing to her mouthpiece. After taking two pink slips from a slot in the message holder, he turned. I could see for the first time a streak of white on the right side of his well-groomed hair, like a male Bride of Frankenstein. Without looking toward me, he strode away. Then Imogene whispered something into her mouthpiece. I couldn't hear what she said, which, given her controlled attitude so far, didn't surprise me.
* * *
"Mr. Cuddy, Frank Neely."
He extended his hand to shake, the full name "Francis Xavier Neely" on calligraphed diplomas from Boston College High School, Boston College, and Boston College Law in ascending order on the wall behind his own teak desk. Around here we call that a "Triple Eagle," after the schools' shared mascot. At the side of the desk, there was even an old bookbag-style briefcase, the kind the nuns preferred you to carry in grammar school, the initials "FXN" in faded gold near the handles on top.
Neely next said, "Thank you, Imogene," and his office door closed behind me. "Mr. Cuddy, have a seat while I just enter something on my time sheet here."
Sitting down, Neely tapped at a computer as though he were afraid it might explode on him. Standing between the teak desk and matching credenza, Neely was a shade over six feet, maybe two hundred pounds. What looked like a closet door to the right wasn't open, and while he might have put on the windowpane suit jacket just to greet me, I somehow didn't think so. His eyes were blue—what an aunt of mine would have called "devilish"—in a ruddy face, the nose prominent.
His hair was that straw-blond that skips gray and goes straight to snow at the sideburns. A sepia photo on the wall showed a youthful Neely in World War II combat fatigues, a Ranger patch stitched to one shoulder, his arm a horse-collar around the neck of another soldier in the same uniform. The horse-collar appeared to be a favorite pose of Neely's, as he used it again in a color photo with a very slim, very distinguished, and very bald man, the neckties and hairstyles suggesting the shot went maybe ten years back. However, the Ranger one meant Neely would have to be pushing seventy, even if seemingly in better-than-fair shape doing it.
"Leonard Epstein."
I brought my eyes back to Neely. "Which photo?"
He actually turned to look. "Oh, the color shot there. Len and I founded this firm together seven—no, sweet Jesus, it's eight years now." A bittersweet smile with a head shake. "Heart attack took him early, never saw sixty-five. God wants the good ones sooner, I guess."
"I'm sorry for both your losses," I said.
Even the bittersweet smile disappeared now. "Imogene said you were here about Woodrow."
"That's right. And I really appreciate your seeing me without any notice."
"Which must be the way you thought best."
Direct. "When I call first, people usually manage to be away from their desk."
Something rumbled in Neely's chest, but he didn't laugh out loud. "I'm a trusts and estates man, Mr. Cuddy, so I'm almost always in. But I take your point." His left hand went up to scratch at his temple, the back of the hand matted enough with the snowy hair to cover any age spots. "Imogene said she'd seen a business card. How about a little more definite identification?"
I drew out the leather folder, and then my wallet, flipping to the driver's license photo before passing both across the desk. Neely compared them without reaching for any glasses, then passed both back.
"So," he said, "how about if it's 'John' and 'Frank' for now?"
"Fine with me."
"You're working for Mr. Alan Spaeth, then?"
The same inflection on “Mr." as on each syllable of the name. "I am."
"Figured as much. You were with one of the insurance companies, somebody would have called first."
I said, "One of the companies?"
"Woodrow had a couple of life policies, payable to family members. And of course we had firm insurance on him."
"As a key employee."
A nod. "Learned that lesson with Len. We didn't have but five hundred on each of us back then, and it was tough sledding for a while after he died."
"Five hundred thousand?"
Neely shifted in his chair. "Correct."
"And how much on Mr. Gant?"
Neely seemed to want to shift again, but didn't. "Straight million, same as each of us."
"You mean, on each partner?"
"On each attorney. Don't let Uta hear I said this, but the associates are worth at least as much as the partners in terms of time invested on cases."
But not, I'd have thought, rainmaking. "I'm sorry, Uta is . . . ?"
"Uta Radachowski. She's my third . . ." Neely closed his eyes briefly. “She's my other partner, now. Elliot Herman and Deborah Ling are the associates."
Which would probably make Herman the man I saw in the reception area. "So, not counting Mr. Gant, the firm has only four attorneys, total?"
Neely did shift again this time. "Yes, but what difference does that make to your work?"
"I don't follow you."
The man came forward in his chair, the hairy hands having a hard time nesting comfortably on his desktop. “John, I've shown you my cards so far, don't you be holding yours close to the vest, okay?"
"Frank, I honestly didn't get what you meant."
Neely sat back. "You're working for Mr. Spaeth, you'd be wanting to know about the blowup here when he threatened Woodrow."
Neely's cooperation was important to me, even if keeping it meant telling him I might have some cards in my hand. "Frank, there are enough things about Mr. Gant's death that bother me, I'm not sure what I want to know."
"The police seemed to think your Mr. Spaeth is their man."
"I don't."
The lawyer's eyebrows closed together, two caterpillars trying to pass on the same twig. "You genuinely believe somebody other than Mr. Spaeth might be responsible for Woodrow's death?"
"Yes."
Neely looked down at his hands a moment. "I'll not ask you who or why, because in your position, I wouldn't say. I'd ask only that you bear some things in mind." He looked back up at me, some of the combat stare in his eyes. "The people in this firm are like family to me, and, I believe, to each other as well. When Len died, Uta and I were the only attorneys here. The emotional impact was as though she'd lost an uncle and me a brother. But Woodrow's . . . death was worse. Far worse. Senseless, horrible, someone else's nightmare come home to roost. We all cried openly in the halls and offices for days, and it'll be years before we can think about it without pain."
Neely paused, I think to see if I'd say anything. I didn't.
He nodded once. "But, John, I'm a lawyer, too. And I believe every criminal defendant has a right to vigorous, zealous advocacy. Only way to keep our system honest. And I also call the shots around here. When the police first contacted me about Woodrow, I was in shock, but even then I realized that somebody from the defendant's side would be calling on us about the scene in the conference room, and I've been bracing myself for it ever since. I was prepared to let whoever that somebody
might be talk to everyone who knew anything about it, air the incident out and be done with it. But now you're telling me you think that might not be all, correct?"
"Correct."
"Very well, John. You have carte blanche. Ask your questions of all of us, though I'll not order anyone to say something he or she wants to keep in confidence. And obviously I can't let you invade the privacy of our clients."
"Understood."
"Understand two more things, then. First, I want whoever killed Woodrow—Mr. Spaeth or otherwise—drawn and quartered. Second, if I find that you've put anyone in this firm to unnecessary grief because of questions that didn't need to be asked, I'll make you sorry you ever heard the name Frank Neely. Have I been clear enough?"
"Crystal."
We looked at each other the way I remembered from my war.
Then Neely said, "I'm not trying to dictate your program here, but I'd start with the lawyers. Probably Uta first, since she's been here the longest. Then I'd talk with Elliot and finally Deborah."
"I'd also like to see Mr. Gant's office and speak with his secretary."
"His . . . ? Oh, that's right. You've seen Imogene only at the reception desk. One of the secretaries covers it when the receptionist's on break or whatever."
"Imogene was Mr. Gant's secretary?"
"Shared secretary. Financial necessity, this day and age."
"Who did he share her with?"
"Me," said Frank Neely in a matter-of-fact voice before rising.
* * *
Sure enough, when Neely walked me to his door and opened it, Imogene was sitting at the kangaroo-pouch desk in front of his office that had been empty when she'd escorted me back there. Imogene turned from folding correspondence, the creases razor sharp, the edges perfectly aligned. Four of the pink message slips lay on her desktop. More toward the center, near a single rose in a clear vase, was a little brass pup tent with "UMOGENE BURBAGE" etched into the metal.
"Imogene," said Neely, "would you take Mr. Cuddy to Uta, then check back with me?"
"Certainly."
As she led the way around a corner, I said, "Ms. Burbage, I understand you worked with Mr. Gant as well?"
A little stiffening of the shoulders in front of me. "As his secretary for three and a half years."
"I'd appreciate being able to speak with you, too, before I leave."
"I'll ask Mr. Neely about that."
"He's already okayed it."
Burbage started to turn. "If you don't mind, I'll ask him anyway."
Another woman, in her twenties and seeming frazzled, came toward us. A bundle of manila files were clutched to her chest, both hands crossed over them, a couple more of the pink message slips between two of her fingers. She stopped and started to extend the folders toward Burbage.
"Oh, Imogene, these messages and files are for Mr. Neely, too."
"Patricia, can you please leave them on my desk."
There was no rising, question-tone at the end of Burbage's statement, and Patricia simply said, "Sorry."
I walked past four hung prints of the same lighthouse at different seasons of the year. Near the end of the hall, Burbage paused at an open doorway without saying anything. I heard a hearty female voice inside say, "She's here now," and then the plastic bonk of a phone receiver redocking. "Please, Imogene, show Mr. Cuddy in."
Burbage turned to me and nodded before going back up the hall.
Entering the office, I saw a broad-shouldered, stolid woman coming around the desk to meet me. Radachowski's brown hair, dull but full, was leavened with the silver of untended middle age and cut so that it didn't quite reach her shoulders. She wore silver aviator glasses over features that bordered on homely. Her suit was tweed, the salt-and-pepper material flecked with red nubs. The eyes behind the glasses were sharp, p but slightly distorted by the prescription so they looked a third bigger than they were, kind of like viewing fish under water from the air above. A subdued smile showed long teeth that could use some whitening, but there was something about the way she engaged you with those oversized eyes that made you want to be her friend.
"Ms. Radachowski?"
"Uta, please"
"John."
We shook hands, hers nearly as large as mine. "John, I hear you might make me cry some more."
Quite an opening, I thought, as Radachowski released my right hand and waved me toward a chair.
The phone burred, and she apologized for needing to answer it, having just sent her secretary off on an errand. As Radachowski said something into the receiver about rescheduling a deposition, I took a seat and looked around her office. The desk and accompanying furniture were dark like Neely's, but I thought maybe cherry rather than the firm's signature teak. A computer squatted on the desk, and Radachowski cradled the phone on a shoulder as she began clacking away at the keyboard with the facility of a high—speed touch-typist. Her wall displayed photos showing Radachowski speaking from different podiums, the banners of various charitable organizations above and behind her. A different shot had Radachowski standing between Frank Neely and Leonard Epstein, the former with his horse-collar embrace of her, the latter looking sickly, even frail, Radachowski's arm around Epstein's waist seeming to be all that was holding him up. There were also plaques, the only one I recognized given by the Lambda Legal Defense Fund, its "Liberty Award."
Radachowski pressed another key and said, "Got it," into the telephone, followed by, "My direct dial? For the voice mail—if it's working—use five-one-three, two-two-oh-five .... right, bye." She hung up. “Sorry, John."
"The wonders of modern technology."
"When they're not on the fritz."
I gestured toward the computer screen. "You have your calendar in there?"
"Yes, but more than that. The software I use for docket control lets me overlay projected court deadlines and appearances for any county I've got a case pending in. If a deadline changes, the program ripples the modification through like a dollar-item change on a spreadsheet. I want a printout of tomorrow's—or next month's—events, I just hit another button and carry that with me."
"And I remember being in an insurance office when the arrival of a mag-card typewriter was like splitting the atom."
A roar so loud and long it was literally a belly laugh. "I like that." Then Radachowski leaned back in her chair, elbows on its arms. Clasping her hands and steepling the index fingers, she tapped the nails against her chin. "But you aren't here for an update on office technology."
"No, I'm not."
"As Imogene brought you to my door, I was just finishing with Frank Neely. He said to tell you anything I wanted to about Woodrow."
Neely appeared to be a man of his word. "What do you want to tell me?"
"First, that I believe your client killed my friend and partner."
"I have reason to think maybe not."
"So Frank said. But you should know that I'm speaking to you only because I, too, believe in the concept of 'innocent till proven guilty,' however . . . statistically inaccurate it might be."
I wondered if Woodrow Gant, the former prosecutor, had convinced her of that last part.
Radachowski seemed to sense what I was thinking as she tapped her chin some more.
"Woodrow was a fine lawyer, and we all miss him tremendously."
"Did you spend much time with Mr. Gant?"
"It's a small office, John, small enough that each person interacts with the others a great deal during the day. Staff meetings, lunches . . .” Her voice dropped. "In fact, I remember an informal brown-bagger all we lawyers had in the conference room a few weeks after the scene your client made there. Woodrow mentioned that he was glad the Spaeth case was going to settle, because Nicole had told him about her husband being 'fond of firearms! "
Nicole. "You worked with Mr. Gant on the case, then?"
"No. No, because of Epstein 8 Neely's size, we often bill hours on each other's cases, but Woodrow and I less than most."
"Why was that?"
"He did mostly domestic," said Radachowski. "That's divorces, as you probably know. I'm more civil litigation, with a little charitable organizations work thrown in."
"Not so little, from the Wall of Fame."
The belly laugh again. "You get involved with one, you get asked to speak at another. I'm proud of all, though." Radachowski gestured toward the Lambda one. "Some more than others."
"I don't know much about the Liberty Award, but it's for legal work regarding the gay and lesbian community, right?"
"Regarding discrimination against us." Radachowski waited for a reaction from me, but I don't think she saw one. "I got that award the same night as a congressman and a literary agent. You have any idea what it was like to be a woman—much less a lesbian—graduating law school twenty years ago?"
"None."
Radachowski softened her eyes, bringing me into that cone of friendship I'd noticed before. Must work wonders with a jury.
"Today it's different, John. Many law schools are almost fifty-fifty male/female, with a number of female faculty. While women comprise only ten or fifteen percent of the partners in most large law firms, that will change as today's female graduates move in and up by sheer force of numbers and ability.
Back in my time, though, there were literally more black males than women of any color in my graduating class, and only a handful of declared gays or lesbians." Radachowski seemed to go inside herself for a moment. "The fall of my senior year, all the big Boston firms interviewed me, mainly because, one, I had the grades and, two, my law school had a placement policy that forbade overt discrimination based on gender or sexual 'preference,' as they called sexual 'orientation' in those days." Then the eyes hardened a bit, like wary animals turning angry behind the curved walls of a glass cage. "However, there was some obvious discomfort about how I'd 'fit in' with the other lawyers already there."
"Christmas parties and firm outings—"
"—to concerns about loitering with innocent young secretaries in the ladies' room." Radachowski stopped. "But one interviewer was different. He looked down at my résumé, and instead of focusing on the gay/lesbian extracurricular stuff, he asked me what I wanted to do. And, given how little I knew then about how the legal system worked, I told him ‘become a . . .' " For the first time, Radachowski seemed to grope for her words. " 'A litigator, try jury cases.' Well, the man indicated he thought I'd be good at it. That interviewer was—"
The Only Good Lawyer - Jeremiah Healy Page 8