Hell Bent Read online

  Lily gave me one of her deceptive little-girl chuckles. “You remember what they taught us in law school. When you’ve got the upper hand, you go for the jugular. When you’re behind the eight ball, you go for the compromise.”

  “We’ll both do our best for our clients,” I said. “That’s understood. Gus Shaw is a pretty sympathetic figure. He doesn’t want to lose his kids.”

  “Look,” she said. “Let’s have lunch, talk it through, okay? Let’s figure out what they both want, and see if we can reconcile that with what makes sense, what’s right and just, and what Judge Kolb will accept.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I said.

  “You know,” said Lily, “contrary to popular belief, I am not a monster.”

  “I never thought you were a monster.”

  “I do believe in justice.”

  “For your clients,” I said.

  She laughed again. “Sure. But I sleep best when things work out for everybody. I think you and I can do some good for this family.”

  “Me, too,” I said.

  “Why don’t you put your secretary back on to talk to mine, and we’ll let them make a date for us.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I will.”

  “Just don’t lose track of the fact that Mr. Shaw brandished a weapon at his family in the living room of his home,” said Lily Capezza.

  “You’ve got me over a barrel, all right.”

  “The two little girls were petrified,” she said. “Don’t forget that.”

  “It kind of puts Mrs. Shaw’s extramarital adventures into perspective,” I said, “doesn’t it?”

  Lily was quiet for a moment. Then she chuckled. “Why, Attorney Coyne. I came this close to underestimating you. This might turn out to be more fun than I thought. I’m going to put my secretary on now. Let’s make it some time this week, okay?”

  “I look forward to it,” I said. I hit the intercom button, and when Julie picked up I told her that Attorney Capezza’s secretary was coming on the line and they should set up a lunch meeting for us attorneys.

  I hung up the phone, stared out the window for a minute, then slammed my fist down on my desk. Brandishing a weapon at his wife and kids? I was supposed to represent this guy?

  My first impulse was to call Gus at the camera shop and blast him for not telling me the truth and putting me on the defensive with his wife’s lawyer. But one of the things I’ve learned about this job is to take a deep breath and resist my first impulse. In fact, it’s best to resist all impulses.

  I’d talk to Gus later.

  So I took several deep breaths, then returned my attention to the letter I was writing on behalf of Doug and Mary Epping. It was a relief to think about broken furniture instead of a broken family with a one-handed crazy person waving a gun at his wife and children.

  A few minutes before closing time, Julie came into my office. “You got a lunch date with Attorney Capezza,” she said. “In the true spirit of give-and-take, her secretary picked the time—one o’clock on Friday—and I picked the place. Marie’s. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said. “Good. Marie’s gives me the home field advantage, such as it is.”

  Julie put two sheets of paper on my desk. “See how this reads,” she said.

  It was my letter to AA Movers, now edited and neatly typed and formatted and printed out on our official Brady L. Coyne, Esquire, stationery. “I suppose you tinkered with my immortal prose,” I said.

  “That’s why you pay me the big bucks.”

  “You let a few semicolons slip through, I hope.”

  She smiled. “Not many of them.” She turned for the door. “Read it over. Feel free to mark it up.”

  When Julie left, I looked at the letter.

  AA Movers, Inc.

  P. O. Box 1607

  Lowell, MA 01853

  RE: Douglas and Mary Epping

  Claim for Damages pursuant to G.L. c. 93A, section 9

  Dear Sir/Madam:

  This office represents the above-named persons with respect to claims against you arising out of damages they sustained due to your unlawful conduct as described herein. This letter constitutes a demand for relief pursuant to section 9 of Massachusetts General Laws chapter 93A.

  On May 17, 2008, your company moved my clients’ household furnishings from Chelmsford, Massachusetts, to Charlestown, Massachusetts. A number of items were damaged in the move. Leaving aside the ones which suffered minor damage, the following pieces suffered significant damage: an antique (eighteenth-century) dresser; an heirloom rocking chair; a dining table; three side chairs; a coffee table; two framed oil paintings; and one nineteenth-century watercolor painting.

  My clients have obtained an estimate of $13,465 for repair of those items that are repairable, and a copy of same is enclosed.

  It is our position that the above conduct constitutes unfair or deceptive trade practices in violation of G.L. c. 93A, section 2, as a result of which my clients have suffered damages well in excess of $75,000. However, in order to resolve this matter without the necessity of litigation, their demand for relief pursuant to G.L. c. 93A, section 9, is $50,000 (fifty thousand dollars).

  Under G.L. c. 93A, section 9, you have 30 days from receipt of this demand to make a reasonable written tender of settlement. Should you fail to do so and a court finds that your conduct as alleged herein violated section 2 of chapter 93A, my clients must be awarded their actual damages or $25.00, whichever is greater, plus their costs and reasonable attorney’s fees. If a court further finds that the violation of section 2 was willful or knowing, or that your refusal to make a reasonable tender of settlement was in bad faith with knowledge or reason to know that your conduct violated section 2, then my clients must be awarded no less than 2 (two) nor more than 3 (three) times the actual damages or $25.00, whichever is greater, plus costs and reasonable attorney’s fees.

  We look forward to receiving your reasonable written tender of settlement within 30 days.

  Very sincerely,

  Brady L. Coyne, Esq.

  Encl.

  Cc: Douglas Epping

  Mary Epping

  I took the letter out to Julie in our reception area and put it on her desk.

  “Sound okay?” she said.

  “It’s great,” I said. “There’s a lovely sequence of semicolons there, and you preserved several of my ‘pursuants’ and ‘hereins.’ I couldn’t have done better myself.”

  “Hemingway it ain’t,” she said.

  “And rightfully so. Papa published millions of words, and I bet not a single one of them was ‘pursuant.’”

  “I changed hardly anything, actually,” said Julie. “You can take full credit for this masterpiece of empty threat and muddy obfuscation. They’ll ignore it, of course.”

  “Probably,” I said. “I would. They don’t know what we’ve got up our sleeve.”

  “You did a good job of not divulging anything.”

  “But there is nevertheless the subtle, unspoken hint that we know more than we’re saying.”

  “Yes,” she said. “There is that, as I’m sure their lawyer will discern, assuming he’s discerning. Nicely done. So what exactly do we have up our sleeve?”

  “According to Doug,” I said, “this Double A outfit hires day workers off the streets of Lowell. They’re untrained and poorly supervised. Probably get paid under the table. I’m guessing no withholding or Social Security taxes are paid by Double-A, Inc., to the Commonwealth or to Uncle Sam. I’m curious about their insurance. Doug can testify to their lack of professionalism.”

  “That’s good stuff,” she said. “You got anything more than Mr. Epping’s testimony?”

  I shook my head. “It’ll take some digging. If we need to do it, we’ll give Gordie Cahill a call. A PI can get the goods in a day, if they’re there to be gotten.” I tapped the letter. “Fax a copy of this to Doug and Mary with a note just saying that we’ve got the ball rolling and we’ll be in touch. Certified mail to Double A, as usual.”<
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  Julie nodded, then looked at me and smiled. “If I didn’t know better, I’d guess that you’re itching for a battle with this outfit.”

  “I admit,” I said, “we haven’t had a good knock-down, drag-out, good-guys-versus-bad-guys litigation in quite a while, and this one could be fun. But for the sake of our clients …”

  “Sure,” she said. “We’ll be happy to settle.”

  That evening Henry and I were in the living room watching Monday Night Football—the Detroit Lions were playing the Chicago Bears at Soldier Field—and as always happened when I watched an MNF game between two teams I didn’t care about, I remembered and missed Howard Cosell’s flamboyant style and gravelly voice and in-your-face commentary. It was Cosell who memorably announced the assassination of John Lennon to the world during a Monday Night Football game, putting it all into perspective.

  The phone on the table beside my chair rang just as the second-half kickoff was settling into the returner’s arms. I hit mute on the remote, picked up the phone, and said, “Hello,” without taking my eyes off the television.

  “Hey.” It was Alex.

  “Oh,” I said. “Hi.”

  “You okay?”

  “Me? Sure.”

  “Did you get my message the other night?”

  “I did,” I said. “Yes.”

  “Were you planning on returning my call?”

  “No,” I said. “I guess not.”

  She laughed quickly. “You never did pull your punches. One of the things I loved about you. Straight from the hip. Good old tell-it-like-it-is Coyne.”

  Me and Howard Cosell, I thought.

  “Well,” said Alex after an awkward moment, “maybe I should be flattered.” She hesitated. “Is that it? Should I? Be flattered, I mean? That you didn’t return my call?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Yes.”

  “Then you miss my point,” she said. “As far as I’m concerned, this is all about Gus, okay? I mean, I am flattered. But I’m not here to complicate your life. I feel bad about Evie, but—”

  “Leave Evie out of it,” I said.

  “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I just wanted to buy you dinner,” said Alex. “See how it went with Gussie. Get your impressions. See what we can do for my brother, thank you for taking his case. That’s all.”

  “That’s all?” I said.

  Alex sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe not.”

  “You call me in that sleepy whispery voice of yours,” I said, “make sure I know you’re in bed, wearing nothing but a T-shirt, probably, conjure up a million old memories? What’m I supposed to think?”

  She said nothing.

  The Bears quarterback had a screen pass batted down at the line of scrimmage.

  “I would like to have dinner with you,” I said after a minute. “We do need to talk about your brother’s case.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “And,” she said, “that’s the only reason you’d like to have dinner with me?”

  “You didn’t tell me that Gus’s wife took out a 209A on him,” I said. “You didn’t tell me that he threatened his family with a gun.”

  “I guess I don’t quite rise to the Brady Coyne standards of candor,” she said. “Would you have taken his case if you’d known that?”

  “You did know, then.”

  “I did,” she said. “Yes. Gussie told me. He was very shaken up by it. Said it was like he was somebody else. It’s why he’s not interested in defending himself. He feels like he doesn’t know what he’s going to do next.”

  “I would’ve taken the case,” I said. “I don’t limit my clientele to angels. Or cases I’m sure I can win, either.”

  “I should have known that,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “More to the point,” I said, “he should have told me. He’s the client. He’s the one who has to tell me the truth, not you.”

  “I have to, too,” said Alex. “I’m the friend.”

  “So instead,” I said, “I got blindsided by his wife’s attorney.”

  “That had to’ve been awkward. I’m sorry.”

  “It happens to all of us,” I said. “Clients lying, or just withholding something. Lily knew better than to try to make something out of it. Still …”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Have dinner with you,” I said. “How’s Friday work for you?”

  “I meant about Gus.”

  “He’s my client,” I said. “I’ll give him hell and we’ll move on.”

  I heard her blow out a soft breath. “Thank you,” she said. “So are you sure?”

  “About what?”

  “Having dinner with me?”

  “I feel bad,” I said, “not returning your call. You’re my friend. That’s not the way I treat my friends. You still staying at the Best Western there at the rotary?”

  “I got this room for two weeks, which I may extend,” she said. “I’m looking around for some place to sublet for a month or two. I feel like I should stick close to Gussie for a while. Anyway, I’ve got my book to work on, and I need to do some research around here. You haven’t heard of anything, have you?”

  “Subleases, you mean?”

  “Yes. Preferably in this area. Concord, Acton, Bedford.”

  “I’ll keep my ears open,” I said. “So Friday, dinner is here. You can leave your car at Alewife, hop on the subway, or if you’d rather drive in, we can put a Resident Parking sign on your dashboard. I’ll mix a pitcher of gin and tonics, grill some chicken. We can eat out in the garden at my picnic table if it’s nice, enjoy the Indian summer weather while it lasts. Dress casual.”

  “You sure?” she said. “I intended to take you out to a fancy restaurant.”

  “The trouble with fancy restaurants,” I said, “is neckties.”

  She chuckled. “I remember how you used to love to grill burgers on that greasy old hibachi on your balcony when you lived on Lewis Wharf.”

  “I got a spiffy gas grill now.”

  “Friday, then?”

  “Around seven okay?”

  “Perfect,” said Alex in that husky bedroom voice of hers. “I’ll be there. Friday at seven. Looking forward to it.”

  After we disconnected, I sat there with the phone in my hand watching the giant gladiators on Soldier Field crash into each other, and I thought: What the hell do you think you’re doing, Coyne?

  SIX

  Henry and I stayed up till almost midnight watching the rest of the Bears-Lions game, which came down to a last-second field goal try by the Lions that a gust of Chicago wind blew wide left. Howard Cosell, telling it like it was even if the sponsors didn’t like it, would’ve pointed out that this was a meaningless and sloppily played game between two noncontending teams, but the present-day announcers made it sound like the Super Bowl.

  It wasn’t adrenaline from watching a close football game that kept me awake. It was thoughts of Alex Shaw, my old love, coming to my house—Evie’s and my house—for drinks and a cookout, ping-ponging with thoughts about how Alex’s brother and my client, Gus, had pointed a gun at his wife and daughters, resulting in an abuse prevention order and a divorce procedure.

  I was angry at Gus, but I felt sorry for him, too. The poor guy’s life was spinning away from him. As far as I could see, his best chance of slowing it down and regaining some control over it rested on my shoulders.

  I decided I’d clear the air with him first thing the next morning.

  I didn’t know what to do about Alex.

  I caught Gus at home at eight o’clock on Tuesday morning and arranged to meet him at the Sleepy Hollow Café in Concord an hour later. The café was within walking distance of the camera shop where he worked. He had to be there at ten. That would give us an hour.

  I didn’t tell Gus what I wanted to talk to him about, and he didn’t ask.

  I steered my car onto Storrow Drive, headi
ng west. It was another postcard New England autumn day. The maples and oaks along the Esplanade glowed in shades of gold and orange, and the sun glittered off the Charles River. Sculls and sailboats left long wakes on the flat water. Joggers and dog-walkers and cyclists clogged the footpaths.

  I was heading out of the city while most of the traffic was heading in, so I made good time, and I pulled into the parking lot beside the Sleepy Hollow Café on Walden Street in Concord ten minutes early.

  Besides its indoor dining room, the café featured a dozen umbrella-shaded tables on an outdoor patio. When I got out of my car and approached the patio, I saw that all but two of the tables were occupied. Gus Shaw was seated at one of them, and he wasn’t alone.

  A Hispanic-looking man, midthirties, I guessed, sat across from him. A compact, fit, quick-looking man. He had black hair and a black mustache and wore sunglasses. Both men had their forearms on the table and were leaning forward with their faces close, talking intently to each other.

  Their body language told me that this wasn’t a good time to interrupt, so I stopped there outside the patio.

  I realized that Gus was doing most of the talking. The other guy—he was wearing a tan shirt and matching pants, some kind of a job uniform, I guessed—kept shaking his head, and then he suddenly pushed back his chair and stood up.

  Gus said something, and the other guy put both of his hands on the table and bent forward. From where I was standing I heard the passion—it might have been anger—in his voice, though I couldn’t tell what he was saying.

  Gus leaned back, crossed his arms, and shook his head.

  The Hispanic guy stared down at him for a moment, then he smiled and nodded.

  Gus looked at him, then stood up, held out his left arm, and made a fist.

  The other guy tapped Gus’s fist with his own.

  That’s when I approached them.

  Gus looked up and saw me. He said something to the other man, who turned and narrowed his eyes at me.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said to Gus, although I wasn’t late. “City traffic, you know? Am I interrupting something?”