The only good Lawyer

blouse. The desk was completely clean except for a legal pad and pencil.
    “Beautiful piece of furniture,” I said, taking a seat. “Thank you.” Sitting herself, Ling trailed the fingertips of her right hand lightly over the black surface. “My parents brought it from China , then gave it to me when I graduated law school.” Ling looked up at me. “Reluctantly.”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “The traditional Chinese family, Mr. Cuddy, wants its female children educated, but not too educated. The role of the daughter is to care for her parents when they grow older. In the United States , that requires some schooling, even college, but not a degree nearly so... portable as a J.D.”
    “So you traveled a ways to end up in Boston .”
    “About three thousand miles. There would have been opportunities for me on the West Coast, especially as Hong Kong investors take a closer look at what the mainland has in store for them. But there’s also a lot of gender prejudice among the newer immigrants. When most Asian men think of Asian women outside the family circle, they picture Thai and Cambodian ‘pleasure girls,’ not real estate attorneys.”
    “Which is your specialty?”
    “That’s right. Mostly small projects, speculative ventures sometimes. However, enough of that expatriate money makes its way to Boston that I can still use my heritage to wheel and deal some of it. Which is good news, given the student loans I’m still carrying.”
    The way Ling moved around from topic to topic might be a help to me, so I went with it. “I’ve heard they can be a bear these days.”
    “The loans? More like Tyrannosaurus rex. My monthly debt service equals my rent, and I know a couple of people graduating this year who’ll total a hundred thousand in principal, with no way of getting a job that will come close to letting them pay it off. You can’t deduct the interest on your tax return, and even if you declare bankruptcy, the loans aren’t dischargeable as debts.”
    “Which means it’s a good thing you’re here.”
    Ling stopped, suddenly cautious. “At Epstein & Neely, you mean?”
    “Yes.”
    “You bet,” she said, more at ease again. “Frank encourages all of us to bring in our own business. Some friends of mine from school, who went to the big firms? They’re wearing golden handcuffs now.”
    “Golden handcuffs?”
    “They took jobs that paid a lot, but with little hope for a piece of the pie. Less than twenty percent of male associates ever make partner. And that drops to five percent for females, which is worse than statistics I’ve seen from the seventies, despite what Uta’s always saying. So my friends earning their big bucks are just carrying their loans while they service the clients of the firm and never build their own base.”
    “Like you are here.”
    “That’s right, Mr. Cuddy. Working in a solid operation with fine people.” Another stop. “Including the one your client killed.”
    “Frank Neely spoke to you about me.”
    “As soon as I got back from my closing.” Ling looked at a gilded clock on her wall. “And I have another in less than an hour. So, if you have any questions for me, let’s get to them.”
    Ling folded her hands on the desktop, like a sharp third-grader slightly bored by the teacher.
    I said, “For starters, I think there’s a strong possibility someone other than Alan Spaeth murdered Woodrow Gant.”
    Ling’s face showed no emotion. “I’d expect you to say something like that. Your questions?”
    “Do you know of anyone who had a reason to kill Mr. Gant?”
    “No.”
    “Threats or intimidation?”
    “Just from your client.”
    “Let me hold that for a while, and—”
    “Deborah, I’m real sorry.”
    From behind me, the voice of Patricia, the temp who’d also interrupted when I was with Uta Radachowski.
    “What is it?” said Ling.
    “An urgent call from Ms. Barber.”
    “Tell her I’ll call her back.”
    “But she tried to reach Mr. Gant, and—”
    “Take her number, Patricia,” some juice behind it. “Yes. Sorry.”
    Ling waited a moment, then looked at me. “Temp.”
    I nodded.
    “I was helping Woodrow with a couple of his divorce clients—selling the marital home? They all need you yesterday.”
    I nodded again, though I wondered why Ling felt any explanation was necessary. “I’d like to start with the restaurant Mr. Gant ate at the night he was killed.”
    Except for her lips, Ling might have been a statue. “Why?”
    “I