intellectual ass, “think away, my friend, because whatever you are proposing, you can count me in.”
10
“Been a while since you dragged me here,” said David Cavanaugh, as he approached his friend Joe Mannix at the end of the bar of one of Joe’s preferred drinking spots, a small, smoky Irish pub in South Boston known as The Idle Hour.
“Not that I’m complaining, but what’s wrong with Bris tow’s?” he asked, running his hand through his sleet-soaked, sandy-colored hair. “At least it’s close, and the clientele are . . . um,” he paused to look around, “. . . still breathing.”
“Very funny,” said Joe, already on his second beer and shifting slightly in his seat to allow his attorney friend to slide onto the other well-worn green velvet stool beside him.
David knew Joe liked it here—the cozy, dark wood-grain ceilings, the stained glass windows, the 1950s jukebox, the regular clientele, and the thirty-odd clocks fixed on 6 p.m., which allowed happy hour to run forever. He also knew this was the kind of place Joe suggested when he needed to talk—in private.
David took off his scarf, gloves and coat before ordering two Heinekens, which prompted a strange look from the pepper-haired barman who spent the next three minutes trying to find the icy green bottles way at the back of the cooler. They sat in silence, enjoying the first few sips of the freshly opened brew—David knowing that if Joe had called him here to tell him something, he would need to do it in his own time.
“Late October and already as cold as hell,” said David.
“Yeah. Apparently they’re predicting another blizzard, like the one in ’78. All I remember from that seven-day snowstorm was not being able to leave the house for a week.”
“Jesus, that’s all we need.”
“How’s Sara?” asked Joe after a pause.
“Great,” answered David with enthusiasm. “She’s working on setting up a pro bono arm of the firm. Her background at AACSAM means she has a lot of experience with clients who might not necessarily be able to afford private representation. In fact, she already has her first client—a young waitress being sexually harassed by her restaurant owner boss.”
Before Sara joined their firm last year, she had been employed by AACSAM, the African-American Community Service Agency of Massachusetts. While working at the respected community service agency, Sara spent her days helping African-Americans and other minority groups negotiate everything from legal aid and insurance payouts to health benefits and educational assistance.
“She’ll kick ass,” said Joe. “She has the heart for it.”
“That she does,” said David.
They sat in silence for a moment, settling for two more beers from the tap—the new stronger, harsher lager somewhat jarring after the light imported brew—before David sensed Joe was still unsure as to whether or not he would share what he had intended to when he called David and asked him to this little get-together earlier that afternoon.
More often than not, Joe’s inclination to clam up was due to his desire to protect David, his professional obligations and the possible repercussions of brainstorming with a cop. David was a defense attorney after all, and Mannix, despite his abhorrence for ADA Katz, was meant to be an extension of the prosecutor’s team.
But whatever was bugging Joe tonight, David was sure there could be no conflict of interest. David’s only current case was a health insurance dispute, and Sara was working on the pro bono thing so . . .
He knew his detective friend had been working on the high-profile Nagoshi case, but he also knew there had been no arrest, and according to his other friend and sometime drinking buddy, Boston Tribune deputy editor Marc Rigotti, no new public release of information. But maybe that was the problem, David thought. Maybe Joe was jammed up because there was nothing to report. Which also meant he was probably . . .
“I’m
10
“Been a while since you dragged me here,” said David Cavanaugh, as he approached his friend Joe Mannix at the end of the bar of one of Joe’s preferred drinking spots, a small, smoky Irish pub in South Boston known as The Idle Hour.
“Not that I’m complaining, but what’s wrong with Bris tow’s?” he asked, running his hand through his sleet-soaked, sandy-colored hair. “At least it’s close, and the clientele are . . . um,” he paused to look around, “. . . still breathing.”
“Very funny,” said Joe, already on his second beer and shifting slightly in his seat to allow his attorney friend to slide onto the other well-worn green velvet stool beside him.
David knew Joe liked it here—the cozy, dark wood-grain ceilings, the stained glass windows, the 1950s jukebox, the regular clientele, and the thirty-odd clocks fixed on 6 p.m., which allowed happy hour to run forever. He also knew this was the kind of place Joe suggested when he needed to talk—in private.
David took off his scarf, gloves and coat before ordering two Heinekens, which prompted a strange look from the pepper-haired barman who spent the next three minutes trying to find the icy green bottles way at the back of the cooler. They sat in silence, enjoying the first few sips of the freshly opened brew—David knowing that if Joe had called him here to tell him something, he would need to do it in his own time.
“Late October and already as cold as hell,” said David.
“Yeah. Apparently they’re predicting another blizzard, like the one in ’78. All I remember from that seven-day snowstorm was not being able to leave the house for a week.”
“Jesus, that’s all we need.”
“How’s Sara?” asked Joe after a pause.
“Great,” answered David with enthusiasm. “She’s working on setting up a pro bono arm of the firm. Her background at AACSAM means she has a lot of experience with clients who might not necessarily be able to afford private representation. In fact, she already has her first client—a young waitress being sexually harassed by her restaurant owner boss.”
Before Sara joined their firm last year, she had been employed by AACSAM, the African-American Community Service Agency of Massachusetts. While working at the respected community service agency, Sara spent her days helping African-Americans and other minority groups negotiate everything from legal aid and insurance payouts to health benefits and educational assistance.
“She’ll kick ass,” said Joe. “She has the heart for it.”
“That she does,” said David.
They sat in silence for a moment, settling for two more beers from the tap—the new stronger, harsher lager somewhat jarring after the light imported brew—before David sensed Joe was still unsure as to whether or not he would share what he had intended to when he called David and asked him to this little get-together earlier that afternoon.
More often than not, Joe’s inclination to clam up was due to his desire to protect David, his professional obligations and the possible repercussions of brainstorming with a cop. David was a defense attorney after all, and Mannix, despite his abhorrence for ADA Katz, was meant to be an extension of the prosecutor’s team.
But whatever was bugging Joe tonight, David was sure there could be no conflict of interest. David’s only current case was a health insurance dispute, and Sara was working on the pro bono thing so . . .
He knew his detective friend had been working on the high-profile Nagoshi case, but he also knew there had been no arrest, and according to his other friend and sometime drinking buddy, Boston Tribune deputy editor Marc Rigotti, no new public release of information. But maybe that was the problem, David thought. Maybe Joe was jammed up because there was nothing to report. Which also meant he was probably . . .
“I’m
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