The only good Lawyer

strides, today’s lunch back to his lips. I matched his pace as we hit the street.
    “All right,” said Herman, throwing the already-empty can toward a trash receptacle screwed into a light pole. “So what are your questions?”
    I decided to use what time I had with him on the big issues. “Do you know anybody who had a motive to kill Woodrow Gant?”
    At the curb, Herman came to a full stop, apparently a rare enough occurrence for him that he teetered forward. “Yeah. Your client.”
    “And if Alan Spaeth didn’t do it?”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “There’s evidence to suggest that somebody else might have shot Mr. Gant.”
    Herman stepped into the street, his head bobbing to gauge other pedestrians and vehicular traffic. “I thought the police found Spaeth’s prints on the gun?”
    “The shells. But even if it was his gun, that doesn’t mean he pulled the trigger.”
    Herman glanced away from his navigating long enough to show me what he thought of that idea. “I do corporate and tax, Mr. Cuddy, mostly for closely held businesses. The last time I read up on criminal law was when I studied for the bar exam. But I was a Marine, too. OCS during college, then active duty before law school.”
    Herman used his right hand to brush against the white streak in his hair. “In fact, I’ve got the Corps to thank for this.”
    “Combat?”
    “What?”
    “The hair turned white under fire?”
    “Oh. Negative. I got hit by lightning.”
    “Really?”
    “Really. Bolt struck a tree, and the shock jumped from it to the three of us nearby. Killed one, paralyzed the other. Me, all I remember is a flashbulb effect and a... tingling, spinning sensation, like I was drunk or dizzy. No pain, though, and the only physical vestige of the experience is this hank of hair. But that day next to the tree taught me something important.”
    “Which is?”
    Herman glanced down at his watch. “Never waste any time, because you don’t know how much of it you’ve got left.”
    I didn’t want to lose him to the client clock. “You were saying about Alan Spaeth?”
    “About... Oh. Right. Back in the Corps, I learned a lot about weapons, enough to sense that your client had something to do with Woodrow’s murder, even if I hadn’t seen the blowup at the firm.”
    We were walking parallel to City Hall now. “Can you describe it for me?”
    “The blowup?”
    “Yes.”
    “I was in my office that afternoon. When I went to get some coffee, I could see Woodrow seated with a bunch of people in our conference room. A deposition, given the stenographer. There was another woman and two other men, one with a beard, one without. Woodrow did mostly divorce, so I assumed one of the men was the husband, the other his lawyer.”
    “Wait a minute. Why couldn’t one of the men have been Mt Gant’s client?”
    Herman waited a beat too long before answering. “I suppose that’s possible. But the woman was sitting next to Woodrow on the far side of the table, and maybe I recognized her from another time she was in the office. I don’t know. What I do know is I’m pouring my coffee when all hell breaks loose.”
    “Meaning?”
    “Meaning your client, Spaeth, jumps up from the table and starts yelling. That glass in the conference room wall is pretty thick, but you could hear him clearly. Curses, racial slurs, everything. And he comes backing out the door into the reception area, still yelling.”
    We reached State Street . “Do you remember what he said in particular?”
    Another sidelong glance as Herman maneuvered past the rear bumper of a panel truck. “I do, but you don’t want to hear it.”
    “Try me.”
    “Okay.” Herman looked around, less for traffic and more to be sure no one was within earshot. Then he spoke softly. “Spaeth says—yells—’You fucking nigger, you’re fucking me over. The only good lawyer is a fucking dead one, nigger.’ ” Herman looked at me. “And so on.”
    “But you never saw Spaeth approach Mr. Gant.”
    A darkening. “What is this, cross-examination?”
    “I just mean, the way you described things, Spaeth was backing away from the conference room, not looking to confront or directly threaten Mr. Gant.”
    “You weren’t there.”
    “Meaning?”
    “Meaning I was.” We dodged a UPS van. “Look, back in the Corps, I saw a lot of fights. Even had to break up a few. In my opinion, your client was berserk, but not crazy enough to take on Woodrow with only his bare