Client Privilege (7 page)

Boston homicide detective Jack Sylvestro was quoted as saying, “We have some good leads in this case.”

I wondered if that meant me.

The story was continued on page six. Beside it was a sidebar outlining Wayne Churchill’s career. BA from Stanford in 1980, where he was graduated cum laude in English Literature and was honorable mention on the Associated Press All-American soccer team. Master’s from Northwestern in communications two years later. Brief stint with a radio station in Omaha. Then he took a job with the Miami
Herald
as a political reporter. A year later he was in Cleveland, reporting political news for a television station. Shortly thereafter he became news anchor. And a little over a year ago, he came to Boston’s Channel 8 as a reporter.

He had won an award from the Florida Press Club for a story on illegal Cuban immigration in Miami. He had been nominated Newscaster of the Year in Cleveland.

A handsome, talented young man with a bright past and a brilliant future. Except now he was dead.

Why the hell would this guy try to blackmail a Superior Court judge for a paltry ten thousand dollars? The
Globe
offered me no answer to that one.

I got to the office early, around eight-thirty, as I often do. Julie doesn’t get in until nine. She is never early. Never late, either.

Boston homicide detective Sylvestro and state police detective Finnigan were leaning against the wall in the corridor, waiting for me. Sylvestro was wearing the same brown wool topcoat he had worn on our previous get-together. Finnigan had dressed up for the occasion. He had on a beige trench coat affair, with epaulets and a belt and the collar turned up around his neck, looking like someone out of a Ludlum novel.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” I said, shaking hands with each of them.

Sylvestro shrugged apologetically. “Sorry about this, Mr. Coyne. We’ve got to go over some things again with you.”

“It’s all right,” I said. “I’m glad to see you. I’ve been expecting you.” I unlocked the door to the office suite and stood aside. “Enter, please.”

They went in and I followed them. I hung up my coat and got the coffee started. Then I showed them into my inner office. They unbuttoned their coats but didn’t take them off.

“Sorry, but the coffee won’t be ready for a few minutes,” I said.

“Thanks, Mr. Coyne,” said Sylvestro. “Don’t worry about coffee. I hope this isn’t a bad time. We figured we’d try to catch you before you got started.”

“This is fine.”

“Hate to bother you. Few odds and ends…”

I gestured to the sofa where they had sat before. They sat down. I took the same chair across from them that I had sat in during their first visit. “You want to talk about the other night again.”

Sylvestro nodded. “Appreciate your cooperation. We got a few questions.”

“Me first,” I said. “I’ve got a couple questions.”

Sylvestro frowned. “Yeah, okay.”

“Number one, why the hell did you give my name to Channel Eight? You’ve got no right—”

“Whoa,” said Sylvestro, holding up his hand like a traffic cop. “What are you talking about?”

“This guy, this Rodney Dennis, called me. Twice. Once, for God’s sake, while you two were here with me yesterday. Then again at home last night. Why’d you tell him I was at Skeeter’s with Churchill?”

Sylvestro looked at Finnigan, who shook his head. Then he frowned at me. “We didn’t. We didn’t mention your name to anybody.”

“One of your colleagues did, then. Because he sure as hell got it from somebody.”

“Not the cops,” said Sylvestro. “Guaranteed. No way. Look, Mr. Coyne. I won’t say our operation doesn’t get leaky sometimes. Sometime down the line, sure, maybe your name might dribble out. But not yet. We’ve got a good lid on this so far. I promise you. Dennis got nothing out of us.”

I stared at him. “He got it from somebody.”

“Well, seems to me,” said Sylvestro, “Churchill worked for Dennis. Probably told him what he was doing. Whatever it was, which we wish you’d tell us, but if you won’t we still got a chance of getting it out of Dennis. Though he’d probably rather keep it for himself, get a big exclusive story, which Channel Eight could certainly use.”

“I don’t like being pursued by the media any more than I like being interrogated by the police,” I said.

“Nobody does.”

I sighed. “Another question.”

“Go ahead.”

“Am I a suspect here?”

Sylvestro shrugged. “Everybody’s a suspect.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“We’re just trying to get some things clear. So we can understand.”

“But am I a suspect?”

“Right now, Mr. Coyne, you’re a witness. Actually, an important witness. Okay? If you were a suspect, we’d Mirandize you, bring in a tape recorder. Right now, we just want to ask you a few questions.”

“Well, okay then,” I said. “Shoot.” I grinned. “Bad choice of words.”

Sylvestro smiled appreciatively and glanced at Finnigan, who nodded but did not smile. Finnigan, I noticed, rarely smiled, and when he did it was not a pleasant smile. I tried not to take it personally that he didn’t smile at me.

Sylvestro extracted a notepad from the depths of his topcoat and consulted it for a moment. “Okay, Mr. Coyne,” he said, looking up at me. “Now let’s talk about the night you met with Wayne Churchill at Skeeter’s Infield. You did meet with him there, am I right?”

“Yes.”

“And why was it you met with him?”

“I told you before. I can’t say.”

“For a client, I believe you told us.”

I smiled. “I believe I did.”

“And you don’t want to tell us who this client is.”

“Right. I don’t. I can’t. You know this.”

“Was the client Wayne Churchill?” said Finnigan.

I turned my head and looked at him. He shrugged. “I tried,” he said.

“Are you protecting this client?” said Sylvestro.

“Well, sure. That’s what the client-lawyer relationship is all about. That doesn’t mean he’s involved.”

“Then why…?” began Finnigan.

Sylvestro turned to him. “Come on,” he said. Finnigan shrugged.

“Mr. Coyne,” said the older cop, “you can see how this looks, you refusing to answer our questions.”

“This has nothing to do with self-incrimination.”

He nodded. “Sure. Incriminating somebody else, then?”

“If that’s supposed to be a question, you know I can’t answer it.”

Sylvestro sighed and nodded, as if he expected these answers. “Okay, then. Let’s go over the times again, Mr. Coyne. Now, what time did you arrive at Skeeter’s?”

“Nine o’clock, give or take a couple minutes.”

“And Churchill arrived—?”

“A few minutes after that.”

“And you had a discussion with him.”

“Yes.”

“What did you discuss?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“Why?”

“Come on. I already explained that.”

“Privileged information,” said Finnigan. He made the words sound vulgar.

“That’s right,” I said.

Sylvestro nodded. “Okay. Sure. Did you argue with Churchill?”

“I’m not going to tell you what we talked about.”

“A witness said it appeared that you argued.”

I shrugged.

“You don’t want to comment on that?”

“No.”

“And what time did you leave?”

“Around nine-thirty.”

“When did Churchill leave?”

“Ten or fifteen minutes before me.”

“Did you observe anybody leave with him?”

“No. Wait. There were two women at the bar. They left after him, and before me.”

“Why didn’t you tell us about them before?”

“I didn’t think of it. It didn’t seem relevant, anyway.”

“Can you describe these women?”

“One was blond, one brunette. Both maybe thirty. Good-looking. Well dressed. That’s all I really noticed.”

“Did you know either of these women?”

“No. Never saw them before.”

“Did Churchill appear to know either of them?”

“He didn’t seem to even notice them.”

“Okay. Now, what time did you get home?”

“It must have been around ten. I walked home. I didn’t notice the time. But I did turn on my TV. The Celtics game had ended. I watched the very end of the Bruins. They were in overtime. Whatever time that was.”

“You told us that you talked to your wife—”

“My former wife. We’re divorced.”

“Right. You talked to your wife at eleven. That right?”

“No. It was about eleven-thirty.”

“You told us before that it was eleven, Mr. Coyne.”

“I told you I wasn’t really aware of the time. After the Bruins game I had a shower. Gloria called me while I was in the shower, left a message on my machine. I called her back around eleven-thirty.”

Sylvestro frowned. “Now, hang on. I’m a little confused here. You got home at ten. Watched a couple minutes of the Bruins. Had a shower. While you were in the shower, your wife called you, and you didn’t call her back until eleven-thirty?”

“I didn’t get into the shower the minute the Bruins were over.”

“Well, what did you do before you got in the shower?”

I called Pops, for one thing, I thought. He could easily verify I had left a message on his machine somewhere around ten. But I couldn’t tell Sylvestro that. “I made some tea. Relaxed. Called a client. It was probably closer to eleven when I got into the shower.”

“This client. Wanna say who it was?”

I shook my head. “Come on. You know better.”

Sylvestro waved his hand, as if it were not important. “Mr. Coyne, the last time we talked, you told us that you phoned your wife at eleven. Now you’re saying it was eleven-thirty. Why have you changed your mind?”

“I’m not changing my mind. I’m just remembering it differently.”

“Had a chance to talk it over with her, huh?”

“Yes. She and I talked after you visited her.”

“She called you, then, right?”

“Yes. She left a message on my machine.”

“But you weren’t home when she called.”

“I was home. I was in the shower.”

“The previous time we talked, you didn’t tell us that she had called you and left a message.”

“I didn’t think it was important.”

“Do you own any weapons?” said Finnigan.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I do. I bet you already knew that.”

Finnigan gave me his unpleasant smile. He had small, pointed teeth, like a northern pike.

“I own a Smith & Wesson thirty-eight,” I said. “It’s in my safe. Want to see it?”

“What about a thirty-two handgun?” said Finnigan.

“No. Just the thirty-eight.”

“We don’t have a warrant, Mr. Coyne,” said Sylvestro. “Are you offering to show us your thirty-eight?”

“Sure.”

I got up and went to the wall safe that the architects of my building evidently felt every office suite should have. I have found no use for it except as a place to store my Smith & Wesson. I rarely remove the gun from its hiding place. I don’t like carrying it around with me. Once I shot a man with it, and the state police kept it for three months. When they returned it to me, I wasn’t that happy to see it.

I lifted up the calendar I had hung over the safe, twisted the dials, and opened it up. I reached inside and found the chamois cloth that I kept the gun wrapped in. I took it out and brought it over to the cops. I handed it to Sylvestro.

He unfolded the chamois. “You got a license for this weapon, Mr. Coyne?”

“Of course.”

“Thirty-eight,” he said to Finnigan. He sniffed the muzzle, popped the cylinder, and held it up to the light to peer into the barrel. Then he handed it to Finnigan, who also sniffed it. Finnigan wrapped the chamois around it and gave it back to me. I sat in the chair with the gun in my lap.

“Own any other weapons?” said Finnigan.

“No. Just this one.”

“Did you kill Wayne Churchill?”

“No.”

“Did you follow him to his house after he left Skeeter’s?”

“No.”

“Did you have an appointment to meet him there after your discussion at Skeeter’s?”

“No.”

“Did you threaten him when you argued with him at Skeeter’s?”

“I told you. I can’t discuss what he and I talked about.”

“He threatened you, then.”

I didn’t say anything.

“How well did you know Churchill?” Finnigan was leaning toward me. Every time he asked me a question he pounded his right fist on his thigh.

“I never met him before that night.”

“Why did you meet him that night?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Oh, sure. Protecting a client.”

Sylvestro put his hand on Finnigan’s shoulder. Finnigan was shaking his head back and forth. He leaned back and folded his arms. “You’re in big trouble, friend.”

“Come on,” said Sylvestro to him. “Lay off.”

“Are you intending to arrest me?” I said.

Finnigan glowered.

“No, Mr. Coyne,” said Sylvestro. “We didn’t come here to arrest you. We came here hoping you could help us understand what happened the night before last.”

“Then you gentlemen are out of line.”

Sylvestro nodded. “You’re right.” He shot a sideways frown at Finnigan. “I apologize, Mr. Coyne.”

“Apology accepted,” I said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more. I don’t know who killed Wayne Churchill or why. But it wasn’t me.”

Finnigan shook his head slowly back and forth and glanced at Sylvestro, who nodded. He stood up and Finnigan followed suit.

Sylvestro held out his hand. I shook it. “Appreciate your time, Mr. Coyne,” he said.

I shrugged. “I want to help.”

“Sure,” said Finnigan.

I
STOOD IN THE
doorway and watched them leave. Julie was at her desk with the telephone tucked against her neck. She watched them too.

After the door closed behind them, I went back into my office. I sat at my desk and swiveled my chair around to stare out the window. I hadn’t seen the sun in four days. The cityscape was painted in tones of gray. It was sullen and grouchy, just like me.

Julie scratched at the door. Without turning, I said, “Come in. And I hope you brought coffee.”

“I did,” she said.

I turned around. She came and sat in the chair beside my desk. She had had her black hair cut short, which did good things for her fine cheekbones. She wore gold hoops in her ears. Her green eyes tried to smile but fell short. She put the old mug that Joey had made for me three years earlier in eighth-grade ceramics class in front of me. It was steaming. I picked it up and sipped from it. Julie had brought her own mug with her.