Halfway through the second Jack, I got to it.
"What's up, Phil? Let's forget we're classmates, even friends back then. I'm your lawyer. I won't repeat a word. Something's driving you ape. What is it?"
He just sunk his head into his hands. I couldn't leave it at that. I lifted him back by the shoulder.
"You're married, aren't you, Phil? I heard you married that girl you were going with back in high school. Mary Casey."
He looked up at me and I saw a rim of tears in both eyes.
"Where is she, Phil? Did you split up?
He bolted up and shook his head, but nothing came out.
"What is it, Phil? Are you into drinking?"
He just shook his head. I needed to jar something loose. I grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to look me in the eye.
"What? Another woman? What?"
He looked away and shook his head. I pulled his head around an inch from mine.
"What?!"
"Gambling. I'm into the bookies, Mike . . . Let it go. That's all I can say."
"Did Mary leave you?"
He shook loose of my grip and retreated to the other side of the room. I was on his heels. I spun him around again. He was like a rung-out dishrag. I found myself shouting.
"Say it, Phil! Let's get it out!"
"They've got her. They've got her. Now it's out. If they find out I said it, she's dead. Are you satisfied?"
I stayed on him.
"Who's got her, Phil? Tell me or so help me I'll take it to the police. There's an exception to this attorney-client privilege business."
He looked shocked and desperate, which was the idea.
He dropped down on the couch and let the tears flow. When he looked up, he barely breathed the name. “Terrence Boylan."
Boylan was as close as the Irish get to a mafia-style godfather, the reigning prince of crime in Southie. That one set me back a little.
"It's out now, Phil. Give me the rest of it."
Phil sank into a chair, depleted and lost. He let it out in a hopeless monotone.
"I was doing okay, Mike. Real estate. Mary and I had no kids, but it was a good life. Then I got into gambling with the bookies. I got sucked in way over my head. Last night about nine I got a call to meet Boylan's man, Mick Scully, at Hooley's Bar up on F Street. It's a hangout for Boylan and his mob. He said we could work out the debt."
He stopped for a breath. I topped off his Jack Daniels to keep the flow going.
"Scully told me Boylan and his mob wanted me to confess to a murder. I told them to shove it. Scully said they had it worked out so my confession would be thrown out in a few days. I wouldn't be convicted. I still said no. That's when Scully called someone and put me on the phone. He said he had Mary. He let me talk to her just long enough to know they had her. They said I'd see her again only if I . . . went through with the plan."
"Then what?"
"Scully got a bottle of Jack Daniels at the bar and took me home. He told me to finish the bottle. That was part of the plan. I was passed out when the cop came through the front door around four this morning. He took me in. I signed a confession like Scully told me to. The next thing I remember is talking to you in court."
Now I was really confused. What purpose could the confession serve if it was bound to be thrown out for lack of mental capacity because of drunkenness? Obviously Phil would be released when his defense counsel—in this case the public defender, since Phil had gambled away their funds—got around to moving to suppress the confession. There was no other evidence, since Phil didn't commit the murder. He'd have to be released. To accomplish what?
I told Phil to stay home, sit tight, and talk to no one until I got back to him.
* * * *
The weakest link on the side of the bad guys seemed for the moment to be Detective Sergeant Martin Flynn. I was limited in terms of cover stories, since he knew me from the morning's court session. On the other hand, I was the one who unintentionally made their plan work by getting a dismissal. For all he knew, I was one of their good old boys. At least that was the thrust of my most ardent prayer.
I called him at the station and told him I had a message from “the man himself.” I figured that would translate to Terrence Boylan. I told him to meet me in half an hour at Hooley's Bar, in the hopes that that familiar location would add credibility to my cover story.
* * * *
I watched from across the street when Detective Flynn walked into the bar, which was practically empty at that hour. I gave him a fifteen-minute wait inside just to string out his nerves.
When I walked in, I spotted him in a booth in a dark corner at the back. It was apparently not a place where he wanted to be seen, but he was there. The very fact that he was responding to my summons, as it were, pumped up my almost empty tank of nerve.
I slid in across from him and checked my watch. I was giving every bodily indication that I had little time to waste on this messenger's errand to a mere soldier.
Flynn had an innate toughness that radiated through his glare at this punk shyster sitting across from him. Clearly it was the invisible presence of the Irish godfather whom I was “representing” that kept him from squashing this bug and leaving.
I dropped my voice from a natural tenor to the best hushed baritone I could manage.
"He's not pleased."
"What the hell?"
"He's not pleased, Flynn. You bungled it."
That stunned him to a moment's silence while he put it together. Time to move.
"You had him so drunk it'd look phony to any kid out of law school. You think the judge is going to let it go at this? If it even gets close to implicating the man himself—do I have to say his name in public?—there won't be a rock you can hide under."
Tough as he was, he understood what I was saying far better than I did. I welcomed the sweat beads that were breaking out on his forehead. He leaned across the table to come closer than I wanted him, but I couldn't back off.
"Listen, I didn't get him drunk. He was that way when I picked him up. They told me that's how it was supposed to be."
"You didn't get him drunk?"
"Hell, no. That's how I found him. They told me, ‘Don't get a warrant. Just pick him up and get a signed confession.’ That's all I did."
I sat back as if in thought.
"That's not what the man heard. He thinks you handled the whole thing. He was bouncing off the walls. I never saw him like this. I just barely talked him into letting me talk to you before..."
"You gotta tell him. I did just what I was told."
I gave him the coldest dispassionate look I could muster.
"I don't have to tell him anything. You got yourself into this. I'm just giving you fair warning you better get yourself out before it hits the fan. That's my good deed for the week."
I got up as if to leave, and he reached over and grabbed my coat. It was less intimidation than desperation. I sat back down.
He dropped his voice in volume but doubled the intensity.
"Listen, I don't know what to do. You can talk to him. I can't."
"And say what?"
He was stumped. I eased back into the seat.
"You've got one shot at it. If you didn't mess it up, who did? Maybe I can lay the blame on someone else."
He went into deep thought, and I knew that might not be the best thing for my cause.
"Flynn, who was it that got O'Brien drunk? Who tipped you off and told you what to do?"
He was still in thought. The idea of spilling a name, even to me under the circumstances, ran against his intuitive code. I gave him just under four seconds and slid out of the booth.
"Have a nice life, Flynn. If I were you, I'd get my will in order."
He was out of the booth faster than I thought a man of his size could move. He was pinning me against the side of the bench, but I still felt in control.
"It was Mick Scully. He handled O'Brien. He's the one told me what to do. Tell tha
t to Mr. Boyl . . . the man."
I slowly pushed him back away from me.
"If it was Scully, how did you know Mr. Boylan was behind it? He'll want to know that."
I thought I'd slip in Boylan's name for the record.
"Scully told me. It was just like before. He always let me know I was doing it for, you know, Mr. Boylan. That's where the dough always came from. He's got to know Scully blew it, not me."
I figured I'd drained that well dry. I'd have asked about Mary O'Brien, but I doubted they'd trust a bent cop with that information.
* * * *
It was one o'clock when I called Mr. Devlin at the office. I asked him if he could set up a private meeting with Billy Coyne as soon as possible. He said he'd do what he could, given Billy's schedule.
I said, “Let's make it lunch at the Marliave. If that doesn't get him, you can tell him I got a glimpse of what's under the tip of the iceberg we saw in court this morning."
Whatever got him there, we met in the upstairs private room of our favorite Boston restaurant. As always, Anthony served us superbly and then discreetly gave us the desired privacy.
When the door closed behind Tony, Mr. Coyne leaned back and gave me a wary look.
"The lunch is great, kid. You know my soft spot. But I think you're opening up something I'm not ready to discuss."
"That's fair warning, Mr. Coyne. I'm going to tell you everything I know. I'll trust your judgment about where we go from there."
I laid out the plan to force Phil to confess to the murder of the bookie, Seamus Feeney. Contrary to my promise to Phil, I told him that they were holding Mary O'Brien captive to control Phil. I told him that Flynn was a crooked cop, and that he deliberately set up the arrest and confession so that defense counsel could have it thrown out.
Mr. Coyne listened without changing expression, but I knew he was asking the same question I was. Why?
I saved the punch line for last, in the hopes it would jar something loose.
"I know who's behind it. I'll give it to you if you'll just consider giving us what we need to work from our end."
"No promises, kid. Your play."
"The whole plan was orchestrated by Terrence Boylan. It was carried out by his lieutenant, Mick Scully."
That got a rise. He was leaning on the table on both elbows now.
"And this you know how?"
I took out the recorder that I carry as constantly as my car keys. I played back my conversation with Sergeant Flynn.
Billy Coyne went into some kind of trance. I could hear the tumblers clicking, but nothing was coming out. I gave him a minute before nudging him.
"What's it about, Mr. Coyne? We're willing to work with you on this."
He finally came out of the trance and looked at Mr. Devlin.
"Lex, can I trust this junior partner of yours? This is deep."
Mr. Devlin never hesitated.
"I'd trust him with my life. Is that deep enough?"
Mr. Coyne looked at me for a few seconds and then leaned in close as a quarterback in a huddle.
"Boylan's a Southie hood, as big-time as the Irish get around here. We've known that for years."
He looked at Mr. D.
"If this gets out of this room, Lex... “
"With my life, Billy. You can trust him, too."
Mr. Coyne took another look at me and leaned closer.
"From a month ago, I've been working with the FBI. They think Boylan's tapped into the terrorist side of the Irish Republican Army. The IRA. The part that throws the bombs. The feds figure Seamus Feeney as the pickup man for cash from some of our esteemed local Irish citizens who contribute to that organization. Boylan does the soliciting. Feeney collects and leaves the cash at a dead drop. Someone flies over from Ireland every couple of weeks to pick it up and fly back. No paper trail, even electronic."
Things were beginning to make sense.
"How does Mick Scully fit in?"
"He's Boylan's lieutenant. He runs the show with Feeney so Boylan's name stays out of it."
Now the wheels were really clicking. I even had a fair guess at why they set up the short-lived confession of Phil O'Brien. If I was right, time was not for the wasting.
The bare bones of a plan started coming together. I laid it out quickly for Mr. Coyne. He howled like a stuck pig and told Mr. D. to put a leash on his demented partner. Mr. D., who had seen my idiocy occasionally produce results, settled him down at least to listen.
"If I'm right, Mr. Coyne, we've got six hours at best. After that, they won't need to keep Phil's wife alive. And the horse you want will be out of the barn. We've got to move."
Mr. Coyne sat there like a pool of steaming acid for thirty seconds. Finally he looked at Mr. D., but he spoke to me.
"What do you want, kid?"
"I want you to make two phone calls right now. Then I need you to have a cop you can trust arrest Terrence Boylan. They need to hold him incommunicado, but they should make the arrest as public as possible."
He went into a silent funk before giving an inch.
"On what charge?"
"You have the tape of my conversation with Sergeant Flynn. That's enough to hold him for complicity in Feeney's murder, at least for a few hours. I just need those few hours."
Billy Coyne looked straight into my eyes, and I looked back into his.
"Yes or no, Mr. Coyne? I've got to know. A couple of lives could depend on it. My own being one of them."
He gave it another ten seconds before taking out his cell phone and making the first call.
* * * *
It was not hard to locate Mick Scully. Every kid in Southie over ten years of age knew him on sight. He had a front as an insurance agent with an office on B Street. I got into the inner sanctum on the pretext of buying a whopping policy of malpractice insurance.
I'd never seen him before, but one look at the trim six-footer with handsome features, curly salt-and-pepper hair, and a French-cut suit that was not in the budget of an insurance agent confirmed the identification. We shook hands, and he waved me to a chair in front of his desk. I stayed on my feet.
"You're interested in insurance, Mr. Knight."
"I am, Mr. Scully. But I'm selling, not buying."
That brought a questioning smile. He raised his hands as an invitation to state my case.
"I'm selling life insurance."
"Really. Whose life?"
"Yours, Mr. Scully. Life on the outside, as opposed to life in prison."
The smile disappeared, leaving a look of granite on a face that betrayed not one scintilla of trepidation over this audacious microbe in front of him making threats.
"I'll tell you what I'll give you, Knight. I'll give you thirty whole seconds to tell me why I shouldn't have you escorted somewhere you may not want to go."
"I accept the offer. Thirty seconds should do it."
He looked at his watch. “Twenty-nine."
"I'll give you some history. You had Phil O'Brien's wife kidnapped to force him to confess to the murder of your bagman, Feeney. The carrot was that your back-pocket cop, Sergeant Flynn, would deliberately take a confession that any rookie lawyer could blow out of court."
So far, no visible reaction. I pushed on.
"Why the phony confession? Obviously to take the heat off of the man who actually killed Feeney. But what good is a temporary confession that's going to dissolve, probably in a few days at most? The answer that finally hit me is that that's all that's necessary to protect someone who's going to be leaving the country, probably tonight. That would be your visitor from Ireland, here to pick up this week's cash for the IRA. My guess is that little Feeney dipped into the cash bag and got caught by the unforgiving courier. The Irishman's probably booked on a plane out of Logan Airport tonight."
The expression never changed, but the fire in his eyes glowed red-hot.
"You just bought yourself a funeral, Mr. Knight."
I matched his poker face, with limited cards to su
stain the bluff.
"Maybe. So why am I here telling you things you already know? A deal. You know. I give, you give."
"You've got nothing I need, Mr. Knight. No deal."
He started to reach for the phone.
"At three o'clock this afternoon, Terrence Boylan was arrested, and this was no phony arrest. He was charged with being an accessory to the murder of Seamus Feeney."
That brought a smile more like a smirk.
"You're a liar, but a good one, Mr. Knight. On what evidence?"
"Never trust a crooked cop, Mr. Scully. They'll sell you out every time. Before you throw away your last best chance of a free life, why don't you call Terrence Boylan's office? What harm? I'm not going anywhere."
He thought that one over before grabbing the phone and dialing a number he knew well.
"Put Boylan on."
Whoever answered apparently conveyed the news of Boylan's arrest. Scully hung up.
"I'll tell you something else you don't know, Mr. Scully. Boylan's not about to go to jail. When I left, he was very convincingly selling the deputy district attorney on the fact that he had nothing to do with it. The whole thing was handled by a certain Mick Scully. What do you think of that?"
"I think it's pure bull...."
"No, you don't, Mr. Scully. You know Boylan. If his neck's in the noose, what do you figure he'll do, take a life sentence out of sheer loyalty to you, or sell you down the river as fast as you can paddle to save his own skin?"
The smirk was fading just enough to give a shot to my confidence.
"As I said, I have something to offer."
He just looked at me, but he was listening
"An even trade. I represent you in making a deal with the D.A. You give them Boylan and the IRA man in exchange for a life on the outside."
"If I give them Boylan, why do I need you?"
"Because I make it work. Right now, you two rat on each other, they've got both of you. I make it a package deal including the IRA connection, and you walk. I can do it. I've talked to the deputy D.A. He's on board. But that's not what you're worried about, is it?"
"Is that so?"
He kept the attitude, but looked as if he were listening to the Oracle at Delphi.
"Boylan you can handle. You're worried about taking on the IRA. You do one day in jail, and they'll get to you. They'll make a life sentence look like the good news. I can put you out of their reach."
EQMM, May 2010 Page 6