The Son of John Devlin (24 page)

And when she returned to their house to move her things, she discovered him drunk, in front of the television set, and she went into a rage, and in her rage had taken the Waterford tumblers and smashed them against the walls, shattering the five she was able to find. Fortunately for Coakley, he’d been drinking out of one of them when she arrived, and he hid it just as she’d come through the door. A small victory.

Coakley reached up into the cabinet and took down a bottle of his sustenance, Bushmills 100 percent blended Irish whiskey. He poured it slowly until the tumbler was half full. He picked up the glass, short and stout, fitting his hand as though it had been designed for him alone.
He had a great fondness for this glass, but, in truth, had the circumstances dictated, he would have drunk his Bushmills from a paper cup.

Standing in the pantry, Coakley sipped the blended Irish whiskey that had been his preference for as long as he could remember. It always warmed his heart. Sometimes it even eased his mind.

He shuffled into his den and sat heavily in his hunter-green leather armchair, the chair he’d been sitting in every evening for so many years. He sipped his whiskey. It was very good.

Coakley held the tumbler in his right hand and set it on his stomach. He thought about Jack Devlin and the scheme Devlin had drawn him into. It unnerved him. Over the past couple of years, he’d helped Devlin out, provided him with a fair amount of good inside information. All of it constituted a betrayal of one or another of his clients. He had provided some information to others within the Boston Police Department as well. He’d embarked on a course that anticipated the day when he would be arrested and charged with money laundering or tax evasion or mail fraud or one of the other crimes federal authorities used to prosecute lawyers who represented the worst people in the world. He had tried to be helpful to a number of law enforcement officials on the theory that the time would come when testimonials from people with badges could shave months, even years, off a prison sentence. For a man who now routinely betrayed his clients, Coakley’s conscience was amazingly clear. After all, he reasoned, all of his clients were corrupt and deceitful, and some were quite evil. He did not wish to go too far, however, for as wretched as his life had become,
he preferred it to the alternative. In death, after all, there was no Bushmills.

He took the risk willingly, though, for his collaboration with Devlin was no longer a personal protection strategy so much as repayment of a debt. A matter—dare he say it?—of honor.

Coakley sighed and sipped his drink. He thought about Jack Devlin and realized that he’d grown quite fond of the young man. The boy was much like the father in some ways—his affability and open manner—but much sharper. Jesus, Coakley thought, the father has been dead for twenty-five years! He could hardly believe it. It seemed to Coakley as though it had been just a few years since he’d been a state representative asked by a constituent to intervene in a dispute the constituent had with the state’s Alcoholic Beverage Control Commission. Coakley had looked into the matter and discovered that his constituent, Henry Sullivan, owner of Sullivan’s Bar and Grill on D Street in South Boston, had been found to have served liquor to minors, a third offense, which meant an automatic one-week license suspension.

“It’ll kill me, put me outta business altogether,” Sullivan had said.

Coakley could not let that happen. Thus did Coakley the lawyer, then state representative, propose to a commissioner of the ABCC that the ruling be reversed for a payment of two thousand dollars. Ordinarily, such matters were handled with discretion and grace. But this commissioner fell into the grip of a sudden shudder of conscience and, rather than consummating the deal right away, he informed his friend, Boston police detective Jock Devlin.

Proceed with the deal, Jock had said, and so it was that Jock Devlin had watched the deal take place, seen the envelope change hands, had the commissioner as a solid witness. And on that very afternoon, Jock Devlin went about the task of arresting Coakley. He wanted to do so in a discreet way. It was not Jock Devlin’s style to barge through traffic, sirens blaring, to force Coakley to the side of Brookline Avenue, drag him from his Olds and cuff him. Jock followed at a discreet distance, patiently waiting for Coakley to arrive at his destination. It soon became a puzzling ride, for once they reached the hospital district, Jock found that Coakley was circling the area repeatedly. He would follow Longwood Avenue past Children’s Hospital, turn left on Brookline past Deaconess, then left on Francis, and left again on Huntington, past Brigham & Women’s, then back around the loop. These were heavily traveled streets with stoplights on nearly every block, and each circumnavigation took nearly fifteen minutes. After the fourth lap Jock Devlin’s patience was wearing thin. But he was more curious than annoyed, and continued to follow Coakley.

After eleven laps over a period of nearly three hours, Coakley pulled the Olds to the side of Longwood Avenue and got out of the car. He stood there, looking around, as though trying to get his bearings. Jock watched as the lawyer staggered to one side, fighting to keep his balance.

Jesus, thought Jock, he’s shit-faced. Jock Devlin pulled his Crown Vic over behind the Olds and got out. It was dark now, and the streetlights cast a sickly greenish light over Coakley.

“How’re we doin’?” Jock asked as he approached the
lawyer. The door to the Olds was wide open, the engine running. Jock could see the half-pint bottle of Bushmills on the front seat. It looked empty.

“Representative Coakley, I’m Detective Devlin, BPD,” Jock said.

Coakley nodded. “How do you do, Detective,” he said, ever the politician. He showed no sense of alarm, but instead turned and began walking away, leaving the car door open, the engine running.

“Hey,” Jock said. “What’s with this?” He motioned toward the car.

“I gotta go up here and visit …,” Coakley said, gesturing toward a hospital building.

“Look, Representative, you and I have some business,” Jock said, “but you can’t leave the car here. You want me to have it towed away?”

Coakley thought about this for a moment. “Okay,” he said.

How pathetic, Jock had thought. How truly pathetic.

He removed the keys, shut the door of the Olds, and followed Coakley into the lobby of Children’s Hospital. Then he pulled Coakley aside into a private alcove and told him he was under arrest for extortion. Coakley seemed puzzled, then suddenly, inexplicably, he leaned forward, placed his head in his hands, and wept.

That night, Jock Devlin learned that Coakley’s tears were not for himself, but for his boy, his only child, who lay gravely ill with leukemia.

Jock Devlin quietly buried the matter of extortion, the payment of two thousand dollars. He went back and talked with his friend at the ABCC, and the deal was never mentioned again. Coakley had tried to thank Jock
for his humanity, went to Devlin’s home and thanked him profusely. Jock had been embarrassed by it and sent him on his way, saying only: “Take care of your kid.”

But Coakley had been unable to do so. Now he sighed heavily at the recollection and looked down at his empty Waterford tumbler. He struggled to his feet and shuffled back out through the kitchen to the pantry. He set the glass down and filled it halfway with 100 percent blended Irish whiskey, shuffled back along through the kitchen, and sat down in his chair.

So often during his life, Coakley had despised himself, loathed what he’d become. He drank himself into incoherence many a night as a way to retreat from his life, to get away from himself. With his second hefty tumbler, he was on a course he knew well. But on this night he did not despise himself. Because although he could not think of a single honorable deed he’d committed during his adult life, he felt like he was moving toward doing something worthy. And he wanted so desperately to do something good! To do something that mattered, something noble.

Deputy Superintendent Thomas Kennedy was waiting just inside the front door of his West Roxbury home when Jack Devlin arrived. It was a cold night and Kennedy had built a fire in the fireplace of his book-lined den. His home was tucked away on a quiet side street, and there was not a sound to be heard as Kennedy and Devlin sat down in front of the fire.

Kennedy frowned as he looked down into the fire and then back up at Jack. Kennedy’s brow was furrowed and he seemed perplexed.

“I’m sorry to drag you over here at this time of night,” Kennedy said, “but I think it’s important that we hash some things out here.”

“No problem,” Jack said.

“Look, Jackie, I’m not going to beat around the bush here. I want to be straight with you. There is a concern, is the best way I can put it, among some senior people in the department about your connection to Ray Murphy.”

“But Tom, I—”

Kennedy held up his hand, signaling Jack to stop. “Just let me finish,” he said. “So I think you and I had better talk through what’s going on. Now, as I said to you on the phone, I honestly do not understand why you would want anything to do with a guy like Murphy.” Kennedy suddenly had a look of distaste, and shook his head. “This was a guy—not to speak ill of the dead—but this was a guy who was known to be a bitter, resentful guy. He was full of poison, Jack, a hater.”

Kennedy looked closely at Devlin. “What’s going on, Jack?”

Jack’s gaze seemed fixed for the moment on the fire. He shifted his look to Kennedy and shrugged. “I needed to talk with him, to just close the loop, kind of,” he said.

Kennedy frowned. “Was there a history there that you know of?” he asked.

“Between my father and Murphy?”

Kennedy nodded.

“I don’t—”

“Because that’s the word that’s getting around,” Kennedy said. “That there was a history there. That you were aware of the history and were carrying out some mission.” Kennedy seemed acutely uncomfortable. “This is what’s being said.”

“Jeez, Tom, there’s no great mystery.…”

“But you created the mystery, Jackie,” Kennedy said, red-faced now and leaning forward, clearly agitated. “You wouldn’t tell Lopez and Buckley why you went to see Murphy in the first place. You said personal, private. They came away with more questions than answers. You yourself said to them you asked Murphy about things that happened years ago. I have to tell you, Jackie, you didn’t do yourself any good with that interview. I have to tell you. And going after Buckley …” Kennedy frowned and shook his head with disgust.

Jack didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. Kennedy sat back in his chair.

“I’m just puzzled, Jack, that’s all. Others are as well. Let me say this delicately. There are others who do not have the history with you I have. Others who aren’t fond of you, as I am, who—let me put it this way—who harbor suspicions.”

Kennedy paused briefly as though considering whether to say anything more. It seemed he could not stop himself.

“And I’ve got to say, Jack, though it’s none of anybody’s business, I know, but Jesus, the word is around of your involvement with Emily Lawrence, and I know your business is your business, but Christ almighty, she hates everything we stand for. Looks at us with contempt. It doesn’t play well, Jack.”

Kennedy shook his head and took a deep breath. He got up from his chair and stood, hands in his pockets, before the fire. There was a long moment of silence.

“I shouldn’t tell you this, Jack, but I feel like I owe it to you,” he said. “The FBI is interested in this, too. And the
talk is that you were settling some score with Murphy, an avenging angel for your dad … I mean, I have to tell you, Jack, I think people are beginning to believe it.”

O
n the fourteenth floor of the John W. McCormack Federal Courthouse in Post Office Square, a room had been constructed in which law enforcement officials could meet without the slightest fear that any method of eavesdropping, however sophisticated, could be used. This soundproof room had been constructed to foil any electronic or digital efforts to record any aspect of the sound of any voice. The room contained three windows that looked out over Post Office Square, yet the windows were coated with a material that prevented sound waves from penetrating.

Use of the room by federal law enforcement officials was regulated by the United States Attorney’s office. Prior to any meeting within the room, it was scanned to ensure that no internal listening devices had been planted.

Kevin Duffy of the Federal Bureau of Investigation entered the room through a detection mechanism that screened for listening devices. Emily Lawrence followed him inside.

Agent Duffy removed a page of notes from a folder and set it on the conference table in front of where he sat. Emily closed the door and took a seat opposite him.

“I’m giving you a heads-up,” Duffy said. “There’s concern, here and in D.C., that we might collide at some point on this. We’d like to avoid that if possible.”

“As would we,” Emily said.

Duffy nodded. “As you know, we’ve been looking carefully at the BPD, but trying to do so from enough of a remove so that we were not detected.”

Emily nodded.

“What, exactly, you all have been doing is another matter, although I must tell you candidly that I think we’d all be better off if we spoke the same language here.”

“It’s not the deal,” she said. “It’s not what Justice wants. You know that. Let’s move on.”

“I’m giving you a heads-up,” Duffy said again. “I want you to have a sense of what else. There’s another layer here. I have to be careful because I’m constrained, but there’s another layer here. We think we’ve broken through in a way. Not fully, but to a certain extent. We think we’ve punched through some barrier that hasn’t been penetrated before.

“We’ve been able to develop a source of information inside,” Duffy continued. “It amounts to an informal cooperation. The information is coming to us. And the picture taking shape—it is by no means fully formed. By no means. But what’s taking shape in a kind of rough image is that there’s a problem here that’s broader and deeper than anticipated. That the problem penetrates. We think systemic. We had believed episodic. We now think systemic.”