terse reply.
“Why?”
“Because he wants attention,” Lopez said sourly. “He wants TV cameras focused on his face and microphones shoved under his nose. And because he thinks an NYPD cop trying to keep a killer in prison is an easy target.”
“This is the same lawyer that Uncle Six hired to get his brother’s conviction overturned?” I guessed.
“Yeah. But Joe’s eldest son, who’s head of the family now that the old man is dead, isn’t dumb enough—thanks be to God—to throw away a fortune in legal fees trying to overturn a rock-solid case, if I do say so myself, in an attempt to get his rotten uncle back out on the streets so he can commit another murder,” said Lopez. “Uncle Six’s body—or what’s left of it—wasn’t even cold by the time the family terminated Goldman’s services.”
“Goldman?”
“Alan Goldman. The lawyer.”
“Ohhh,” I said in disappointment.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I scowled. “I just hate it when the rich, sleazy lawyer is Jewish, you know?”
“Yeah, and I hate it when the drug-dealing thug is Hispanic,” he replied. “But that’s life, and nobody asks our opinion before they make those choices.”
“I guess,” I grumbled. “But why doesn’t Goldman just move on to defending the next wealthy criminal?”
“Maybe he doesn’t have another case lined up. Or not one that’ll keep him in the spotlight right now.”
“Oh, come on, the city must be full of dirty people with deep pockets who are in legal trouble,” I said. “And it’s not as if anyone’s
paying
him to accuse you of driving Joe Ning to suicide. So why bother?”
“I think Goldman planned to position Paul Ning’s case as a civil rights suit where he sought ‘justice’ for a hardworking family who’d been unfairly targeted because they’re Chinese immigrants.” Lopez blew out his breath. “Well, Joe Ning’s fat fee isn’t on the table anymore, but Goldman can still get plenty of media attention as a crusader trying to expose a corrupt department and a bent cop whose determination to keep Paul in prison drove a Chinatown community leader to suicide. Blah blah blah.”
“But he can’t prove—”
“He doesn’t have to
prove
anything,” Lopez said bitterly. “The media don’t care about proof. They care about attention, just like Goldman. All he has to do, to get lots of mileage out of this, is keep insinuating and accusing.” He added, “But since he’s threatening to sue the department, maybe he thinks he can still get a fat fee out of this.”
“Do you really think he’ll go through with that threat?”
“I don’t know. He probably doesn’t know, either. Not yet. But threatening it gets him the kind of attention he wants.”
Some of the questions Quinn had asked John made a little more sense now. Lopez and his partner wanted to know if Joe Ning had seemed distraught in his final days.
I knew Uncle Six had been murdered by Susan, but I couldn’t prove it. Lopez seemed convinced it was an accident. And it would be easy for someone to claim that it was suicide.
“So if Joe Ning complained to anyone about the cops trying to keep his brother in prison,” I said, “or if a few people thought he looked sad or stressed lately, then a fast-talking, telegenic lawyer who’s eager to be seen as a crusader—”
“—could really run with that,” Lopez said gloomily. “And maybe get somewhere.”
“Is your job in danger because of this?” I asked with concern. I didn’t think that being a cop meant
everything
to him, but I knew it meant a hell of a lot.
“God, I hope not.” Apparently not liking the way that sounded, he added in a sturdier tone, “It shouldn’t be. I haven’t gone anywhere near Joe Ning—or Paul, or anyone else in the family. I just followed procedure to make sure an old conviction was ready to stand up to scrutiny.” After a moment, he muttered, “But that doesn’t mean the media won’t make a meal of this, with Goldman
“Why?”
“Because he wants attention,” Lopez said sourly. “He wants TV cameras focused on his face and microphones shoved under his nose. And because he thinks an NYPD cop trying to keep a killer in prison is an easy target.”
“This is the same lawyer that Uncle Six hired to get his brother’s conviction overturned?” I guessed.
“Yeah. But Joe’s eldest son, who’s head of the family now that the old man is dead, isn’t dumb enough—thanks be to God—to throw away a fortune in legal fees trying to overturn a rock-solid case, if I do say so myself, in an attempt to get his rotten uncle back out on the streets so he can commit another murder,” said Lopez. “Uncle Six’s body—or what’s left of it—wasn’t even cold by the time the family terminated Goldman’s services.”
“Goldman?”
“Alan Goldman. The lawyer.”
“Ohhh,” I said in disappointment.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I scowled. “I just hate it when the rich, sleazy lawyer is Jewish, you know?”
“Yeah, and I hate it when the drug-dealing thug is Hispanic,” he replied. “But that’s life, and nobody asks our opinion before they make those choices.”
“I guess,” I grumbled. “But why doesn’t Goldman just move on to defending the next wealthy criminal?”
“Maybe he doesn’t have another case lined up. Or not one that’ll keep him in the spotlight right now.”
“Oh, come on, the city must be full of dirty people with deep pockets who are in legal trouble,” I said. “And it’s not as if anyone’s
paying
him to accuse you of driving Joe Ning to suicide. So why bother?”
“I think Goldman planned to position Paul Ning’s case as a civil rights suit where he sought ‘justice’ for a hardworking family who’d been unfairly targeted because they’re Chinese immigrants.” Lopez blew out his breath. “Well, Joe Ning’s fat fee isn’t on the table anymore, but Goldman can still get plenty of media attention as a crusader trying to expose a corrupt department and a bent cop whose determination to keep Paul in prison drove a Chinatown community leader to suicide. Blah blah blah.”
“But he can’t prove—”
“He doesn’t have to
prove
anything,” Lopez said bitterly. “The media don’t care about proof. They care about attention, just like Goldman. All he has to do, to get lots of mileage out of this, is keep insinuating and accusing.” He added, “But since he’s threatening to sue the department, maybe he thinks he can still get a fat fee out of this.”
“Do you really think he’ll go through with that threat?”
“I don’t know. He probably doesn’t know, either. Not yet. But threatening it gets him the kind of attention he wants.”
Some of the questions Quinn had asked John made a little more sense now. Lopez and his partner wanted to know if Joe Ning had seemed distraught in his final days.
I knew Uncle Six had been murdered by Susan, but I couldn’t prove it. Lopez seemed convinced it was an accident. And it would be easy for someone to claim that it was suicide.
“So if Joe Ning complained to anyone about the cops trying to keep his brother in prison,” I said, “or if a few people thought he looked sad or stressed lately, then a fast-talking, telegenic lawyer who’s eager to be seen as a crusader—”
“—could really run with that,” Lopez said gloomily. “And maybe get somewhere.”
“Is your job in danger because of this?” I asked with concern. I didn’t think that being a cop meant
everything
to him, but I knew it meant a hell of a lot.
“God, I hope not.” Apparently not liking the way that sounded, he added in a sturdier tone, “It shouldn’t be. I haven’t gone anywhere near Joe Ning—or Paul, or anyone else in the family. I just followed procedure to make sure an old conviction was ready to stand up to scrutiny.” After a moment, he muttered, “But that doesn’t mean the media won’t make a meal of this, with Goldman
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