The only good Lawyer

weren’t one of the trial lawyers assigned.”
    “I’m... I’m not.”
    “ Nancy , I met with Spaeth at Nashua Street .”
    She stared hard at me. “And?”
    “I don’t think he killed Woodrow Gant.”
    Nancy coughed out a breath. “I don’t believe this.”
    “But you just said there’s no conflict.”
    “I don’t care what I just said.”
    “Nance, when we talked about this last week—”
    “Last week you asked me about a news headline, John. Now you’re talking about helping the man’s killer.”
    Her voice was rising, so I thought I should lower mine. “ Nancy , you mentioned loyalty to your boss before. Well, I have some loyalty to Steve Rothenberg, too. Besides, I’m really talking about trying to find out who shot Gant because I don’t think Spaeth did.” Nancy ’s face seemed to close down. “You’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you?”
    “About Spaeth’s innocence? Yes. But—”
    Nancy reached for her totebag and started to stand. “Do what you feel is best, John.”
    “Wait a minute.”
    She stepped around the table. “I said, you should do what you feel is best, and it’s obvious that means you should take on this case. But I can’t... I have to get out of here. I’ll call you.”
    I swiveled in my chair. “ Nancy —”
    “I’ll call you,” she repeated over her shoulder.
    The owner was trying not to look from Nancy to me as she strode out of the restaurant. The waitress, who’d been in the kitchen, came through its door and glanced only at our table before asking brightly if she should bring a dessert menu.
    I told her I didn’t think so.

Chapter 3

    T he next morning , I woke up in the bedroom of my rented condo on Beacon Street . Woke up alone, and more than a little angry. The way I saw Nancy ’s blowup the prior night, she was upset at me for just doing my job.
    After using the bathroom, I thought I’d try to burn off those feelings and clear the mind for business. I stuck my head out the kitchen window to gauge the temperature. Too warm for the new hooded sweatshirt I’d bought, a quarterback’s hand muffler as front pockets against the coming arctic winds. Instead, I pulled on running shorts, a cotton turtleneck, and a T-shirt over the turtleneck. Before lacing up the Brooks HydroFlow running shoes, I reached for some tube socks and the knee brace I now have to wear on my left leg.
    Downstairs, I crossed Beacon to the Fairfield Street pedestrian ramp over Storrow Drive . Heading upriver along the Charles, I used the macadam paths that had recently, and stupidly, been divided into “travel lanes” by a white, broken line painted down the center. There were a dozen guys in dark pants and yellow T-shirts, some picking up trash and bagging it, others cutting brush and piling the branches near a nondescript minivan. If you’re not a river regular, you probably wouldn’t notice that during summers, the landscapes are male and female teens wearing orange tops, while the fall and spring folks are all older men in yellow ones. Reason? The younger workers constitute summer help from the city schools, the older workers, trusted inmates from the county jail, with the guy who tries never to leave the driver’s seat of the minivan a uniformed sheriff’s officer there to guard them.
    Our tax dollars at work.
    Passing the Boston University railroad bridge a mile later, I thought I had the situation with Nancy under control. I’m dense about some things, and somehow I’d badly misjudged her reaction to my taking Alan Spaeth’s case. She’d let me wonder about it for a day or two before calling to explain what I’d missed and then bury the hatchet. Seemed reason-able, if regrettable, and as I turned at Western Ave to head back downriver, I moved on to organizing my day.
    I’d have to start in South Boston , either with Lieutenant Robert Murphy on the homicide itself, or with Vincennes Dufresne, the owner of the boarding-house where Spaeth used to live and his alibi witness might still. Weighing things, it seemed to me that Murphy was less likely to be in, but easier to reach, and the earlier I visited the rooming house, the sooner I might find Michael Mantle.
    I finished my run with a sprint of a hundred yards or so from the Mass Ave bridge back to the Fairfield ramp, feeling a lot better than I had starting out.

    After one shower and two English muffins, I changed into a blue suit, white shirt, and quiet tie. Downstairs, I got behind the wheel of my