“You still feel as if that’s what we’re doing with our client?”
“You said it, not me,” Jimmy replied before walking me out to my car.
Aiding and abetting.
Is that the way I might be going out?
Thomas McGoey shows up at noon for our planned trial prep, having picked up sandwiches for us at Goldberg’s on his way from his place in Quogue. My lunch order is a corned beef Reuben, even knowing my stomach will probably pay a heavy price for that later. McGoey is having an Italian sub that when he takes it out of the bag looks to be as long as his arm.
“A hero from a place called Goldberg’s?” I ask. “Isn’t that some kind of mixed message?”
“I pride myself on embracing all cultures and ethnicities.”
“Italian especially, from your client list.”
He grins. “Always remember something,” he says. “It’s not personal, Jane. Just business.”
“Please don’t do The Godfather,” I say, “I’m begging you.”
“Are you joking? With my aforementioned client list, those movies are like finishing school.”
We eat and talk about the gun, McGoey trying to convince me that we actually might be able to use it to our advantage if it does turn out to be the one that fired the bullets found at the murder scene.
“But if it does belong to Rob and he did plant it at his own house, I mean, what the fuck?” McGoey says.
“Maybe at this point he’s convinced himself that he really is bulletproof.”
It’s odd seeing McGoey not wearing what I think of as his shark suit. White polo shirt today, slightly wrinkled, jeans faded to nearly the color of the shirt, beat-up topsiders, no socks. By now he’s devoured his sub. I’ve eaten about half of my sandwich, giving the rest of the pastrami to Rip, who, when it comes to food, absolutely does embrace all cultures and ethnicities.
But sitting across from McGoey at the kitchen table, it occurs to me how comfortable I am talking lawyer with him, even with what Jimmy calls his goombah résumé.
“I assume you still plan to come in hot on Hank Carson’s gambling,” he says.
“Hank will be just one of the dead guys I plan to put on trial.”
“Who’s the other?”
“Bobby Salvatore.”
McGoey nods. “Nothing like prosecuting those no longer with us to defend themselves.”
“While keeping in mind that Carson is the victim, and it is going to be our theory that it was his gambling that got his wife and daughter killed.”
We move out to the back porch after we’ve cleaned up the kitchen. When we’re outside, McGoey begins throwing one of Rip’s disgusting tennis balls for him to fetch. Clearly a dog guy.
“You know the drill,” I say. “Do whatever it takes.”
“And then youreallyget serious after that.”
I smile now. “I have a special practice these days,” I say. “I only handle one client.”
“Wait, you get to do The Godfather and I don’t?”
“You’re still only second chair.”
We sit there for a while as Rip keeps chasing the ball.
“Your dog likes me,” McGoey says.
