“Sneaking into the women’s toilet, no, not even that was beneath you,” Ira said.
“I heard McClelland feed Spike his presentation,” Joel shouted. “I heard that, and then I got to be part of the process of watching Spike win the chance to take the case to trial. Which he lost, even with McClelland in the second chair, and then I realized, after he ran for office and became our state rep, that Spike wanted to lose the case. Buy-Smart gave him campaign contributions. The whole thing was a fucking racket.
“And that’s what happened with Stella. We all had to make our case, and I didn’t want to take part. Was I a crybaby? A queer crybaby, not big enough to play in the big leagues? Didn’t I know about Gideon v. Wainwright? Stella might be an unpleasant defendant, but she deserved counsel. This was how lawyers proved themselves, but if I wanted to sit in a corner and masturbate over Annie instead of pulling my weight in the firm—apparently I could be queer and in love with Annie at the same time! And so on it went and so of course, whiny crybaby that I am, I caved under the pressure. Not like you: you would have stood up to Spike and Mandel and McClelland like you did to Richie Daley and the Machine when they came after you. Just like you did to George Wallace in Selma. But not me. And now, by God, I am going to have a drink, and fuck you, Ira Previn. Fuck you and fuck all those like you.”
IT AIN’T BEANBAG
“That was terrible,” Bernie said when we were back in the car.
“Yes, I’m sorry you heard all that. It’s the bad part about my job—trying to find out what happened tears scabs off wounds and you see people at their rawest.”
“But who was right? Joel is a crybaby, like his father says. Maybe he was wrong about the people he used to work for?”
“I don’t think so. For one thing, I don’t know Spike Hurlihey personally, but I know how he operates, running the House of Representatives in Illinois. He does bully people and pressure people, and force them to give him money if they want to do business in the state.”
“What was this machine that the father stood up to?”
I tried to give Bernie a one-paragraph primer on Illinois politics and power. “Politics is a way dirtier game than hockey.”
“Hockey isn’t dirty!”
“Enforcers?” I quizzed her. “Trying to whack people in the ankles to get them out of your way?”
“Oh, that—it’s what you have to do if you want to win.”
“Maybe you’ll become a U.S. citizen after you finish with Northwestern: you’d be perfect in a state legislature. Congress, for that matter. Money changes hands, and sometimes there’s physical violence, too. Like the first Mayor Daley—he had goons who went around breaking windows on people’s cars or houses if they put up posters for candidates running against him. Death threats—I’m sure Ira wasn’t exaggerating when he said he got those. But the biggest thing is having to give a lot of money to politicians if you want to do business, or have laws passed in your favor. It’s a terrible system. And it sounds as though Spike Hurlihey got his training in a nice nest of vipers.”
“Hockey is definitely not so dirty as that. And it’s easier to understand. Does anything the crybaby said make you know if he was lying about Uncle Boom-Boom and the diary?”
“He made me know about someone else who was lying, or at least holding back on the truth. I want to talk to her while I’m still south, but I can drop you at the Metra station to catch a train back to the Loop.”
Bernie elected to ride over to Ninetieth and Commercial with me, to Rory Scanlon’s building, where Thelma Kalvin held the fort for the Paris-shopping Nina Quarles.
It was nearly the end of the business day when we pulled up in front of Scanlon’s building and Thelma Kalvin was not happy to see us.
“We’re about to close the office. If you make an appointment for later in the month we will find a way to fit you in.”
“We won’t take much of your time,” I said, perching on the edge of her desk. “This young woman is a connection of my cousin Boom-Boom, by the way, and she’s concerned about the slander against him.”
“I told you before that I admired his playing but that I don’t know anything about the accusations brought against him by that woman who murdered her daughter.”
“That’s an interesting phrase, isn’t it? ‘That woman who murdered her daughter.’ You don’t remember the meeting in which the partners decided that Joel Previn would represent Stella Guzzo? You worked here then, Annie Guzzo put your nose out of joint. I’d think her and her mother’s names would have stuck in your head even after all this time.”
I spoke loudly enough for people at the other desks to hear. Except for two people on the phone, everyone stopped what they were doing to watch, including a young couple consulting a man at a desk near the windows. The couple, who’d been arguing softly with each other when I came in, stopped their bickering to watch me.
“It was painful, so painful that I suppressed the names,” Thelma said. “If you’d ever worked with—”
“Lame,” I said, looking at Bernie. “Would you agree, a pretty lame excuse?”
Bernie was startled, but she picked up the cue and nodded. “For Uncle Boom-Boom I expect a good lie, a creative one that is interesting to hear.”
“So you chose not to talk to me about Stella and Annie or Spike Hurlihey or how the partners liked to pit the associates against each other. Is that a practice that Nina Quarles has continued? Oh, right. She doesn’t really work here, just spends the profits. Which must be considerable to send her on shopping sprees to Europe. Who were the other associates in the firm at the time?”
Thelma’s look would have stripped the blades from a pair of ice skates. “Get out of this office now, or I’ll call the police and have you removed.”
“Judge Grigsby, he couldn’t have been here,” I mused, “he would have recused himself from trying the case. At least, I think he would have. It’s Illinois, you never know.”
Thelma looked at the staff and the two clients, all unabashedly eavesdropping: it didn’t look like a group of people eager to back her up. “I keep telling you to leave because we’re shutting down for the day. This isn’t a safe place for people to be after dark; I can’t keep the office open for you when you don’t have an appointment.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll be glad to drive you home so we can finish the conversation in safety.”
The young couple laughed, but the staff stared owlishly, waiting to see how the story would unfold. Thelma bit the tip of her index finger: she wasn’t the boss, just the office manager—she might run the place for Nina Quarles, but she couldn’t order the lawyers around.
When Thelma didn’t make a move, I asked, “Why does everyone from you to Ira Previn to Judge Grigsby still care about Stella Guzzo? Why did the firm care about her in the first place?”
“Everyone has a right to counsel,” Thelma said.
“Now, that is interesting,” I said to Bernie. “Do you remember what Joel said when he was describing what the partners said when they were pressuring him to take on Stella’s defense?”
Bernie blushed. “It was something nasty about him and Annie.”
“That, but also they said, didn’t he remember Gideon v. Wainwright?”
“But I don’t know what that is,” Bernie protested.
“It was a famous lawsuit, where the Supreme Court ruled everyone has a right to counsel, even those too poor to pay for a lawyer themselves. What’s interesting is that Gideon became the party line here at Mandel & McClelland. Everyone repeated the phrase so many times: we are representing Stella Guzzo, who murdered our young clerk, because we are such noble lawyers, we believe in Gideon.”