water over the dam. Nobody wants the money back. There’s something more important at stake. The wrong man was blamed for it. It nearly destroyed him. He still lives under the weight of it. It was a great injustice. He deserves to be cleared.”
“What will this do to my father’s reputation?”
“Well, it may bring it all up again. Apparently, everyone considered it jury tampering ten years ago, anyway. My investigation could confirm it. It would also pinpoint your father as the juror.”
I could see the concern on her face. “What is it you want, Mr. Knight?”
“You were the executrix under the will. I’d like to get your permission to see the records of your father’s bank account. I need to know if a major deposit was made around the time of the trial. If it was, the next step is to find out who paid the money.”
“How will you do that?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet. One step at a time.”
“And this will mean my father’s name in the paper?”
“It could. And I know that’d be painful. And I don’t mean to seem insensitive, but your father’s at rest now. The man I mentioned has been in sort of a living death for the past ten years. He can’t shake the suspicion.”
“Are you his son?”
“No.”
“But you seem to have a son’s feeling for him.”
I had a shot of recollection of how much Mr. Devlin reminded me of the only father I’d known from the age of fourteen.
“Something like that.”
She stood up. “I’ll have to think about it, Mr. Knight.”
I stood, but I didn’t move. I needed one more attempt.
“Mrs. Frank, two things. First, if you help me with this, I’ll do everything in my power to see that the juror is not named. All that’s even suspected now is that it was just one of the twelve.”
“Can you do that?”
“I don’t know. I’ll do my best. The second thing is hard to say without seeming overly dramatic. I’m the only one who cares enough to see this through. I have to go on a trip day after tomorrow. I may not be coming back. Today could be my last chance to work on this.”
She took a deep breath that ended in a sigh. When she looked at me, I could see that whatever she’d decided had cost her emotionally.
“I’m going to give you what you want, Mr. Knight. My father was never happy since that trial ended. It changed him terribly. I think it finally brought on the heart attack that killed him. I believe he’d want me to do this.”
I nodded. “I understand. If I could have a sheet of paper, I’ll draft a consent form. Do you have something showing that you were your father’s executrix?”
“Yes, in my desk. I’ll get it for you.”
By three o’clock, I was getting cozy with one of the officers of South Boston Savings. I was referred to “our Mr. Dunwoody” for this special request. Our Mr. Dunwoody turned out to be one of those people who finds excitement in neatness.
My heart leaped when I checked out his desk with the pad of unsullied paper squared off with the corner of the desk. One silver pen was at attention in its little holder. No fistful of half-sharpened pencils rammed into a Skippy jar here.
The reason this brought joy to my heart was that this was exactly the kind of puppy who might take it as a challenge to his prowess to come up with a copy of a ten-year-old bank statement.
And so he did, but not until he went over the documents I handed him as if they were commanding him to release the Queen’s diary. Fortunately, he found that “Everything seems to be in order.”
I had a printout of activity of the account in hand in fifteen minutes. Looking at items occurring shortly before the start of the Dolson trial, I checked for any out-of-line deposit.
I thought the fixer might have been subtle enough to spread payments out over a period of time, but he wasn’t. It was bold enough to knock your eye out. Three days after the hung jury came in, the sum of three hundred thousand dollars was deposited in the account. As a matter of fact, other than the opening of the account and the monthly addition of interest, that was the sum total of activity in the account. Either he was afraid or ashamed to dip into the funds, or maybe he just wanted it all to go to his daughter.
That settled for me the question of whether or not the jury had been fixed. It left hanging the big one-who was the fixer?
It was about three thirty when I made a cell-phone call to Julie from the bank. I thought I’d save a trip back to the office if there was nothing pressing.
Julie told me that Gene Martino had called about three. He wanted me to get back to him around four thirty. That meant he was on trial, probably in Suffolk Superior Court. He’d be back in his office by that time, after court adjourned at four o’clock. Any other county court would have taken him until closer to five.
I asked Julie if he mentioned which courtroom. He hadn’t, but he mentioned suffering the slings and arrows of the outrageous Judge Mandoski. I decided to fly direct to the courthouse to catch Gene in person in case there was something he’d rather whisper in my ear than in a phone.
I was more than familiar with the Right Honorable Judge Mandoski. Before the Suffolk Superior Court took up residence in the federal court building, His Honor was the ruling titan of the equity session held in the east wing of the olde Suffolk County Courthouse. I believe the first case pleaded in that courtroom was pleaded by Cicero personally-quite possibly before Judge Mandoski. He was a crusty old tyrant, who peered through glasses that looked like thermopane. He had an acerbic wit that could strip an argument down to its naked essence and leave counsel bleeding from lashes to the ego. I could show the scars.
Gene was wrapping up a plea for a preliminary injunction. His argument was pockmarked with craters created by scud missiles hurled from the bench. Defense counsel would have enjoyed the bombardment but for the realization that as soon as she rose to defend, the missile launcher would be turned in her direction.
At four o’clock precisely-and typical of the old boy-out of the clear blue, without a prior hint of which side was ahead on points, Mandoski, J., awarded the decision to Gene.
I caught Gene at counsel table, somewhat stunned but just beginning to realize that he’d won.
“Congratulations, Gene.”
“Mike. You got my message. What, were you in the courthouse?”
“Close enough. Hey, you had the old boy eating out of your hand.”
“Actually he was eating my hand. Let’s get the hell out of here before he comes back for dessert.”
We found a spot at the end of the corridor that leads to the world beyond the realm of Mandoski.
“What have you got for me, Gene?”
His voice came down to a lawyer’s whisper.
“This is the damndest thing, Mike. You wanted the names of the limited partners behind that apartment house in the South End. I sent interrogatories to the general partner, Robert Loring. He refused to answer. OK, I figure I’ll get him at the deposition. So, he refuses to answer the question at the deposition. I take him to court on a motion to compel him to answer. It’s a mail-in motion. I’ve got a right to the information. Get this. The judge denies the motion.”
“On what grounds?”
“No grounds. He just writes ‘Denied’ and scribbles his initials on the motion and calls the next case. I say, ‘I beg your pardon, Your Honor.’ He says, ‘You’re out of order, Mr. Martino. I’ve called the next case.’ This is crazy, Mikey. They’re guarding the names of these limited partners like the recipe for Coke.”
“So it would seem. Who was the judge?”
“Judge Montark. You know him?”
“I’ve been before him a couple of times. Very low-key. He’s always seemed straight.”
“He did to me, too, until this. I’m sorry I don’t have anything for you, Mike.”
“Thanks for trying, Gene. Actually, it helps. I owe you one.”
It did help. It told me that the usual channels of court procedure were, for some reason, closed. If I was going to get the information, it would have to be through less orthodox methods.
