“You testified that Frank Dolson was with you the night he was supposed to have lit the fire. Was that true?”
His head rolled a little while he thought.
“Yeah. That was true. We were in a bar all night.”
“OK, Frank. Here’s where you earn the bottle. If he was innocent, why did he confess to the burning?”
Frank put his head down in his hands on the table. I was beginning to think I’d lost him with that last half shot. I tapped his elbow with the bottle. His head came back up. It turned out he’d been thinking, not sleeping.
“Frank told me he was gonna make a bundle. Things hadn’t been going so good for him. Then this came along. He was gonna get sixty thousand dollars to take the rap for an arson. He’d get maybe three years and do the time. It was like insurance for the guy that really did the job. The guy was gonna blow the whistle if he got caught.”
“That’s good, Frank. But Dolson took back his confession when they found bodies, and it became a murder charge. You remember that?”
“Yeah. That’s why that lawyer wanted me to testify at his trial.”
“That’s right. But Frank got scared, didn’t he? He threatened the ones who hired him. He said he’d blow the whistle on the whole scheme if they didn’t get him out of the murder charge. Is that right?”
“Yeah. That’s right. Frank told me he scared them good. They came up with another way to get him out of it.”
“And that way was?”
“Frank made them promise to fix the jury.”
Pay dirt. That was why I’d come to Revere.
“Now listen, Frank. We’re on the homestretch. You’re this close to that bottle. I want the truth. Did Frank’s lawyer, Lex Devlin, know about the fix?”
“His lawyer?”
“That’s right, Frank. Lex Devlin.”
I held my breath while he rubbed his head and massaged his brain cells. I couldn’t tell if he was looking for a recollection or just the answer that would uncork the bottle.
“Frank, you only get the bottle if you tell the truth. I’ll know.”
He looked at me with the most pathetic look I’d ever seen.
“I need a drink.”
“I need an answer. You go first.”
He shook his head and nearly cried.
“I don’t know. Frank never said one way or the other about the lawyer.”
Frank’s head was in his hands. For me, it was like I’d gotten a two-base hit when I was inches from putting the ball over the fence for a home run. I thought maybe I could stretch it to a three-bagger.
“Listen to me, Frank. Last question. Was the district attorney who prosecuted the case in on the jury fix? Did Frank say anything about that?”
Frank looked up. There was still hope.
“Yeah. Frank told me the DA was in a bind. He couldn’t call the case off when it turned into murder. He had to go through with prosecuting it. But he’s the one who told Frank not to worry. The jury was fixed.”
I had that great feeling of capping off a stand-up triple. I took out the pad of legal paper I had in my briefcase and wrote out in easy English the major points of what Frank Gallagher had just told me. I had him read it and sign it under a line that said he was under pain of perjury.
I came out of that bar into the brisk, fresh air off the ocean and took my first full breath since I’d entered it. To my surprise, Frank came out right behind me, clutching that vessel of amber gold. He headed down the block toward the ocean for what must have looked to him like a promising day at the beach.
29
What I had in my hand at this point was a signed statement that was worth exactly its weight in scrap paper. As an offering in evidence, it arguably violated the hearsay rule, the best evidence rule, and probably twenty others. As a witness, Frank Gallagher himself could have been destroyed on cross-examination by any law student in the first week of law school. However, it felt like pure platinum in my hand. With the right bluff, it could be just the leverage necessary to tumble the next domino.
I called the office of the clerk of the Supreme Judicial Court and reached Conrad Munsey. He sounded surprised, but not hostile.
“What’s up, kid?”
“You remember the conversation between you and me about a mutual acquaintance, Mr. Munsey?”
There was a tentative, “I do.”
“I could use some information.”
There was a pause. I heard his office door close, and he was back on the line.
“I hope you’re not stirring up trouble nobody needs. Especially you-know-who.”
“I hope the same thing. Isn’t anything better than the status quo?”
“I don’t know. What do you need?”
“The name of the district attorney who tried the Dolson case. It was before my time.”
“Yeah, I guess it was. The DA of Suffolk County was a well-connected gentleman by the name of Martin Shortbridge. He tried the case himself.”
“Do you have any idea where he is now?”
“Sure. As I say, he was well connected. He went into private practice with the Dunlevy firm. They handle a lot of private banks. He found his niche. Right now he’s the president of the American Fidelity Mutual Fund. What about it?”
“I need to see him.”
“Kid, you’ve got spunk. I hope you’ve got the brains to match. This is major-league wealth and power.”
“Well, you remember the old saying, Mr. Munsey. ‘The bigger they are, the harder they fall.’”
“You’re a piece of work, kid. Just be sure nothing falls on Lex.”
I called information for the number of the American Fidelity Mutual Fund. It occupied a building on State Street, the top floor of which was the office of Martin Shortbridge.
After a number of transferred connections, I reached his secretary. I knew that would be the end of the line for Michael Knight. On the other hand, as Oliver Shortbridge, nephew of the aforesaid Martin Shortbridge, calling with urgent news of the health of the latter’s sister, Letitia Shortbridge, I got the word that Mr. Shortbridge was “at luncheon” at the Parker House. I wouldn’t ordinarily play games with the health of any of these people; but since they were all fictitious, I took the liberty.
The maitre d’ at the Parker House was kind enough to point out Mr. Shortbridge. He was, in fact, a short and portly soul. He’d been well rounded over the years, no doubt, on such dishes as the lobster thermidor that was currently before him.
He was seated with three other pin-striped suits of the same cut and price tag. Painful though it was to disturb his probably profitable repast, I had him paged.
When he arrived at the maitre d’s desk, his expression was somewhere between curiosity and aggravation. He looked around, ignoring me, for someone who looked important enough to page him. I presented myself and spoke civilly.
“Mr. Shortbridge, my name is Michael Knight. Please forgive the intrusion. I need to see you on a matter that is seriously overdue. Approximately ten years.”
He looked at me and seemed to have difficulty believing what was standing in front of him interrupting his “luncheon.”
“This shouldn’t take long. They’ll reheat your lobster.”
The curiosity was gone. It was pure aggravation.
