Seventh Enemy (28 page)

“I didn’t say—”

“You said enough.”

Glen glanced at his father, then said, “I don’t care what the man’s name is. I need somebody good. I don’t care if he’s sleazy, as long as he’s good.”

“What’s it going to be, gentlemen?” I said.

“Why don’t you tell us about him,” said Roger.

“Here’s what you need to know,” I said. “You asked me to get Glen a lawyer. I have done that. Paul Cizek happens to be a good friend of mine. I’m his family lawyer, just like I’m yours, although that’s not relevant here. More to the point, Paul’s simply the best lawyer in Boston for Glen’s case, in my professional opinion. You have retained me because you are willing to pay me money to hear my professional opinion on the legal matters that present themselves to you. My opinion on legal matters is arguably more acute than yours, or else you would not have retained me. Ergo, your choices are to accept or to reject my opinion. Which is your choice, Senator?”

Roger stared at me for a moment, then smiled. “You never call me ‘Senator,’ ” he said.

“Only when you piss me off, and even then rarely to your face.”

“I guess I do piss people off sometimes. Sometimes I do it on purpose. Sometimes it just happens. I like it best when people tell me up front that they’re pissed at me. That’s why I like you.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, Brady. I value your opinion. It’s more reliable than mine. Your opinion is worth money to me.”

“So?”

“So maybe we need a lawyer with unusual consonants in his last name.”

“Julie?” I said to the intercom.

“I’m listening,” she said.

“Cancel the call to Paul.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

I went back and sat across from Glen and Roger. “I would’ve kicked you both right the hell out of here if you’d started that discussion in front of Paul,” I said to Roger.

“Times keep changing, Brady,” he said. “I’m an old man. I have trouble keeping up.”

“You have trouble keeping your prejudices to yourself, and you’ve got to try harder.” I turned to Glen. “Paul Cizek is a helluva good lawyer, and he’s on a roll lately. About a year ago he defended a guy accused of molesting the children at a day-care place in Arlington—”

“Jesus,” said Glen. “I remember that one. It was all over the news. Guy name of Benson.”

“Actually it was Benton,” I said. “Victor Benton.”

“Right,” said Glen. “Benton.”

“Never heard of him,” said Roger.

“He made films,” Glen said. “Kiddie porn. Little kids, they were, grammar school. He made them undress at rest time, told them to—to do things to each other. Sometimes he did things with them. He got it on his camcorder, made tapes, sold them in Canada. That’s what he was accused of, anyway. They thought they had the guy absolutely nailed.” Glen turned to me. “This Cizek, he’s the one who got Benton off?”

“Paul negotiated a plea bargain,” I said. “Now the guy’s doing community service and seeing a shrink. As long as he stays out of the day-care business and away from little kids, he’s a free man.”

“He would’ve lasted about a week in prison,” said Glen.

“Not many lawyers could’ve gotten Victor Benton off,” I said. I looked directly at Roger. “Paul has done some work for the Russo family, too.”

Roger’s eyebrows went up. “Russo,” he said. “They’re—”

“Mafia,” said Glen. “I remember a recent case. A hit man, wasn’t it? It was all over the television. Was that Cizek, too?”

“That was Paul Cizek,” I said.

“He got the man off,” said Glen. “The DA thought he had an airtight case. But they ended up with a hung jury.”

“Paul Cizek is very good at what he does,” I said.

“I want this guy,” said Glen.

Roger had been sitting there frowning. “Child molesters and Mafia hit men?” he said softly. “This is the man to defend a Falconer?”

“No, Roger,” I said. “This is the man to defend a drunk driver by any name. Listen. He’s not defending you, and he’s not defending your family name. He’s defending Glen, who got loaded, not for the first time, and climbed into his car and drove it into another car and killed a woman. Paul might not be able to win the case. But if anybody can, it’s Paul Cizek. That’s my opinion. Okay?”

“Sure, Brady.” He shrugged. “Okay.”

Julie brought in a tray with a carafe of coffee, three mugs, sugar, and milk. She placed it on the low table beside me and said, “Anything else?”

“That’s great,” I said. “When Paul gets here, just bring him in.”

Julie turned and left the room. Glen followed her with his eyes.

I filled the three mugs with coffee, sipped from mine, and lit a cigarette. “Just so you don’t embarrass me in front of Paul with more irrelevancies,” I said to Roger, “there are some other things you probably should know. Paul did not go to Harvard or Yale or Princeton. Not BC or BU, even. His old man was an immigrant Polish cobbler in Medford who was disabled by a stroke when Paul was fifteen and didn’t die for another five years. His mother was a checkout clerk at K Mart and cleaned office buildings at night to put food on the table for Paul and his four siblings. Paul commuted to UMass Boston, then got his law degree from Suffolk, part-time. It took him about ten years to get through college and law school. He earned his way by waiting tables and tending bar at Italian restaurants in the North End, and probably met a lot of future clients in the process. The Middlesex County DA hired him for about fifteen grand a year to handle a caseload that would overwhelm an entire State Street firm. Within two years Paul Cizek was prosecuting homicides and getting convictions at an astounding rate. All the fancy downtown firms courted him, but he went to Tarlin and Overton in Cambridge because they wanted to keep him in front of juries, where he belonged. He’s been with them almost five years. Paul’s about forty now. He’s got a nice house in Lynnfield and a Boston Whaler and a wife who went to Wellesley, who’s a lawyer herself.” I paused. “Let’s see. Anything else I should tell you before he gets here?”

“He sounds like our man,” said Roger.

“I hope you won’t be startled by his appearance,” I said.

He shook his head and shrugged.

I smiled. “But you probably will be.”

I figured Roger had Paul Cizek pegged as a fat, big-nosed, toothpick-chewing caricature of a sleazy defense lawyer, a swarthy, foreign-looking man in a shiny suit with red suspenders and a flowery necktie and pointy shoes. In fact, Paul had fair skin, blond hair, ice-blue eyes, and the chiseled features of Butch Cassidy—or maybe it was the Sundance Kid. The Newman character.

When Julie escorted Paul into my office, Roger, to his credit, didn’t blink. Paul was wearing chino pants and a cableknit sweater under an expensive tweed jacket. He shook hands graciously all around, declined Julie’s offer of coffee, then said, “I’ll need to talk to Glen for a few minutes.”

I touched Roger’s arm. “He means alone,” I said.

Roger looked up. “Huh? Oh, sure.”

Roger and I went out to my reception area, and about ten minutes later Paul and Glen came out.

“Okay,” said Paul to me.

“You’ll take the case?”

He shrugged. “I like challenges.”

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I
AM GRATEFUL TO
my candid and perceptive critics Rick Boyer, Vicki Stiefel, and Otto Penzler, who helped me beat this story into submission.

I owe thanks as well to many unwitting consultants, who in a variety of social, public, and private settings over the years, have engaged me in enthusiastic debate and discussion on the subject of gun control. I have concluded that the issue is far more complicated than it seems.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1995 by William G. Tapply

Cover design by Kathleen Lynch

978-1-4804-2731-0

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