“I’ve got a gift for you, Abie baby,” Alex said as he hugged Abe. “It will more than pay you back for fixing me up with ‘Chesty’ Chessowics back in junior year at Boston Latin. I came to deliver it in person because I wanted to see the look on your face.”
“What could possibly be a sufficient payback for your first copped feel?” Abe asked, hoping he knew the answer.
“Joe Campbell,” Alex said, beaming.
“I talked him into meeting with you,” Alex continued as the two men walked back down the stairs and toward O’Donnell’s dove gray Jaguar. “He’s gotta be at practice this afternoon, and he’s spending the morning looking for a good local lawyer. I had breakfast with him and told him about you. He wants to meet with you right now.”
“Great. Thanks, Alex. What does Campbell know about me?”
“Only the good things. I didn’t tell him about your most recent cases. I went back to the glory days. This one’s gonna break your streak.”
“Those were tough—”
“I know, Abie baby,” Alex cut in. “You don’t have to make excuses to me. We go back too far.”
While Abe and Alex drove down Storrow Drive, Alex began to tell him about Campbell. “The man’s a walking flytrap for broads. We should be so lucky. No way he raped this woman. She wanted him. We can prove it. Let Joe tell you what happened. He’s smart as hell, this guy. Brainiest ballplayer I ever represented. And we can get hard evidence to back up everything Joe is going to tell you.”
“What do you mean, ‘we can get hard evidence’?”
“I mean there are hospital reports, physical evidence, and other stuff that will knock your socks off. This is going to be the easiest case you ever couldn’t lose. And you’ll be the hero of the sports world. We just gotta win this one real quick. Reebok is holding off on a megabuck endorsement deal until this mess is out of the way. So no typical lawyer delaying tactics to pad the bill.”
They arrived at the Four Seasons, where O’Donnell came to a stop right in front of the hotel. Alex seemed to throw the Jag into park and hurl his compact body out of the illegally parked sports car all in one energetic motion. At the lobby house phones, he called the hotel operator and asked for Mitch White.
“Who the hell is Mitch White?” Abe asked.
“Oh, that’s the name he registers under—White—‘White Knight.’ That way only his friends know how to reach him.”
“Joe,” Alex practically yelled into the phone. Abe wondered just how Campbell kept his identity secret with the exuberant O’Donnell as his agent. “I’ve got Ringel down here with me in the lobby. Okay to come up?” Alex nodded to Abe, and they headed to the elevator bank.
Alex knocked on room 535, a corner suite, and Joe Campbell opened the door. Alex hugged him, and he reciprocated with obvious reluctance and a shrug directed at Abe as if to ask “Does he make you go through this, too?”
Abe immediately liked Joe. Of course, he had seen him play many times and felt that he knew him in the one-sided way that spectators and audiences always thought they knew popular stars.
“Mr. Ringel, come in. I’ve heard only good things about you.” Abe hoped that was literally true.
“Come, sit down.” Campbell led them to the sitting room of his elaborate suite. “I’m sorry to have dragged you down here. I’m interviewing several lawyers this morning, and it was easier this way.”
“No problem. I like to make house calls.”
While they bantered, Abe and Joe were casually sizing each other up. It was always like that at a first meeting between lawyer and client. The lawyer looked for telltale signs of innocence or guilt, quickly assessed what kind of impression the client was likely to make on the judge or jury, and tried to sense whether the client was going to be straight with his lawyer. For his part, the client inspected the merchandise he was considering buying—the sincerity of the lawyer, his energy level, his appearance, and, most important, his commitment to the case.
Abe assumed Joe liked what he saw, because the athlete began to move the conversation from banter to substance. Yet he started his story in an oddly elliptic manner, perhaps because he was uncertain or embarrassed, Abe reflected.
“Well… we met in New York last—”
“Please, don’t tell me what happened,” Abe said, cutting him off. “Let me ask you specific questions.”
“Why? I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“It’s much better this way,” Abe said. “I want to frame the questions so that you don’t tell me more than I need to know.”
It was the way Abe always structured his initial interviews. Don’t let the client tell you his story before he understands the implications of what he is saying. The Supreme Court had recently ruled that if a lawyer knows his client is lying, he is not permitted to put him on the witness stand, since that would constitute suborning perjury. The ruling had grown out of a murder case in which the client pleaded self-defense. When he first told his defense attorney the story, he said he had not seen any gun in the hand of the man he stabbed. Then, after talking to some jailhouse lawyers, he changed his story and claimed that he had seen the metallic object he had previously denied seeing. The upshot of the case was that the Supreme Court ruled it improper under those circumstances to allow the client to swear that he had seen a metallic object. Thus if a client told one story at the outset and then changed it, this created big problems both for the lawyer and client. Most criminal defense lawyers had become much more cautious about letting their clients ramble on without some structure.
Abe was not as controlling as some lawyers. Anthony Albino—the lawyer Joe was scheduled to interview next—was infamous for his technique. At a recent bar association dinner roasting Albino, there was a skit about a fictitious defense lawyer named “Tony Alibi.” “Alibi” was shown interviewing a woman charged with murdering her husband. “He beat you, right? He threatened the kids, right? Oh, you don’t have kids. Well, how about nephews? nieces? a dog? the goldfish.” Abe didn’t create defenses the way Albino did, but neither did he want to hear his client’s untutored version of the facts during the first interview. It was a dicey little game, and every lawyer was playing it by somewhat different rules.
Abe remembered his first interview with a client following the Supreme Court’s new ruling. He’d started by telling his client that if he were guilty, he couldn’t take the stand. The client had responded matter-of-factly, “Just tell me what I have to tell you if I want to take the stand, and I’ll tell it to you.” What a relief it was to have a client like Joe Campbell.
Campbell, to his credit, had stopped talking and was waiting politely for Abe to lead the conversation, which signaled to Abe that he would not be one of those pain-in-the-ass clients who fought with you about everything. Nor did Joe seem like a liar. Abe relaxed a little on his chair.
“First a few preliminaries. Everything you tell me is confidential. Alex has to leave the room. Although he’s your agent and friend, he isn’t your lawyer, and what you tell him isn’t privileged.”
“Wait a minute,” Alex protested. “I won’t tell anyone. I want to stay.”
“Sorry, but the rule says that if you stay, we can all be subpoenaed to testify about our conversation. You’ve got to go. Just wait outside.”
“What about your fee? Don’t you want me to be here for that part of the discussion.”
“There’s really nothing to discuss. My fee is three hundred an hour for my time, and a hundred and seventy-five an hour for my associate’s time, plus expenses. In Joe’s case, I don’t need a retainer. He’s good for it. I read in the paper how much you got for him in his recent contract negotiations.”
“And that’s without endorsements,” Alex added as he shrugged into his coat. “Joe, I’ll call you before the game. Abe, you can get home without me since I’m dismissed.”
“Go, Alex,” Abe said as he made a shooing gesture with his hand. Alex left, and Abe turned to Joe.
“Let’s start at the end
and work backward. When were you arrested?”
“Last night about 10 P.M., when I got back to my hotel. The police were waiting in the lobby. They were very polite. Said I would have to come with them to the Berkeley Street station.”
“What did they tell you?”
“That I was under arrest for raping Jennifer Dowling.”
“Did they book you?”
“Yes, and then they let me go. Said I should get a lawyer and be in court today for the arraignment.”
“Did you tell them anything?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What exactly did you say?”
“I told them it was a date, consensual sex, that she had inserted a spermicide.”
“Why did you tell them all that? Didn’t they give you a Miranda warning?”
“Sure, but they made it sound like it was a warning for guilty people. I had nothing to hide, so why not tell them? I thought maybe they would drop the charges once they learned that Jennifer had gone into the bathroom and put in her stuff. They took notes and said they would look into what I said.”
“Are you leaving anything out?”
“Yeah, I told them how we met in New York, where we went to dinner here in Boston. I gave them the American Express receipt for the Watertown restaurant, and the name of the limo company and the driver.”
“Did you talk to anyone else other than the police?”
“Yes. Mike Black of the Boston Globe was at the booking. Someone had tipped him. I told him what I had told the cops, since I figured he would be printing a story about my arrest, and I wanted my version in the story.”
“Is there anything else I should know? Maybe some info you held back from the police or Black?”
“Yes, there is, Mr. Ringel. I was too embarrassed to tell them about it.”
“What is it, Joe? And please call me Abe.”
“It’s in the bathroom, let me get it.”
Joe came out of the bathroom holding a crumpled handkerchief in a plastic Baggie. “I wiped off my penis with this after we finished, and I’m sure it contains some of her jelly. Can you use that?”
“Sure, let me take it and send it over to the lab.”
As Joe handed him the bag, Abe asked, “Does this mean you’ve decided on me as your lawyer?”
“I guess so. You seem very able, and Alex says you’re a ‘mensch,’ which he translated to me as ‘a good egg.’”
“I’ll win this case, Joe—if it ever becomes a case. The DA may well decide to drop it after they follow up on the leads you gave them.”
“That would be great.”
“Joe, I have just one more question.”
“Shoot.”
“How do you explain why Jennifer Dowling filed this rape charge? If you’re telling me the truth, then it seems clear she will have a difficult time winning. Is she trying to shake you down for money?”
“No, I don’t think so. I think she feels raped. I acted like a real shit after we made love. I just picked up and left. I didn’t kiss her or thank her. She was a lousy lay, and I guess I let her know it. I shouldn’t have done that, and I guess now I’m paying the price.”
“And it’s a darned heavy price,” Abe added.
“I hope you never experience it, Mr. Ringel. You can’t imagine how it feels to be accused of something so terrible. My mother is so upset. She knows that this is not the boy she raised. And it’s my own fault. I should have realized how vulnerable I am to this sort of accusation, and I should have been more sensitive to her needs.”
As Joe spoke, Abe was listening not only to the words, but also to the music and the rhythm. Almost all clients spoke the words of innocence at the initial meeting with their lawyer, but Joe spoke them with sincerity that was not at all typical of Abe’s clients. The look on Joe’s face reminded Abe of Oliver North’s. It exuded all-American integrity. What a great witness he will make, thought Abe. He quickly put the idea out of his mind as reality set in. This case would never get to trial. The really good ones rarely did. The prosecutor wouldn’t want to lose a high-visibility case like this one. She’d drop it before she got too much egg on her face. Maybe Jennifer Dowling would change her mind when she found out what she’d have to go through. They often did back out, Abe knew. It would be a good win for him, not a great win. Nobody ever credited the defense lawyer when the case got dropped.
“I’ll get to work today—interviewing witnesses, calling the lab, talking to the cops. A young lawyer—your age—will be down to see you in half an hour. His name is John Justin Aldrich, but he goes by Justin. Give him all the specifics: names, addresses, times. Everything you know about Jennifer Dowling. We’ll follow up on everything, and he’ll represent you at the arraignment, which is nothing more than a formality. And no more talking to anybody. Not the police, not the press, not your teammates, not your coaches, not even Alex. From now on, everything goes through me and Justin. No one else. Here’s my private home phone number. Call me anytime, day or night. If my daughter answers, leave a message. I’ll get right back.”
“Abe, I don’t know if this is proper…. Would you and your daughter, or whoever, want a couple of tickets to tonight’s game? I can’t promise I’ll be in top form after this. Then again, that’s good for you. You’re a Celts fan, right?”
“Right, from now on I’m a Campbell fan first. Sure, we’ll take the tickets. My daughter, Emma, and her entire class seems to have a crush on you. Maybe I can use it as an excuse to talk her out of going to her feminist group.” Abe winked as the two men shook hands. He had to restrain himself from emitting a cheer as he flew along the corridor to the elevator.
Chapter Three
Back once again in his office, Abe had time to process the meeting with Campbell. He sat on the antique carved oak chair that his mentor, Haskel Levine, had given him when he’d first opened his practice. Abe wondered what the old man would make of the case. He dialed Haskel, but the phone was busy. Haskel had good days and bad, mostly bad lately.
Once, Haskel Levine had been Boston’s most brilliant doctor of law, with an emphasis on “doctor.” In his practice, Levine’s approach had been more healing than adversarial. Haskel understood that law was a symphony, a blending of many different instruments and personalities that shaped a system. He did everything possible to avoid conflict, relying on reason, investigation, and compromise to achieve resolution. He became “counsel to the situation,” in the spirit of his hero Louis Brandeis. But if all else failed, Haskel Levine, in his prime, was also an awesome advocate in the style of Brandeis. As his student, Abe had subsumed Haskel’s approach, adding to it his own driving need to win.
Now Haskel’s incredible brain was being diminished by Alzheimer’s. It was horrible to watch. And to make matters worse, Haskel had become deeply depressed, to the point where he was being heavily medicated. Abe spoke to his mentor every day and visited him frequently. He found that whether Haskel was in a lucid phase or not, Abe needed to talk to the old man. Whatever Abe was struggling with would be filtered through Haskel’s ear. It was strange behavior, especially for Abe. Yet it never failed that after he’d talked things over with Haskel, the answers would come to him—not from Haskel, but through Haskel’s very presence. It was as if being near Haskel helped Abe to absorb Haskel’s wisdom. When Abe soliloquized in Haskel’s presence, he spoke a deeper, more honest, and more introspective truth than ever emerged in the presence of others—or even when he was alone. Haskel was Abe’s superego, his conscience, his Jiminy Cricket.
Not that Haskel would give him answers. Even when he had been in his prime, Haskel didn’t give advice in the traditional way. He had been the indisputable master of the “Socratic method”—or, as he preferred to call it, “the Talmudic method.” He asked questions, digging deeper and deeper with each layer. “We are archaeologists of ideas,” he once said. “There is always a deeper level, with more interesting artifacts. We must continue to dig until we are satisfied with what we have found. Then we must dig
more, because we should never be satisfied.”
Abe had not yet quite internalized all of Haskel’s values. He still needed the reinforcement of Haskel’s physical presence to bring out the best in him. He was aware that he was insuring for himself that by the time Haskel’s mind was entirely gone, he would have internalized him completely. Sometimes he wondered if this process of consuming his mentor was morally okay or not, if in fact he was being selfish by eating up the old man in this fashion.
“You’re the only person I can talk to about certain things,” Abe would say, “because you’re the only lawyer I know who never had any difficulty being an advocate as well as a human being.” That was true. Abe needed Haskel to bring out the part of him he was most proud of, and most afraid of. His vulnerable side, his human side. This was a serious potential character flaw in a tough advocate!
When the phone was still busy at Haskel’s, Abe buzzed Justin Aldrich on the intercom.
“Could you come into my office?”
Justin sat erect on the worn leather chair opposite Abe at the ancient partner’s desk, the desk from Abe’s original street-front office. John Justin Aldrich was in his early thirties, with straight blond hair, aristocratic in talk and dress. He was everything Abe wasn’t, which is why he had been hired.
“You know we got Campbell?”
“I knew before you got back from the meeting.”
“How’s that?”
“I caught Gayle making out the file.”
“Always efficient, isn’t she? You’re to go over there, debrief him, and walk him through the arraignment.”
“Well done, Abe.”
“Now, catch me up on Charlie O., please.”
“We’ve got a complication.”
“What else is new?”
Charlie Odell was a black man in his early twenties who had been convicted of gunning down Monty Williams, a controversial black politician, as Williams was leaving a McDonald’s in Newark following a campaign stop for reelection to the city council. Odell, who had a severe overbite that made him appear always to be smiling, was easy to recognize and had been identified by two eyewitnesses, one white and one black. While Odell had proclaimed his innocence from the moment of his arrest, a jury had convicted him and the judge had imposed the death penalty.
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