“Yes, sir.”
He swung the chair around and focused the full Devlin heat at me from three feet.
“Let’s get this straight, sonny. Do we understand who’s running this show?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right then. You stay put.”
He eased back a bit, and I felt the furnace subside. The change of subject was a relief.
“I got a call from Judge Posner’s chambers. The case has been assigned to him. He’s called a pretrial conference for three days from now at two. I want you there. He’s going to be pushing for an early trial date before the press and the Chinese community get more revved up than they are already. The DA has the cards, so she wants a quick showdown too.”
“We need time, Mr. Devlin. This case is not shaping up fast. It gets more complicated every time I talk to a witness.”
“I’ll do what I can at the conference to buy us some time.”
“How do you feel about Judge Posner?”
He grabbed a pair of reading glasses and paced to the window.
“I don’t know. I haven’t had a criminal case before him in ten years. He’s good on evidence. Tough on lawyers, at least the young ones.”
“That’s not what I mean, sir.”
“I know what you mean, sonny. In plain English, is he going to give Bradley a fair trial? I wish I knew. You know what they say in Chicago. ‘If the fix is equal, justice prevails.’”
“And is the fix equal here, Mr. Devlin?”
He rubbed the morning shadow of regrowth on his chin. I knew we were both thinking of the DA’s sudden reversal on a plea bargain and Conrad Munsey’s warning about unrest upstairs.
“Let’s hope so, sonny. Without solid grounds for a motion to have him recuse himself, that’s the best we can do at this point. Let’s get on with it.”
He came back to the papers on his desk. I was halfway to the door when his voice caught me.
“Sonny! You be damned careful in Toronto. ”
I was caught flat-footed. “But didn’t you just say…”
“I know what I said.” He stood up, and the chair spun. “And I know you. I could order you to hell and back, and you’d still go to Toronto, wouldn’t you?”
There was no point in not telling him the truth.
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’ll probably go on taking these foolish chances for the rest of your life. You’re too damn much like me.”
I was grinning, and I didn’t hide it. I think inside maybe he was, too, in spite of the fierceness of the scowl.
“If you get hurt up there, you’ll get it double from me when you get back! You understand?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll watch it.”
“I want to see you right here the instant you get back.”
I nodded. “The instant I get back.”
I walked out of there on six clouds. I got looks of sympathy from the corridor dwellers who heard the ruckus and thought Mr. D. had devoured another associate. I sensed that back of the bellowing, the man cared whether I lived or died. I never got that feeling from anyone else at Bilson, Dawes.
I decided to check into my office, as briefly as possible. Julie held out a pink please-call-back slip.
“Are you and ‘Lex’ still tight? Sounds like there’s trouble in Paradise.”
I said it quietly while I checked the slip. Tom Burns wanted me to call him back at his office. “We’re cool. I’ve got him right where I want him.”
“Right. On your back, taking bites out of your neck.”
I just shook my head and smiled. I looked back down the corridor.
“Did you ever notice something, Julie? When you walk down toward that office, the floor seems to rise. You know why that is?”
She looked blank and curious, and I just winked.
Tom Burns picked up on the second ring. It was his private line with no secretarial intermediates.
“Any pay dirt, Tom?”
“I checked the twelve jurors. The twelve of them continued on with about the same lifestyle they had before the Dolson trial. The only exception was that one of them died about a year after the trial.”
“Of what?”
“Heart attack. Nothing suspicious. He had heart problems before the trial.”
“So we struck out.”
“Did I say that, Mike? Hold your horses. I checked probate. The one who died left the usual things a carpenter from South Boston would leave his daughter in his will. Plus a three-hundred-thousand-dollar bank account.”
“Bingo.”
“There’s more. I checked with the other jurors personally. The guy who died was the holdout that made the hung jury. The others were ready to convict. I also checked to see if any of the others were approached with a bribe. None. But they only needed one.”
“You’re a thing of beauty, Thomas. What kind of an account was it?”
“According to the will, it was a regular savings account. South Boston Savings.”
“In his name?”
“Right.”
“Which was?”
“Ronald Perry.”
“I need to get some information on the account. Do you know who the executor was under the will?”
“By coincidence, the daughter who came into the three hundred grand. Joyce Perry Frank. She works at the Shaughnessy Funeral Home in Southie.”
“You’re too good, Tom. I’ll get back to you on the bill.”
“Not this time, Mike. Just go with it.”
I checked the phone book for the address of the Shaughnessy Funeral Home. I called and made an appointment with Joyce Perry Frank for two o’clock. I didn’t give any specifics. I didn’t want her to lose that sympathetic, consoling tone of voice until I had a chance to explain what I needed.
There was just time to dash through two hot dogs from one of the Washington Street vendors and pick up a package of Tums for desert. Then out to Southie.
It was nearly two by the time I found the D Street address. I had passed six similar establishments before I found the Shaughnessy Funeral Home. Not surprising, since Southie is still overwhelmingly Irish, and among the Irish, funeral homes are a bustling industry. It’s not that they die more frequently than anyone else. They just seem to do it with more panache. An Irish friend of mine used to refer to the obituary column in the Globe as the “Irish Sports Section.”
Joyce Perry Frank was a roundish woman in her late forties, early fifties. She was neatly attired in a suitably colorless dress. She had that mortician’s ability to smile with her mouth while her eyes conveyed empathy with the bereaved.
“Mrs. Frank, this is a bit difficult. I hope you’ll understand. First, the good news. Nobody died.”
From her expression, I wasn’t sure she considered that good news.
The question was whether to go with the truth and ruffle some feathers, or spin a yarn that would get the same result without ruffling feathers. The problem was that the truth might later become public, and it could be devastating if it took her by surprise. I opted for the truth up front.
“I’m going to be honest with you, Mrs. Frank. I’m investigating an incident of possible jury tampering. It occurred in a criminal case some ten years ago. I’m afraid that the juror was your father.”
She stiffened.
“I believe there was a payoff. A big payoff. Something in the range of three hundred thousand dollars. That’s
