A Handy Death

“Damn it, Hank, what kind of a circus are you running over there, anyway? Nobody in the office knows where you are, what you’re doing, how to reach you, nothing! Fishing up in Maine in October, for God’s sake! What kind of a fish story is that, for God’s sake? What are you, part of the CIA these days? All that ridiculous secrecy! Good heavens! And the name’s Quirt, not Quoit! Tell your girl!”

Ross laughed in pure enjoyment. Charley Quirt was the chief counsel as well as the vice-president of the Mets baseball team. They had worked together in the past on many club problems.

“Sorry, Charley, but I have a feeling you have a new secretary, and that she comes from somewhere in the depths of darkest Brooklyn, which might explain the Quoit — or Kuwoit, as Molly has it — for Quirt.”

“We’re the Mets!” Quirt said loudly. “Where should our secretaries come from, for the Lord’s sake? Oakland? Bite your tongue. And don’t say sorry, Charley; it makes me feel like that tuna on TV.”

“Sorry, Charley.”

“You should be.” Charley Quirt became serious. “Look, Hank, this boy Dupaul — it’s in all the papers, you know who I mean. He’s in serious trouble, the kind of trouble you can handle a lot better than the bookkeepers I have working for me. I want you to drop everything and get right onto his defense. You’ll bill the office — my office — over and above your regular retainer.”

“The way I read the papers,” Ross said, “he’s in lots of troubles. Which one are you referring to?”

“The murder charge, of course! Here he shoots some character umpteen years ago and the silly bastard just decides to die a couple of weeks ago, and now the DA’s office — undoubtedly looking for votes — has made up its so-called mind to prosecute Billy for first-degree murder. Of course, while you’re at it I’ll expect you to defend him on any or all charges arising from that trouble up at Attica yesterday, too.”

“Is that all?” Ross asked with a touch of sarcasm. “Any parking tickets he’s gotten you’d like me to fix while I’m at it?”

“If there are, I’ll let you know. Any facts I can give you?”

“A few—”

“For the fees you charge, you’d think you could dig out your own facts! All right, shoot.”

“I thought this boy Dupaul was a bonus baby when he signed with your club. That used to mean money, as I recall. Can’t he pay his own legal fees? He certainly didn’t get to spend too much money in Attica. What does he do with his cash? Gamble?”

“He didn’t keep that advance money,” Quirt said. “Don’t you remember? It was in all the papers at the time.”

“When did all this take place?”

“Nineteen sixty-four,” Quirt said. “The signing, the shooting, the whole damn mess. Why?”

“Because I was in Europe for the State Department in 1964, and they keep you too busy to read anything but the million reports they send out from Washington. So I don’t know anything about the boy or the case or anything.”

“Maybe it’s better that way,” Quirt said. “Anyway, about the money, the club was all set to sue for its return — not me, I wasn’t even in the country; it was a top management decision — when he sent the money back on his own volition. He said he hadn’t earned it, wasn’t likely to be able to earn it the way things looked, and therefore didn’t feel it would be right to keep it.”

“Or maybe he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep it in any event, and decided to make a good impression on the court through the newspapers,” Ross said shrewdly. “Just when did Dupaul — or his attorney — actually offer to return the money? Before or after he was found guilty?”

“Well, after he was found guilty, but before he was sentenced,” Quirt said. “What’s the difference?”

“A lot. Maybe his lawyer wasn’t so stupid. Who was his lawyer, by the way?”

“Hank, for God’s sake! If you have all the time in the world to waste, I don’t.”

“I just like to know as much as possible about a potential client and his background,” Ross said equably, not at all disturbed by the other’s impatience. “Who was his lawyer?”

“He had two, if you want to know. Not at the same time — first one and then the other. The first — at the time the trial began — was Louis G. Gorman—”

Ross whistled in surprise.

“Are you telling me that our distinguished Chief Assistant District Attorney, Louis G. Gorman — in person — defended Dupaul?”

“He was Billy’s first lawyer. Then—”

“And Louie now plans to prosecute him? Or that’s the impression I got reading this morning’s Times. A man he served as defense counsel for? Not very cricket, is it?”

“It’ll never reach the Ethics Committee of the Bar Association,” Quirt said drily. “You can bet that Gorman personally won’t appear as prosecuting attorney. He’ll assign it to one of his staff. But you can also bet he’ll mastermind it every step of the way.” His voice became fatalistic. “What can you do?”

“Not much. What happened to Gorman in the course of the trial?”