Read Online Client Privilege by William G. Tapply - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William G. Tapply
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shot a sideways frown at Finnigan. “I apologize, Mr. Coyne.”
“Apology accepted,” I said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more. I don’t know who killed Wayne Churchill or why. But it wasn’t me.”
Finnigan shook his head slowly back and forth and glanced at Sylvestro, who nodded. He stood up and Finnigan followed suit.
Sylvestro held out his hand. I shook it. “Appreciate your time, Mr. Coyne,” he said.
I shrugged. “I want to help.”
“Sure,” said Finnigan.
SEVEN
I STOOD IN THE doorway and watched them leave. Julie was at her desk with the telephone tucked against her neck. She watched them too.
After the door closed behind them, I went back into my office. I sat at my desk and swiveled my chair around to stare out the window. I hadn’t seen the sun in four days. The cityscape was painted in tones of gray. It was sullen and grouchy, just like me.
Julie scratched at the door. Without turning, I said, “Come in. And I hope you brought coffee.”
“I did,” she said.
I turned around. She came and sat in the chair beside my desk. She had had her black hair cut short, which did good things for her fine cheekbones. She wore gold hoops in her ears. Her green eyes tried to smile but fell short. She put the old mug that Joey had made for me three years earlier in eighth-grade ceramics class in front of me. It was steaming. I picked it up and sipped from it. Julie had brought her own mug with her.
“So what the hell is going on?” she said.
I sighed. “I really can’t even talk to you about it.”
“Oh, come on, Brady.”
“That’s what’s so frustrating. I can’t discuss it with anybody.”
“But this is me,” she said.
“This is I.”
She widened her eyes. “Hoo, boy. Look who’s correcting whose grammar.”
“Reflex,” I said. “Sorry.”
“Those guys look mean.”
“They’re not that tough.”
“They look tough to me.”
“They’re no tougher than me,” I said.
“Than I,” she said.
I lit a cigarette and touched her wrist with my hand. “What’s on this morning?”
“A bunch of desk work. We’ve got a pile of correspondence to answer. You’ve got some calls to make. Several clients who need to hear your reassuring voice. Then there’s Mrs. Covington.”
“Huh?”
“Mrs. Covington. Suing her dentist, remember?”
“Oh, right.”
“Christ, Brady. Where’s your mind?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Those guys’re getting to you, huh?”
“I guess they are.”
“Nothing you can tell me?”
I shook my head. “No. Look. I’ve got to make a couple calls first. Then we’ll get to work.”
After Julie left my office, I called my friend Charlie McDevitt. He’s a prosecutor for Uncle Sam, in the Boston division of the Justice Department. He’s got an office at Government Center. I had to be careful what I said to Charlie, because he knew Pops at Yale when I did. But Charlie’s my best friend. He’s the guy I talk to when I need to talk. He’s also a fine lawyer who understands a prosecutor’s mind better than I do. He’s been on that side of the fence a long time.
I exchanged flirtations with his secretary, Shirley, who’s a dead ringer for the round-cheeked white-haired lady pictured on the frozen-fish packages. I made her giggle and admit she was blushing, as I always did, and then she put me through to Charlie.
“Belize,” said Charlie, instead of hello.
“Christmas Island,” I answered.
“Either one. When?”
“Would that I could,” I said. “Bonefish. Permit. Barracuda. One of these days.”
“The other side of the world, Christmas Island,” he said dreamily. “Heaven.”
“Which makes this side of the world…” I said, leaving the obvious thought unfinished.
“That bad, huh?”
“That bad.”
“You’ve looked out your window, then,” said Charlie.
“I have. Grim out there.”
“We gotta get away.”
“Agreed. That’s not why I called.”
“Business, huh?”
“Sort of. Charlie, I’ve got a
“Apology accepted,” I said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more. I don’t know who killed Wayne Churchill or why. But it wasn’t me.”
Finnigan shook his head slowly back and forth and glanced at Sylvestro, who nodded. He stood up and Finnigan followed suit.
Sylvestro held out his hand. I shook it. “Appreciate your time, Mr. Coyne,” he said.
I shrugged. “I want to help.”
“Sure,” said Finnigan.
SEVEN
I STOOD IN THE doorway and watched them leave. Julie was at her desk with the telephone tucked against her neck. She watched them too.
After the door closed behind them, I went back into my office. I sat at my desk and swiveled my chair around to stare out the window. I hadn’t seen the sun in four days. The cityscape was painted in tones of gray. It was sullen and grouchy, just like me.
Julie scratched at the door. Without turning, I said, “Come in. And I hope you brought coffee.”
“I did,” she said.
I turned around. She came and sat in the chair beside my desk. She had had her black hair cut short, which did good things for her fine cheekbones. She wore gold hoops in her ears. Her green eyes tried to smile but fell short. She put the old mug that Joey had made for me three years earlier in eighth-grade ceramics class in front of me. It was steaming. I picked it up and sipped from it. Julie had brought her own mug with her.
“So what the hell is going on?” she said.
I sighed. “I really can’t even talk to you about it.”
“Oh, come on, Brady.”
“That’s what’s so frustrating. I can’t discuss it with anybody.”
“But this is me,” she said.
“This is I.”
She widened her eyes. “Hoo, boy. Look who’s correcting whose grammar.”
“Reflex,” I said. “Sorry.”
“Those guys look mean.”
“They’re not that tough.”
“They look tough to me.”
“They’re no tougher than me,” I said.
“Than I,” she said.
I lit a cigarette and touched her wrist with my hand. “What’s on this morning?”
“A bunch of desk work. We’ve got a pile of correspondence to answer. You’ve got some calls to make. Several clients who need to hear your reassuring voice. Then there’s Mrs. Covington.”
“Huh?”
“Mrs. Covington. Suing her dentist, remember?”
“Oh, right.”
“Christ, Brady. Where’s your mind?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Those guys’re getting to you, huh?”
“I guess they are.”
“Nothing you can tell me?”
I shook my head. “No. Look. I’ve got to make a couple calls first. Then we’ll get to work.”
After Julie left my office, I called my friend Charlie McDevitt. He’s a prosecutor for Uncle Sam, in the Boston division of the Justice Department. He’s got an office at Government Center. I had to be careful what I said to Charlie, because he knew Pops at Yale when I did. But Charlie’s my best friend. He’s the guy I talk to when I need to talk. He’s also a fine lawyer who understands a prosecutor’s mind better than I do. He’s been on that side of the fence a long time.
I exchanged flirtations with his secretary, Shirley, who’s a dead ringer for the round-cheeked white-haired lady pictured on the frozen-fish packages. I made her giggle and admit she was blushing, as I always did, and then she put me through to Charlie.
“Belize,” said Charlie, instead of hello.
“Christmas Island,” I answered.
“Either one. When?”
“Would that I could,” I said. “Bonefish. Permit. Barracuda. One of these days.”
“The other side of the world, Christmas Island,” he said dreamily. “Heaven.”
“Which makes this side of the world…” I said, leaving the obvious thought unfinished.
“That bad, huh?”
“That bad.”
“You’ve looked out your window, then,” said Charlie.
“I have. Grim out there.”
“We gotta get away.”
“Agreed. That’s not why I called.”
“Business, huh?”
“Sort of. Charlie, I’ve got a
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