Hell Bent (10 page)

He lifted his head and looked at me with those big, intelligent, liquid dog eyes of his.

“So now it looks like it’s going to be just the two of us,” I said. “How about some supper?”

O
n Thursday afternoon near closing time, Julie came into my office. “We got a problem,” she said. She put an envelope on my desk blotter and sat in the chair across from me.

“What’s this?” I said.

“Take a look.”

It was addressed to AA Movers, Inc., at their address in Lowell. It had a green Certified Mail sticker on it. The post office had stamped it with a pointing finger in red ink.

“It came back?”

“It did. In today’s mail. They checked the ‘not deliverable’ box.”

“What’s that mean?” I said.

“It means,” she said, in a tone that implied it was self-evident, “that AA Movers have moved themselves and left no forwarding address.”

“I hope they broke all their own stuff,” I said. “So where’d they move to?”

She nodded. “It took some research. This is what I found out. As of August 31, AA Movers, Inc., as we once knew and loved
them, ceased to exist. They closed their Lowell office and all their accounts and terminated their Massachusetts corporation.”

“So the legal body is dead and buried,” I said. “Rest in peace, AA Movers, Inc.”

Julie held up one finger. “Well, yes and no. They registered as a New Hampshire corporation, effective September 1, at which time they opened new accounts and moved their entire operation to their office on Outlook Drive in Nashua. Still using the same name. AA Movers.”

“Son of a bitch,” I said.

Julie nodded. “When the Eppings used them, they were a Massachusetts corporation. That corporation no longer exists. Now there’s a moving company by the same name with the same officers in Nashua, but it’s a different legal entity.”

“We can’t sue a corporation that no longer exists,” I said.

“And this new legal body has no incentive whatsoever to continue a business relationship with anybody connected with the old body,” she said. “Mr. and Mrs. Epping have no leverage with them.”

“In other words,” I said, “we’re screwed.”

“It’s not fair,” said Julie. “They’re obviously a sleazy operation. Which, of course, is why we wanted to sue them in the first place. But the law is the law. So what are we going to do?”

“Well, I’ve got to talk to Doug.”

“Want me to get him on the phone for you?”

I shook my head. “No, not yet. I’m not done with this. First off, let’s resend this letter to the Nashua address, see if we can get a rise out of them. Make the necessary changes, reprint it, and I’ll sign it. Then make some calls, prowl around the Web, do whatever it takes to find out who their lawyer is.”

Julie smiled. “Why, Brady Coyne,” she said. “I do believe you’re girding your loins to do battle here.”

“We are now a serious underdog,” I said.

“And you love that.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said.

Marie’s was a quiet little Italian restaurant behind the Christian Science Mother Church just outside of Kenmore Square. The back wall was lined with large, comfortable booths, and Marie never minded holding a booth-for-four for me and one other guest. It was always dark and cool and subdued inside, with Respighi or Rossini or Puccini or some other composer whose name ended in a vowel playing softly from hidden speakers, and the mingled aroma of roasted garlic and fresh oregano and shredded Parmesan wafting in from the kitchen. The waitstaff were mostly students from BU. They were attentive and competent, polite and discreet. Marie’s was my favorite place within walking distance of my office for a private conversation with a friend or a client or another lawyer.

I got there fifteen minutes early on Friday afternoon. I wanted to be there before Lily Capezza arrived so I could play the role of genial host at our first sit-down on the Shaw divorce. I didn’t expect to put her on the defensive—nobody could do that to Lily—but I did hope to establish a friendly, cooperative tone.

I had a cup of coffee and watched the entry from my booth. Lily arrived on the dot of one o’clock. She craned her neck and looked around, and when she saw my waving hand, she waved back, came over, and slid into the booth across from me.

She put her briefcase on the seat beside her and held her hand across the table. I shook it.

“Am I late?” she said.

I smiled. “You know you’re exactly on time.”

“It’s a serious character flaw,” she said. “I can’t seem to make
myself arrive strategically late, keep the opponent waiting, put him on the defensive. I attribute it to my Catholic upbringing.”

Lily Capezza was a fiftyish woman with glossy black hair, high cheekbones, big dark eyes, wide mouth, and imposing bosom. She reminded me of Sophia Loren at about that age. A striking woman who could charm any judge or jury—or opposing counsel, if you weren’t on your guard.

“Catholics don’t have a monopoly on guilt,” I said.

She smiled, then picked up a menu, scanned it, and put it down. “You want to eat before we talk, pretend this is a social occasion? Or shall we do business?”

“I’d like to hear what you want to say,” I said. “I trust it won’t spoil my appetite. We can eat and talk, I bet.”

At that point our waitress came. Lily ordered a Caesar salad and iced tea. I asked for a grilled chicken panino and more coffee.

When the waitress left, Lily said, “We should be aiming to settle this case, I hope you agree.”

I nodded. “I don’t think a trial serves anybody’s best interests.”

“That’s our job,” she said. “To make an agreement that Judge Kolb will accept. We both know how that works. Child support, division of property, alimony, insurance, all by formula. As I see it, we are left with two issues of potential contention.” She held up two fingers. “Custody of the children”—she bent down one of her fingers with her other forefinger—”and Mr. Shaw’s intellectual property.” She bent down her other finger. “Do you agree?”

“At least those two,” I said. “Though I wouldn’t consider them equivalent. You’re not suggesting we give one in exchange for the other?”

Lily smiled. “Which one would your client be willing to give? Hypothetically, I mean.”

“Hypothetically,” I said, “which one would your client want?”

Lily shook her head. “I’m sorry. My fault. Neither of us came here to play games. We’ve both been at this a long time. We know how it works. We can posture and dissemble and pile up lots of billable hours that our clients really can’t afford to pay. Or we can lay our cards on the table. Shall we?”

“Let’s,” I said. “No more hypotheticals. You first.”

“Fair enough.” She hesitated. “Claudia Shaw is thinking about moving to North Carolina to be near her parents, who have retired to Asheville.”

“Bringing Gus’s kids with her.”

“Of course.”

“In exchange for which,” I said, “she’ll let him hold on to his intellectual property. Is that it?”

“That’s one way we might make it work,” she said.

I shook my head. “I don’t think so, Lily.”

At that moment our waitress arrived with our lunches.

When she left, Lily said, “Maybe we don’t have anything to talk about today after all. Maybe we should just let Judge Kolb decide it. Is that what you want?”

“No,” I said. “Of course not. You and I should work this out. Not Judge Kolb. Taking it to trial would be folly.”

“I agree,” she said. “But I don’t want you to think for one minute that I’m not prepared to go that route.”

I started to speak, but Lily held up her hand. “My client is not having an affair. She was a good and faithful wife, and she’s an exemplary role model for her daughters and a terrific mother. You won’t get anywhere accusing her of infidelity, because it’s not true. It’s strictly a figment of poor Mr. Shaw’s muddled paranoia. Wishful thinking.”

“Hardly wishful,” I said. “It would devastate the poor guy.”

“Wishful on your part, I meant.”

I shrugged. “Whether it’s true or not,” I said, “I wouldn’t want to use it.”

Lily shook her head. “I won’t hesitate to use his behavior with his gun,” she said. “I want you to know that.”

“It was an empty suicide gesture,” I said. “Pathetic and scary, granted, but he’d never harm his wife or kids. It was just something a depressed, desperate, frustrated man might do to get the attention of the woman he loved. The gun wasn’t even loaded.”

Lily shrugged. “Enormously traumatic for the little girls. I can provide expert testimony to that fact.”

“Gus is a very sympathetic figure,” I said. “He’s not a bad man. He’s sick. He’s suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. He had his right hand blown off, for God’s sake. He’s in a support group. He’s taking prescription medication. He’s recovering from PTSD. It’s a serious illness, no different than if he had cancer or diabetes, and he’s doing everything he’s supposed to do to get better. I’ve got plenty of expert testimony for that, too.”

Lily was poking at her salad with her fork. She looked up at me and smiled. “Hardly a valid comparison. He’s unstable and unpredictable and a threat to his family. Cancer? Come on, Attorney Coyne. You can do better than that.”

“My point is,” I said, “he’s sick, and he’s working hard at getting better.”

Lily impaled an anchovy, ate it, wiped her mouth on her napkin, and took a sip of her iced tea. “I won’t quarrel with that,” she said, “but it doesn’t change anything. I might concede that it’s his sickness that makes him the way he is. That doesn’t make him any less dangerous or scary.”

“He’s getting it under control,” I said. “He’s recovering.
That’s important. He attends weekly group therapy sessions. He’s taking his meds. He’s not drinking. He’s holding down a job. He’s doing what he needs to do to heal.”

Lily nodded. “I see where you’re going with this.” She smiled. “I was hoping we could work out something for these nice people and their two sweet kids. Save them from themselves, you might say.”

“I’m hoping the same thing,” I said. “Maybe we need to go back and talk to our clients some more.”

“Yes,” she said. “We should probably do that.”

“Claudia relocating to North Carolina with the girls isn’t acceptable.”

Lily shrugged. “I hear you,” she said.

I took a sip of coffee. “How’s your salad?”

“Perfect,” she said. “You’d be amazed how many places serve what they call a Caesar salad and leave off the anchovies.”

Friday evening a little before seven, Henry and I went outside and sat on my front steps. Darkness had seeped into Mt. Vernon Street, and the streetlights had come on.

Alex came strolling up the sidewalk a few minutes later. She was wearing sneakers and snug-fitting khaki-colored pants that stopped halfway down her calves and a light windbreaker. She turned onto the pathway leading up to my townhouse, and when she saw us sitting there, she stopped and smiled and waved.

I got up and went to meet her. Henry followed behind me.

She gave me a hug and a peck on the cheek, which I returned, then stepped back and frowned at me. “Are you all right?” she said.

“Sure,” I said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Gussie says you’re really pissed at him. That’s his phrase. Pissed. Anyway, that wasn’t much of a hug, not even to speak of the kiss.”

“I don’t bring my business home with me,” I said. “If I let every client who tried to deceive me affect my mood, I’d go crazy.” I held out my arms. “Want to try that again?”

She smiled, wrapped her arms around my waist, hugged me hard, and gave me a wet kiss on the corner of my mouth.

I returned her hug and kissed her forehead. “That’s a little better,” I said. “Come on in. I made a pitcher of gin and tonics.”

We went into the house, paused in the kitchen to fill two glasses from the pitcher for us and grab a Milk-Bone for Henry, and went out onto the patio.

We sat in the wooden Adirondack chairs. I handed the dog biscuit to Alex. “Give it to Henry. It’ll remind him that you are his great and good friend. Make him earn it. Tell him to sit or lie down or something, then reward him for it, and it will predispose him to obey you forever.”

Alex showed the Milk-Bone to Henry. “Can you sit?” she said.

He sure could. He sat and gazed lovingly into her eyes.

She laughed and gave him the biscuit, which he took delicately between his front teeth.

She patted his head, then looked at me. “He’s practically human.”

“He’s more human than many humans,” I said. I held up my glass to her. “Cheers.”

She clicked her glass against mine, and we both took sips.

“Let’s not talk about Gus tonight,” said Alex. “Okay?”

“He’s my client now,” I said. “I couldn’t talk about him even if I were inclined to.”

“Technically,” she said.

“No,” I said. “Really.”

She reached over and put her hand on my wrist. “What’s wrong, Brady?”

“Nothing,” I said. “What makes you think something’s wrong?”

“I used to know you pretty well,” she said softly. “Remember?”

I smiled. “Of course I remember.”

“I’ve seen you, been with you when you’re upset, or sad, or frustrated, or angry. I know how you hold it inside. I’m getting all those vibes from you now.”

I shrugged. “You shouldn’t place too much stock in your vibes.”

Alex smiled, patted my arm, then took her hand away. “None of my business,” she said. “Sorry.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” I said.

“Are you?”

I turned and looked at her. “I don’t know.” I smiled. “No, of course I am. It’s just … awkward. It feels like a date.”

She nodded. “I know. It does to me, too. Like a first date. I got those old butterflies. I don’t know what to expect.”

“Food,” I said. “You can expect to eat.”

“Evie, huh?”

“Evie and I are over with,” I said, “and I don’t want to talk about it.”

Alex’s eyes were solemn. She looked at me for a long minute. Then she nodded, and her eyes slid away from mine. She took a sip of gin and tonic, then rested her glass on the arm of her chair. She put her head back and looked up at the sky. It was full of clouds, and it smelled like rain.

“So, okay,” she said after a minute, “we won’t talk about
Gus, and we won’t talk about Evie. What do you want to talk about? Besides baseball.”