Dublin Noir - Ken Bruen [13]
Just three weeks after his arrival, Ed Burke found himself “in at the deep end,” defending Dan Mortimer, one of Dublin’s elite, against a class action suit brought by a rabble of welfare-dependent inner-city denizens. As Murphy had said, “Good way to announce your presence to the world. This is a case you can’t lose. And making an ally out of Mortimer will seal your career. Besides, it’ll be great PR for our firm.”
Some said that Mortimer was the public face of the Celtic Tiger. A good quarter of the construction cranes crisscrossing the Dublin skyline bore the Mortimer name in huge capital letters. The new dockland development had Mortimer stamped all over it. But this case had aroused the emotions of the people. The class action suit claimed that Mortimer had illegally acquired derelict inner-city land that should have been used for the community, and had then used his influence to have it rezoned for commercial purposes. Site development had commenced, excessive noise polluted the air, cracks had appeared in the foundation of adjacent houses. The suit also claimed that Mortimer had used aggressive tactics to persuade local homeowners to sell and leave so that he could demolish their homes and make way for further commercial usage. Two hungry young lawyers represented the claimants. Just like me twenty years ago, thought Burke, idealistic and naïve. They could not support their case with solid evidence. They promised to produce a witness who would testify that Mortimer had made illegal payments to someone in government to get the land rezoned. But the witness did not show up in court. The judge gave them a second chance. Produce the witness within one week, otherwise the court finds the claim unsubstantiated.
A late-evening wind blew the rain into Burke’s face as he stood on the corner awaiting the taxi he’d ordered. It had been a long day in court and he felt uneasy about the whole business. New York was different. There, he knew the good guys from the bad guys. Everything was direct. In your face. Here, nothing resembled that. Too much gray, too little black and white. This country thrived on ambivalence.
An elderly man approached him. Something familiar searched his brain for a memory, a connection.
“Hello, Eddie.”
The Eddie completed the circuit in his brain. He hadn’t been called Eddie since he was a little boy. Marty, Marty Rainey. Age now hid the vitality he remembered. Marty had been almost a surrogate father. Often there for him when his own father was down in the pub in the evening.
“Marty! Is it you?”
“’Tis indeed. Not as supple as you remember. But the old head still works.”
“Marty, it’s just great seeing you again.”
“Eddie, I need to talk to you. It’s life or death for me.”
Saying it so matter-of-factly took the surprise out of it. The taxi pulled up, saving Ed from looking lost. He insisted on taking Marty home.
As the taxi pulled out into rush hour traffic, Marty said: “I’m your witness.”
For a moment Ed Burke was mystified. Then it struck him that Marty’s telling him that he’s the missing witness at the trial. Ed gripped Marty’s arm and looked at him. Marty continued: “I couldn’t show up. They threatened me. Told me that I’d wind up in the Liffey. They meant it, Eddie. I suppose I’m a coward.”
“Who threatened you, Marty?”
“Thugs! That’s who. You don’t think they do their own dirty work, do you? No, they hired a bunch of thugs who don’t give a shite. They’d kill me as easily as look at me.”
“Who ordered it, Marty?”
“Come on, you know who. You’re defending one of them in court. I suppose you’re gettin’ well paid for that. But you’ve forgotten where you came from, Eddie.”
“Damn it, Marty! Don’t fucking lecture me. If you’re telling me the truth, then you were the bagman for these bastards