Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [37]
Frank abruptly stood and looked out at the garden. As Rich observed him, he thought back to when, as a teenager, he would be allowed to visit New York City courtrooms where his father defended clients accused of myriad criminal acts—rape, drug dealing, assault, arson, and murder. Some of his highest profile cases involved members of organized crime. He became known in the press as a mob lawyer, although mobsters did not constitute most of his practice. He was an unlikely attorney to be involved with defending members of organized crime, at least from Rich’s perspective. Other so-called mob lawyers were New York characters, it seemed to him, Runyonesque types who acted like their clients—brash, irreverent, fast talking, scornful of the judicial system that looked to prosecute them for their crimes. His father was the antithesis of those attorneys—Harvard educated, family money, erudite, soft-spoken, a gentleman.
But he was also a brilliant defense attorney, dedicated to pretrial preparation, skilled at cross-examination (one of three books written by him delved into the art of that subject), and well connected within the community of judges before whom he plied his trade. His success at obtaining not-guilty verdicts was the envy of other lawyers; many sought him out as a co-counsel in particularly difficult cases.
Once, when asked by a TV reporter outside a courthouse, after one of his mob clients had been found not guilty, how he could justify in his own mind defending people who were so obviously guilty, he replied, “The fact that you assume these people are guilty flies in the face of our system of jurisprudence. I certainly wouldn’t want someone as close-minded as you on any jury of mine. Excuse me. I have other places to be.”
What he didn’t add was that he chose his clients based upon their ability to pay his sizable fees. A mafioso’s money was as good as anyone else’s, and they always had plenty of it to buy the best possible defense.
Mary Marienthal came to the door as Frank turned from the window.
“Not now,” he said, waving his hand.
“I just thought Rich might like another beer,” she said.
“He’s had enough beer,” her husband said. “Close the door, please.”
She looked at Rich, who’d turned in the chair at her arrival. Her eyebrows went up. He gave her a reassuring smile and she backed away, closing the door behind her.
“You asked how my writing career was going,” Rich said after his father had resumed his place behind the desk.
He was met with a noncommittal stare.
“It wasn’t going very well for a while, and you know all that. But this book will turn that around. I don’t care whether it’s Hobbes House or Random House. Geoff, a friend of mine in Washington, knows people at Hobbes House and suggested I submit the book to them. They bit, and with enthusiasm. Sure, I know their reputation. They’re a publisher with a conservative bent. Big deal. They’ve had some best sellers in the past couple of years, and that’s what I’m looking for. This is my breakout shot, Dad.”
Rich stood and paced the room, coming to a stop in front of the desk. He placed his hands on it and leaned toward his father. “Can’t you be supportive of what I’m doing?” He turned to take the chair again and kicked over the empty beer bottle. “Sorry,” he said, righting it and sitting.
“It isn’t a matter of being supportive, Richard. You certainly can’t accuse me of not supporting you. You wouldn’t have a book unless I’d put you in touch with Russo.”
“You’re right, and I appreciate that. Look, I’m as sorry as the next person that Louis was killed. I guess the mob doesn’t say let bygones be bygones, exactly.”
“If it was the mob that killed him.”
“Had to be.”
His father said nothing.
Rich’s cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and answered. It was Kathryn.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi. Where are you?”
“At Mom and Dad’s house. What’s up?”
“Mac Smith called. He reminded me we’re having dinner with them tomorrow night.”
“I forgot.”
“So did I. With all that’s happened I—”
“I’d rather skip it. Mac