The only good Lawyer

10020

    Copyright © 1998 by Jeremiah Healy

    Originally published in hardcover in 1998 by Pocket Books

    All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
    For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas , New York , NY 10020

    ISBN: 0-671-00954-0

    First Pocket Books paperback printing August 1999

    10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

    POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

    Cover design and illustration by Matt Galemmo

    Printed in the U.S.A.

In memory of
    Dario J. Azzone
    and Howard E. Greene

Prologue
    W OODROW WILSON GANT just loved the way his BMW 530i held the road.
    And doing fifty on a dry, snaky pavement at night was better than hitting eighty on some straightaway Interstate in broad daylight. He especially enjoyed this little stretch as it wound through probably the longest section of tree-lined valley in the whole city of Boston . Woodrow’d say to his friends, black or white, “Hey, man, you close your fists on the wheel—that nice leather wrap like they put around a good tennis racket?—and you can feel the power, surging from the engine right into your body.”
    Feel the power. That was what Woodrow remembered after graduating law school and starting with the district attorney’s office. No more living at home with his mother and brother, and the first African-American to prosecute a homicide case in that suburban county’s old-timey courthouse. But as a city-boy at heart—funny, Woodrow didn’t mind using “boy” in that context—he missed Boston . So, when the time came to move on from the D.A., Woodrow joined Mr. Neely’s fine little downtown firm in its fine little office building close by the waterfront. And he felt the power again.
    Different kind of power, though, because it was a different kind of practice. He’d had his fill of criminals and cops, sharing office space with an asshole and his bed with a wife didn’t understand his needs. Now Woodrow Wilson Gant was single again and a divorce lawyer—what the bar association liked to call a “domestic relations attorney.” And the power was the weight of money, not the threat of prison. Enough money for him to live in a fancy condo and wear fancy clothes, buy a fancy car and enjoy fancy ladies.
    Just then the lady of the moment in the passenger bucket next to him snorted. Or snored, Woodrow wasn’t exactly sure which. The big blond hair was all you could really see, what with the shades still on so nobody’d recognize her. One reason they’d gone back to that Vietnamese place Deborah first took him to. You’re an assistant D.A. coordinating gang prosecutions, you realize pretty soon that witnesses of Color-A have a hell of a time identifying defendants of Color-B. Used to be a real problem for Woodrow back in the courtroom. Now he could use it to his advantage.
    The woman made the noise again, head lolling on the whiplash protector, hand banging against his cellular phone in the console between them. Drunk as a skunk, and on chardonnay, yet. Woodrow knew it was the alcohol content and not the color of the liquid that mattered, but you still had to wonder why white women drink white wine if they can’t hold the stuff.
    The BMW entered one of the few straight portions of the road. Even with so many curves, though, it was the shortest distance between the restaurant and Woodrow’s condo. All things considered, he’d rather take his pleasure at her place—so he could just leave when they were finished? But Woodrow understood better than most why her situation at home made that more than a bit dicey.
    So, enjoy the ride in your fancy car before enjoying the ride in your fancy bed.
    Woodrow had cracked the front windows a few inches because the lady said she was feeling a little woozy leaving the restaurant, and he didn’t want her getting sick on the leather upholstery he’d just had cleaned at the car wash that day. Woodrow kind of liked the crisp October air flowing by his cheeks—not to mention that nice hum of the Beemer’s tires over the macadam—only the breeze seemed to put the woman to sleep more than sober her up.
    Probably best not to shoot for a doubleheader tonight. Just once over the moon and take her downstairs afterward, stick her ass in a cab. At least a thirty-dollar fare for the trip back to the lady’s place, but that’d be better than having to drive her there yourself, listen to the complaining once her