The only good Lawyer

IN NORWAY,” the list below the title including skis, paper clips, and fishnet underwear.
    Arneson himself was at least thirty-five, with a widow’s peak of nearly platinum hair and fainter eyebrows. I pegged his height at six feet and change, weight about two hundred if he maintained the sort of shape all over that the rolled-up sleeves revealed. His jawline was strong, and the cleft in his chin approached Kirk Douglas proportions. The general impression leaned toward ruggedly handsome, but a “me-first” glint playing around Arneson’s eyes also suggested you might not want him covering your back in an alley.
    Saying, “Then he does the max, Don baby, and you don’t make a dime more on it.” Arneson hung up the phone and returned to me. “Sorry, but I hate it when defense lawyers whine.”
    “Any lawyer.”
    Arneson nodded, like he agreed. “So, what’s going on, Cuddy?”
    “I’m working with Steven Rothenberg.”
    “Let me guess. The Gant case.”
    “Yes. I understand you and Mr. Gant were office-mates here.”
    Arneson leaned back into his chair, doing the little swing routine again. “Why should I talk with you?”
    “I’d think you’d want the right person sent away for the crime.”
    “We’re the representatives of the people, Cuddy. Ordinarily, that’s exactly what I’d want. Only thing is, our office isn’t the one trying the case.”
    “I know, but you might be able to give me some information on some people your office did try.” Arneson nodded again. “Really meaning, people Woodrow tried.”
    “A good starting point.”
    A third nod, and Arneson came forward in the chair: “I believe in presenting a charge fairly in the courtroom, Cuddy. In fact, I make an effort to conduct myself at all times as though a jury was watching me.”
    I’d heard Nancy and other prosecutors say something similar. The difference was, I’d thought they’d been sincere, while Arneson’s little speech sounded more like the party line.
    He went on. “However; I’m leery of maybe fouling up Suffolk ’s case on your guy.”
    “Could telling me about Nguyen Trinh foul up their case?”
    “Nugey?” Arneson looked away for a moment, then came back, grinning. “You meet him?”
    “Not so far.”
    “Give me a call if you do. I’d like to know how that baby’s faring.” Arneson dropped the grin. “Look, Cuddy, Woodrow prosecuted Trinh and his buddy Oscar-somebody at least eight or nine years ago. If you’re thinking some kind of revenge, they’ve been out plenty long enough to have done something about it before now.”
    “Your office caught that case because the home invasion happened in Weston Hills?”
    “Right. Trinh and—Huong, that was the buddy’s name. Oscar Huong. Anyway, Trinh and Huong were from Vietnam , then probably a dozen other places before they ended up on our doorstep. We coordinated with the Boston force and together nailed the punks. End of story.”
    Not exactly, but I didn’t want Arneson knowing about Trinh’s restaurant connection before Rothenberg did. “Gant was a good prosecutor?”
    “What are you doing now? Trying to blame the victim?”
    “Trying to get a handle on the victim from somebody who knew him well.”
    Arneson leaned back again, but didn’t swing the chair. “I’m not sure anybody knew Woodrow well.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “He was a loner, Cuddy. Don’t get me wrong. Everybody has to be by themselves some in this job, just like any other. But Woodrow wasn’t one to go out for drinks after work or play on the office softball team, you know?”
    “Somebody told me he had a bad leg.”
    “Knee problem. Football, I think. Bottom line is, Woodrow didn’t socialize much. I think I met his wife—sorry, ex-wife—maybe once. Jessica?”
    “Jenifer,” I said.
    “Right, Jenifer. English girl. Anyway, like I was saying, Woodrow didn’t pal around much, but he did his job well. And he was the best I ever saw at the prosecutor point.”
    “The ‘prosecutor point’?”
    “Yeah. You know, the way an A.D.A. can point to the defense table when a witness is identifying the accused as the robber or a crime scene tech is testifying about his fingerprints. Woodrow had refined the gesture to a stylized art. He pointed at you three times, and, baby, you were gone in the eyes of that jury.”
    “Other than Trinh and Huong, anybody else who might have a reason to kill Mr. Gant?”
    “Like I said before, even they didn’t have much of a