The only good Lawyer

saying he thought the incident might be tied into one of his homicides. The Staties happily ceded me over to him as a connected case, but they still wanted a formal statement to cover themselves. And they also confiscated my Smith & Wesson as a weapon involved in a shooting, allowing as how I wouldn’t be seeing it for a while.
    Nancy changed her tone. “I can’t believe nobody at the hospital even taped your ribs.”
    “They used to.”
    I thought back to the Basic Training incident. After the PCPT, I finally went to the Infirmary, where two reservist medics wanted to wrap Ace bandages around me. When they were a little awkward doing it, I asked them what hospital they worked at in civilian life. One said, “Actually, I’m a social worker,” and the other chimed in with “hearing aid salesman.” I told them if they tried to touch me again, I’d knock their teeth out.
    Nancy said, “But they don’t anymore?”
    “What?”
    She spoke more slowly. “The hospital doesn’t tape cracked ribs anymore?”
    “Oh.” Maybe Oscar Huong did leave me with a concussion. “No. No, the doctor... said today that studies... showed it didn’t help the healing.”
    A coy smile as she glanced at me again. “So you’ll have trouble with any... vigorous movements?”
    It took me a moment to realize what she meant. “Well, maybe not... if I was less the mover and... more the movee.”
    “I think waiting until after the Spaeth case is resolved still makes sense. Did Steve Rothenberg ever call you?”
    “No, but then he might not have... heard about it yet.”
    “John?”
    “Yes?”
    “For most of the last thirty-six hours, you were probably in no condition to notice, but what happened was all over the news, especially TV and radio.”
    “Then there’ll probably be a message... for me with the answering service.”

    Nancy dropped me at the curb outside my condo building on Beacon Street . Before closing the Civic’s door, I assured her I’d be all right and would call as soon as anything changed officially in the Spaeth case. Until she pulled away, I walked steadily up the front stoop, but I took the interior stairs a lot slower. Once in the apartment, I popped a couple of aspirin and telephoned my service. The nice woman with the silky voice wasn’t working Sunday nights, but a guy covering the line said there’d been two calls from a Mr. Rothenberg, who’d left his home number and would appreciate hearing from me at my earliest convenience.
    After dialing, I got a little girl’s tentative, “Hello?”
    “Hi. Can I speak with... Steve Rothenberg, please?”
    “Just a second.” There was a dull, thudding noise, as though she’d dropped the phone, followed by a “Daddy, daddy, daddy,” mantra that faded more with each repetition.
    Then I heard what sounded like adult shoes on a noncarpeted floor. “Yes?”
    “Steve, John Cuddy.”
    “John! Great to hear from you.”
    “I just picked up... your messages.”
    A hesitation. “Your voice is—are you okay?”
    “A little worse than black and blue... , but I’m functioning. Any news about... Spaeth?”
    “From the D.A., you mean?”
    “Yes.”
    “I tried calling him, too. Gone for the weekend, with instructions for no forwarded messages. So I’m going to try again in the morning. But I can’t see you doing anything else for Alan until I get the new lay of the land.”
    “Good.”
    “Will you be in the office tomorrow or at home?”
    “I’ll see how I feel, but I have... to visit the State Police, so I may as well... go into downtown from there.”
    “How about if I try you after two?”
    “Fine, Steve.”
    “And John, thanks for everything you’ve done. It’s all been in a good cause.”
    I was having a hard time still believing that, but I told Steve Rothenberg his sentiment was appreciated.

Chapter 21

    S unday into monday , I got at most three hours of sleep. Partly that was because my brain had been turned off for so long in the hospital, even though my body probably thought a little more rest might help the cause. But I don’t tend to lie on my back in bed, so the main problem was that throughout the night I’d awaken in breathtaking pain whenever some reflex in the subconscious made my legs roll me over onto the ribcage.
    The next morning, my right cheekbone was pretty tender^ and the face in my mirror looked a lot like Alan Spaeth’s after his adventure in the Nashua Street shower. Breakfast tasted awfully good, even if the