F
INN GOT BACK TO
his office around six-thirty, although it felt much later. He was tired, and strung out, and confused. He’d been pushed too far by that asshole Kozlowski, and he’d reacted badly. It seemed that no matter how far he got from the streets, a piece of them remained. He couldn’t change that— particularly when he was challenged.
Most of the firm’s support staff cleared out at five o’clock, but the lawyers were still there. The days when big Boston firms were more “collegial” than their New York counterparts had passed. Law firms had all gone the way of big business, and the image of the Boston bar as a righteous and gentlemanly institution remained only as a facade. The focus was now on increasing revenue, and that put an inordinate amount of pressure on the young lawyers, who were counted on to accumulate ever higher billable hours.
Finn went to his office and closed the door. He sat at his desk for a moment with his head in his hands.
This isn’t possible
, he thought.
It can’t be happening.
But he knew it was. Any fantasy that the police had gotten it wrong and Nat was still alive had been shattered when the coroner pulled back the sheet to reveal her body. There was no doubt that it was Natalie on that cold, hard slab.
I’m not looking my best
, she probably would have joked if she’d been alive, but he knew her face too well for there to be any doubt. Every rise and fall to that beautiful face was etched permanently into his mind.
He shouldn’t grapple with this here, he realized. If he let himself acknowledge how deeply he felt Natalie’s death he’d lose control—a cardinal sin for a lawyer. Lawyers deal with other people’s tragedies every day, and they’re expected to remain unflappable. Finn was particularly good at it. Perhaps as a result of his brutal childhood, nothing ever got to him: not the tobacco plaintiff who had to answer questions at his deposition from his hospital bed through a computerized voice generator because he was missing most of his throat; not the widow of the steelworker who slipped from his sixth-story perch and fell halfway to the ground before he was impaled on a twenty-foot length of rebar—surviving for nearly thirty minutes as the fire department and the city works department debated the best way to cut him down; not the three-year-old who gamely crawled around on the two stumps that protruded from her hips, still unaware that her parents’ insurance company’s intractability had cheated her out of a normal life. None of it penetrated Finn’s shell, and that’s why he was so good at defending those accused of monstrosities. It was what made him stand out from the pack.
He had to get out of the office. If he was going to lose control, he wanted to do it in the privacy of his apartment, not in front of his colleagues. He began throwing some materials into a briefcase. Before he could finish, there was a knock on the door. He cleared his throat and steeled himself.
“Come on in,” he shouted.
The door opened and Preston Holland’s head peered around the corner. “How are you doing?” Holland asked. There was a look of deep concern on his usually stoic face. His thick white hair was combed neatly back from his forehead, and his trademark bow tie was neatly arranged over his pressed collar, but Finn could feel his mentor’s sympathy in the softened look around his eyes.
Finn took a deep breath and blew it out. If there was anyone at the firm he could be honest with, it was Preston. He’d been the one who pulled Finn out of the Public Defender’s office and offered him a job at the firm—twisting the arms of many of his partners whose noses still turned up at anyone without at least one Ivy League diploma. Since then, he’d been openly proud of Finn’s accomplishments, reveling in each new success the younger man tallied. Preston had become more than a mentor—he’d become a friend and a protector, giving Finn high-profile cases to work on, encouraging him in his practice, and steering him away from many of the obstacles that tripped up young associates in their climb up the firm’s political ladder. It was the first time anyone important had believed in Finn, and he drew enormous strength from Preston’s approval.
Finn was all the more appreciative of Holland’s fatherly affection because of his stature in the Boston legal community. Preston Holland was a legend. He was shorter than Finn, and more refined, but still handsome and compelling, and his ability to sway a jury with the simple tempo of his voice and the strength of his oratory brought hundreds of clients to Howery, Black.
“I’m all right, I guess,” Finn replied. “I’ve had better days, y’know? But I’ll be fine in the end.”
“Of course you will,” Holland said. “We’ll all be fine …in the end. But that doesn’t make it any easier right now. I mean, my Lord, I met with Natalie just last Friday on a case. I can’t believe this has happened. I keep thinking there’s been some mistake.”
“No mistake,” Finn said. “I saw her down at the morgue.”
Holland looked down at his feet. “I know, I just heard.” He sounded guilty. “I’m sorry about that. I never would have given those police officers your name if I’d had any idea that they were going to ask you to do that. I can’t even imagine how hard it must have been. I would have been willing to go down there myself if I’d known, but …”
“No, don’t worry about it. I think it was probably a good thing. It brought home the reality of it all. I feel better knowing for sure there wasn’t any mistake.”
“Yes, I suppose I can see that. Still, it must have been awful.”
“It was. That’s why I’m thinking about calling it a day and heading home early.” Finn looked at his watch. It was just after seven.
“I think that’s an excellent idea. Go home and get a good night’s sleep.” Holland’s expression was grim and his eyes seemed slightly damp as they peered out from his angular face. “Remember, we’re all here for each other.”
“Thanks.”
Holland began to leave, then turned back. “By the way, stop by my office when you get in tomorrow. I have a favor to ask.”
“Why not just ask now?”
Holland considered it for a moment, then shook his head. “I think it would be more appropriate to discuss it in the morning. You should go home and get some rest. This will keep, at least until tomorrow.”
Something in Holland’s tone piqued Finn’s curiosity. “What’s up?” he asked. “You might as well tell me now, or I’ll spend the evening wondering about it instead of sleeping.”
“Are you sure? It really can wait.”
“Spit it out.”
Holland paused, as though weighing his options. “It’s about
Tannery v. Huron Security
.”
Finn felt a jolt of adrenaline. The Tannery case was the highest-profile case in the office. Ed Tannery was one of the victims of the “Anniversary Bombing,” as it had become known, and his widow was suing the company that had been in charge of security on the commuter rail line. As usual, Howery, Black represented the “black hat” in the case—Huron Security, Inc.
Finn had campaigned hard to be the senior associate assigned to the case when the firm had been hired six months before, but Holland decided to put Natalie on it instead. “She’s a woman. You’re not,” he explained to Finn at the time. “Like it or not, the plaintiff is an attractive young woman—a widow. A jury will have an easier time hearing our side of the story if an attractive young woman helps present some of it. It will even our odds a little.”
Finn had been disappointed. If the case could be won, it was a sure partner-maker, and he thought he had more experience than Natalie performing under pressure. At the same time, he trusted Holland’s judgment, and even understood his point. Many lawyers viewed it as unethical to assign lawyers to particular cases based on their race, sex, or religion, but Holland viewed it as unethical not to exploit every possible advantage on behalf of his clients. Finn tended to agree.
“You’re familiar with the case, obviously.” Holland knew how disappointed Finn had been when it was assigned to Natalie. Finn nodded.
“As you know,” Holland summarized needlessly, “Ed Tannery was one of the eight hundred victims of the terrorist attack last year. But Tannery isn’t just any victim. He is the only victim whose family wouldn’t accept the settlement offered to the victims’ families by the Victims Compensation Act passed by Congress shortly after the attack. Instead, his widow’s lawyers convinced her she could make more money by suing the state and Huron Security.”
“How much did she pass up under the settlement?” Finn knew some of the Tannery case details but not all.
“Based on all the variables, she would have gotten more than two million if she’d settled.”
Finn whistled. “That’s a lot of cash. Why did she turn it down?”
“Who knows? She’s still saying she wants an in-depth investigation into homeland security or some hogwash like that, but believe me, this is all about the money. Fred Barnolk represents her.” Barnolk was a notorious plaintiffs’ attorney whose courtroom skills weren’t nearly as well developed as his media skills.
“Doesn’t she know she has no case? Even if security was too light, she still has to prove an attack could have been prevented if other reasonable measures had been taken.”
“I know, but Barnolk hopes to try this case in the press.” Holland sighed heavily. “Every security expert in the world agrees it’s virtually impossible to stop a well-trained terrorist who’s willing to sacrifice himself in a massive attack. I know that. You know that. Her lawyers should know that. Legally speaking, she has no case. But she’s not giving up, and it would take a judge with balls of steel to dismiss this thing before it goes to a jury. Can you imagine being the judge who denied a widow of the Anniversary Bombing her day in court?”
“Who’s the judge?”
“The Honorable F. Clayton Taylor IV.”
Finn shook his head in disgust. “Balls of clay, right?”
“Worse, he’s a crusader. He was a high-profile plaintiffs’ attorney in his former life before his political friends got him appointed to the bench. He thinks the first responsibility of a judge is to protect the little guy, regardless of what the law says.”
“Great.”
“Yeah, we’ve got a little bit of an uphill battle on this one, although we should prevail in the end. But that’s why I have to ask a favor from you.” Holland paused again. “I really wanted to talk about this in the morning. I feel pretty ghoulish bringing it up right after Natalie … well, you know.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it. I pressed.”
“Yeah, I know, but still.” He sighed again. “Anyway, we have depositions all next week, and I need someone who can get up to speed by then. I think that you’re that someone.”
Finn took a deep breath and considered his options. The Tannery case was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and couldn’t be passed up easily. It felt strange, though, that he should benefit so directly from Natalie’s death. Still, someone had to take over the case, and there was no reason it shouldn’t be him. Natalie would have understood; she always believed everyone had to look after his or her own interests first and foremost.
“I’ll take the case,” he said finally.
Holland smiled. “Good.” He lowered his voice. “In all honesty, I’m not sure I would have trusted this to anyone else here. If things go well …” He didn’t finish his sentence. “I’ll send the files down, and we can talk about the case in the morning. I’ll also have Nick Williams stop by to fill you in on exactly where we stand. Nick’s second-chairing this for me.” He paused and looked Finn straight in the eyes. “It’s good to have you on board. Now, you should clear out of here and get some rest.”
Finn nodded. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
Once Holland was gone, Finn resumed throwing some papers into his briefcase. He knew he wouldn’t look at them, but he would have felt naked walking out of the office without enough work to take up every moment between the time he left and the time he returned.
Before leaving, he turned toward the window again, looking out over the channel to the small area marked off by police tape on the other side. There were no police officers left. One corner of the yellow tape had come loose from the post around which it had been tied, and it flapped in the breeze. Soon, he knew, the tape would be gone—blown away by the wind or stolen by homeless scavengers who saw value in anything that could be gathered up and trucked away in their shopping carts. By the next day there’d be no way to tell that anything of consequence had happened there, and only the few who knew Natalie Caldwell would shiver when they passed. Life would go on, he knew, but it would be different for him. He’d lost one of the most important people in his life.
He took one last look from his perch high in the office tower above the water, still safe from the violent currents that had once directed his life. Then he turned off the light and headed for the elevator.
T
HE HONORABLE WILLIAM H. CLARKE
, governor of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, sat at the kitchen table of his Beacon Hill mansion in his underwear and a rumpled T-shirt. A bathrobe was pulled around his shoulders, but he hadn’t bothered to tie it at the waist. Clarke’s hair stood on end, jutting out at impossible angles from his head, and the stubble of his beard was patched with gray. It was just after five o’clock in the morning, and it was hardly a photo-op moment for the middle-aged politician.
Wendyl Shore stood in front of the governor, nearly at attention. Even at this ungodly hour, Shore was dressed in pressed khaki slacks, a blue blazer, and a Brooks Brothers rep tie. He looked like a cross between an aging college a cappella singer and a marine sergeant. For all of Shore’s idiosyncrasies, though, he was the best chief of staff Clarke could ever hope for. His loyalty, even when it was driven by self-interest, could not be questioned, and he was discreet in all respects. Certainly, Clarke knew, Wendyl had more than enough information to bring him down. For good or bad, the governor had entrusted him with all of his affairs.
“How bad is it?” Clarke asked.
“It could be better,” Wendyl replied. “It would help if the police could find this ‘Little Jack’ killer. I think that would contain any fallout.”
“We have people on that issue,” Clarke assured him. “I expect it’ll be taken care of very shortly. The commissioner has arranged for a female detective to run the task force, which will play nicely in the press. My understanding is that not only is this Lieutenant Flaherty poised, attractive, and presentable, but her investigative skills are top-rate. I doubt this ‘Little Jack’ will be at large for too much longer.”
Wendyl shrugged. It was the closest to direct insubordination he’d ever come. “If you say so, sir. I think we might want to be more proactive, though.”
Clarke sighed. “What do you suggest?”
Wendyl’s eyes narrowed, and the governor could see schemes being laid behind his dark pupils. “Let me think about it,” he said.
“Fine,” said Clarke, nodding wearily. “You think about it. I have to get ready for work.” He rose and crossed to the doorway that led into the hall. “You’ll be in the office in a half hour when I need you?”
“As always,” Wendyl replied.
“Yes,” Clarke muttered to himself. “As always.” He left his chief of staff to find his own way out and headed upstairs, passing the portraits of five generations of Clarkes that hung along the staircase wall.