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EPILOGUE
Seth Greenberg pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and wiggled in bed, preparing to watch the Saturday eleven p.m. news. His fellow residents at the nursing home in Wellesley, one of the most affluent towns in Massachusetts, had long since retired for the night. Greenberg had rebuffed an attendant’s intrusion into his room to help him get ready for bed. He recognized that later he would have to apologize and accept her offer.
The promo for the news earlier that day had indicated that Jayson Cook would be featured. Greenberg felt very proud one of his students had done so well. He was a good man, that Jayson; the best of the lot who had attended the Massachusetts School of Law. In fact, he had stopped by just a couple of weeks ago to watch a Red Sox game with his old mentor.
Greenberg’s bony hands shook as he opened his large scrapbook filled with clippings and notices about his former students. He wanted to review the recent entries. The eighty-year-old man flipped pages and laughed out loud, regaled by the headlines touting Jayson’s success. It had been about two years since he had taken that nasty Brian Stone case and kicked everybody’s ass; a case no one thought he could possibly win—no one but his old law professor. Now his protégé was back in the news, and deservedly so.
Greenberg believed the big muckety-mucks running the local news stations in Greater Boston hated to acknowledge the accomplishments of those who hadn’t attended one of the expensive colleges in the area. Whenever reporters wanted to invite a talking head to explain some legal point to the viewers, they always scrambled to find some snooty professor from Harvard. Hardly anyone had ever called him or one of his MSL colleagues. Okay, okay, with his large glasses, bald head and five-feet, eight-inch frame he didn’t look like a movie star. Oh well, those days had long since passed. To hell with those reporters, he thought, and to hell with those supercilious bastards at Harvard, for that matter.
Greenberg pushed a button on the television remote control, turning up the volume. He could still do that much. Before that second stroke he could get around fairly well and fend for himself. Now he had to depend on others—and other things—to assist him in his daily activities. He turned his head to glance at the wheelchair next to the bed. Damned contraption. Well, he mused, people do get out of the way when they see a motorized wheelchair approaching. Greenberg chuckled. He had never been one to complain or feel sorry for himself. He had enjoyed a good eight decades on earth, had married—and been divorced by—three lovely Jewish women, and had sired seven reasonably bright children, who all visited or called regularly.
Greenberg heard the music signaling the beginning of the news program. He stopped ruminating and started watching.
Michelle Ling appeared, sitting alone at the anchor desk. After bidding the viewer good evening, she explained that her co-anchor had the night off and launched into the top story. “Today was a special day for a man considered a lawyer’s lawyer in the Massachusetts legal community.”
That Chinese gal sure was a pretty little thing, Greenberg noted. She had interviewed him a couple of times and had always been respectful and fair. She had made a name for herself on that Stone case, and had married Victor Something, one of Jayson’s former interns. Victor had tagged along on one of Jayson’s visits to the nursing home the previous year. A bright kid, too, Greenberg remembered. Really knew the law—and baseball.
“Jayson Cook,” Michelle Ling reported, “was one of three recipients who received the highly respected Courage Award from the former First Lady of the United States.” After a brief mention of Jayson’s résumé, she relinquished the air time to a young, attractive woman originally from Vietnam whose name Greenberg couldn’t repeat accurately.
Must be Asian girls night on Channel Eight, Greenberg joked. Well, he had always been an equal opportunity ogler: white, black, Asian, whatever. He couldn’t touch anymore, but he could still look as much as he wanted.
The reporter stood in a spacious corridor accompanied by the muffled sound of big band music. “Michelle,” she opened, “the Courage Award ceremony is always held in the city of one of its recipients.” She pointed at a large mahogany door. “I’m standing outside the door of the Plaza Ballroom at the Boston Park Plaza Hotel and Towers in downtown Boston. About three hundred guests are dancing right now, but a few hours ago they watched three brave Americans accept a great honor from the former First Lady.”
Greenberg checked on the clock radio next to his bed. He normally didn’t watch Channel Eight’s news but suspected much time would be allocated to Jayson’s event because one of its reporters had been so involved in the Brian Stone story.
The reporter’s prerecorded voice could be heard while the image on the television screen switched to a large, well-lit banquet hall. The camera focused on a handsome elderly woman standing at the podium delivering a message, but the reporter spoke over the woman. “The Courage Award is presented to only three people every year—people demonstrating courage by taking a stand on some issue or cause, or on behalf of some person or group, often standing alone against prevailing public opinion.”
Greenberg judged that the woman at the podium wearing a smart navy blue suit still had some good looks left in her. She wore her gray hair conservatively, hanging just below her ears, from which dangled huge diamond earrings. Since her husband, whom Greenberg had never considered the brightest bulb on the tree, had left office, she had made a name for herself from involvement with charities and causes for social justice.
Finally, the First Lady’s voice could be heard. “…taking a very unpopular case, which criminal defense lawyers often do, and agreeing to defend an alleged white supremacist accused of planting a bomb that destroyed a church and killed a twelve-year-old black girl. But Jayson Cook put aside his personal feelings…”
“Just like I taught him,” Greenberg whispered smugly.
“…and worked to ensure that his client would get a fair trial, as required by our Constitution…”
Greenberg smiled when the camera zoomed in on Jayson, sitting with his wife and nine-year-old daughter. The old man couldn’t have been more proud if one of his own children had been sitting there. He had met Jayson’s wife and daughter a couple of times; the wife had seemed a bit standoffish, but that little cherub—what was her name, Jennifer? She had been a real delight. Good manners, too. Not like most of the spoiled, bratty grandchildren—including his own—who visited the residents at the nursing home.
The First Lady continued. “He received numerous threats directed at him and his client, but he continued to work tirelessly to do what each of us hopes an attorney would do for us if we were charged with a crime: defend his client to the best of his ability.”
“You tell them, little lady,” Greenberg exclaimed. He pressed the button to turn up the sound one more notch.
The “little lady’s” volume rose. “This brave man’s efforts in defending his client took an unexpected turn when he discovered there existed within the local police department a rogue group of vigilantes calling themselves ‘the Protectors,’ who were routinely violating the civil rights of people they deemed ‘un-American’ by spying on them, stopping them without probable cause and conducting illegal searches of their property.” The camera panned out to show the mostly white, mostly middle-aged, well-dressed guests, and about thirty media professionals. “Jayson Cook,” the speaker said, “understood that in our system of justice, constitutional protections cannot be selectively applied.”
Greenberg pulled on the swinging arm of the table next to his bed. He grabbed a cup filled with water and took a sip from a straw. “I always liked her,” he asserted.
“Subsequent investigations led to the destruction of this band of criminals carrying badges,” the First Lady announced, “and led to the arrest or forced resignation of fourteen Boston police officers, including a deputy chief.”
“Hanging’s too good for those sons of bitches,” Greenberg growled.
“Sinc
e then, Jayson Cook has been appointed by the governor to serve the state in another capacity, and has already distinguished himself there as well.” The presenter smiled and extended her hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you our third recipient of this year’s Courage Award: Superior Court Judge Jayson Benjamin Cook.”
As Jayson made his way to the stage and the podium amid a thunderous standing ovation, Greenberg dropped the remote control onto his lap. He had intended to applaud with the other members of the audience, but he could no longer feel his hands. Also, for some inexplicable reason he felt extremely sleepy. He closed his eyes and seemed to be having a strange dream: He could see himself in bed watching Jayson on television. Such a wonderful student, that one.
Judge Jayson Cook addressed the crowd of admirers, but Greenberg couldn’t hear his words. No matter. The discomfort and restrictions that had afflicted his aged body for years had all miraculously disappeared. Yes, he would close his eyes and go to sleep. He felt such peace. Such contentment. He hadn’t felt this happy in many years….
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Author note: I hope you enjoyed reading this novel. For more information on my writing projects visit my website at www.kelvinlreed.com. You can send me an e-mail at [email protected]. Thank you for reading.
President Pro Tem
Acknowledgments
First of all, I thank my beautiful and wonderful wife, Marieta, for her willingness to sacrifice so much of our precious time together, which enabled me to complete this novel. As my initial reader and critic, her contributions have been extremely valuable throughout the process of writing this book.
I appreciate the considerable time fellow church parishioner Jan Woodbine and my sister, Pamela Shaw, took to read the entire novel and provide me with valuable feedback.
I thank my family for their support, especially my brother Melvin. I also thank friends Jimmy, Ken, Hugh and Barry for their encouragement in whatever endeavor I undertake.
I thank two individuals from my past who have passed away: Arvid Goplen, my high school English teacher, who was the first person to suggest I keep writing, and my first writing mentor, D. Mark Rider, who challenged me to become a better writer. I’m still working on that.
I appreciate the time many individuals spent answering my numerous questions about technical matters substantially outside of my knowledge. They suspended the activities of their workday to assist a stranger who said he was writing a novel. Among these individuals, Boston attorney James Dilday was especially charitable with his time.
Finally, I thank attorney Joseph Hill in Madison, Wisconsin, whose generosity years ago helped me finish graduate school.
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This book is dedicated to my beloved wife, Marieta, and to my dear, departed brother, Gregory
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