“I don’t think so, young man.”
He signaled the maitre d’ to come at once, presumably to bounce this paragon of impertinence on his posterior.
I leaned over and whispered, “Perhaps I should join you at your table. I came to discuss the Dolson case. Your friends might enjoy a good story about jury fixing.”
The blood drained from his rosy English complexion. When the maitre d’ arrived, he waived him off. He took me by the arm and escorted me around the corner to a quiet spot. When we stopped, his mouth was at my ear. I could feel a hissing stream of moisture with each word.
“Who are you? Who sent you?”
I slowly pried the grip of his fingers off of my arm. I was delighted to have his undivided attention. Now the trick was to gain control. I remembered Mr. Devlin’s advice about not facing Angela Lamb on her own turf.
“My name’s Michael Knight, Mr. Shortbridge. And nobody sends me. Including you.”
He lost some of the bravado, but control was still in his court on his turf.
“We have business to do, you and I. It’s been a long time coming, but I assure you it’s here. You know exactly what I’m talking about. In five minutes I’ll be alone at a table at the McDonald’s on Washington Street. If you’re not there within ten minutes, I’ll presume you have no interest in righting an old wrong. Then we’ll see what surprises lie in store.”
I’ll admit it was a touch dramatic and the phrasing was a bit stilted. I did, however, relish the symbolism of the transfer from the Parker House to McDonald’s. That nuance came to me at the last minute.
The pleasure, however, was fleeting. After my exit line, I rushed to McDonald’s and found an open table. I had five minutes to grow butterflies the size of armadillos.
Shortbridge had not only gained back his color, he had redness to spare when he came through the door of McDonald’s, probably for the first time in his life. He found me, and I waved him to a chair. He sat. I took no small delight in the fact that he was responding to my hand signals. Then he put things back in perspective.
“Young man, I don’t know who you are, but I’ll find out. You will be broken in every way possible. You won’t be able to shine shoes in this state. Who do you think you’re dealing with?”
“‘Whom,’ Mr. Shortbridge. You mean, ‘Whom do I think I’m dealing with?’ Please, there are children here.”
He bolted to his feet.
“Enjoy it now, young man. It will be a very long time before you’ll enjoy anything again.”
I remained seated, calm, and as quiet as Clint Eastwood.
“To answer your improperly phrased question, Mr. Shortbridge, I’m the person who can haul your larcenous, jury-fixing ass out of that tower on State Street and put it in Walpole State Prison where it belongs.”
He stopped everything, including breathing, for a moment. He made an instant check to see if anyone was within earshot and scuttled back into the chair. I slid a photocopy of the paper signed by Frank Gallagher across the table. He scanned it, and then went back over it to read every word. When he finished he threw it back across the table.
“That’s what you’ve got? That’s what you dare to threaten me with? There isn’t a court in the state that would admit that in evidence. And that drunken bum, Gallagher? You think you can put his word against mine? You don’t have a shred of evidence.”
He was back in control of his life when he stood up to his full five feet six inches. I retained the Clint Eastwood calm.
“You couldn’t be more correct, Mr. Shortbridge.”
He was nodding vigorously and on the verge of launching into another self-redeeming threat of financial annihilation.
“On the other hand, I never intended to take it to court. I never threatened you with prosecution. That would be a crime, as you know. It does, however, have news value. Imagine the smoke and fury the news media in this small town of Boston will raise when they see this. I can think of two tabloids and at least three radio talk shows that’ll be delighted to put you in center stage. You’ll be wishing I had taken you to court. At least there you’d have a chance to prove your innocence. No, you’re going to find yourself skewered in the forum of the media, gossip, public opinion. I wonder if an operation that calls itself the American Fidelity Mutual Fund can afford a president that everybody knows got away with jury fixing in an arson case that resulted in homicide. Here, you keep this copy for a souvenir. I have plenty of others.”
I flipped it back to him. It landed in front of him, but he didn’t see it. He was just staring at the edge of the table. No one knew better than he did how the liberal powers behind certain media would celebrate the destruction of his conservative reputation. His mind went through several seconds of deflating computation before he muttered, “What do you want?”
I let it hang there for a few seconds to let him anticipate the worst.
“I’ll tell you what I don’t want. I don’t want you. I don’t give a damn if you eat lobster thermidor for the rest of your self-pampering life. I want information, and I want a signed statement. If I get it, I may never need to make it public. I can’t promise that, but it’s your only option.”
He lifted his head to meet my eyes. His breathing had become labored. I wanted to finish this thing before he expired at McDonald’s, giving the restaurant a bad name.
“If I don’t get the truth, and I know most of it, I’m on my way. You get one shot at it. You understand?”
He nodded.
“Let’s start with a simple one. The first trial of Dolson. Was the jury fixed?”
It took a second, but he nodded.
“I’d like to hear it out loud.”
“Yes.” It sounded as if a frog had taken residence in his throat. He cleared it and repeated the answer.
“That’s right. That was a test. Were you in on the fix?”
He looked in both directions. There was a mother with three small children just sitting down two tables away. He leaned over and whispered.
“Do we have to do this here?”
“Yes. Were you in on the fix?”
He both nodded and whispered, “Yes.”
It was time to go for the gold.
“Lex Devlin represented Dolson. Did Lex Devlin know anything about the fix?”
He thought for a long moment while everything inside of me stopped.
“I don’t know.”
“I want the truth or you’re a dead duck.”
“I swear I honestly don’t know. I never talked to Devlin about it. I don’t know if anyone else did.”
I could feel the pit of my stomach drop three inches. One more domino had dropped, and I was still chasing pay dirt. I didn’t know how many more of these I could survive. Anthony’s trial was coming up the following day. Time was short, but I needed to push it to one more level before putting it on the shelf. I regrouped and tried to sustain the bravado, which was at this point running low.
“One more question. And you’d better find an answer for this one. This is the deal-breaker. Who put the pieces together to fix that juror? The money, the contact, all of it. Who actually did it?”
The sheet of moisture that covered his forehead beaded into drops that began coursing down his cheeks. I could see his hands clutch the edge of the table to stop the shaking. He took a deep breath and shook his head.
“I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“He could… destroy me.”
He was stymied with fear. The only thing that could drive him through it was a smack in the rear with a greater fear. I blocked out the overwhelming urge to cave in out of pity by focusing on the ten years of pain he had caused Mr. Devlin without a thought.
I leaned over the table.
“Look in my eyes, Mr. Shortbridge, and read the truth. He could destroy you. I will destroy you.”
He shook until even the table couldn’t steady him. It came out of him in a whisper.
