Client Privilege by William G. Tapply Page A

Churchill worked for me. He was murdered. Maybe it had something to do with a story, maybe not. Either way, his murder is a story.” Dennis touched the end of his mustache with his thumb. “Your name, ah, is connected, Mr. Coyne.”
    “Where’d you hear that?”
    He smiled. “I’ve done some investigative reporting myself.”
    “Be specific.”
    “Look,” he said. “I was his boss. He had to account to me.
    “You knew he was meeting me that night?”
    He shrugged. “Your name was scribbled on his calendar.”
    “You didn’t get it from the police?”
    “I’ve gotten nothing from the police. That’s one reason I’m here.”
    “Do you know why we met?”
    “That’s what I’m asking you.”
    “Forget it,” I said. “What else can I do for you?”
    “Actually, of course, I want to know if you killed Wayne.”
    “That’s easy. I didn’t.”
    “But you were with him the night he died.”
    I stared at him and said nothing.
    “What did he tell you?”
    “You’re out of line, Dennis.”
    “You’re a suspect, Mr. Coyne. A helluva suspect. Police’re gonna let it out, sooner or later. I want to get there first with the story. I’ve got a personal interest in it. I’ll repeat my offer. Exclusive interview. You’ll get all the time you need, tell your story in your own way. Guarantee you don’t get edited, misquoted, taken out of context. Put your case in front of the public. Best defense, believe me.”
    “Can I ask you a question, Mr. Dennis?”
    “Sure.” He opened his arms and showed me his palms. “Ask away.”
    “Did you kill him?”
    He grinned. “Me?”
    “Are you a suspect? Have the police questioned you?”
    “Sure the police questioned me. I don’t believe I’m a suspect, however. Anyway—”
    “End of interview, Mr. Dennis.”
    “I don’t think you understand—”
    “You want a story. I’m not it.” I stood up. “Now, if you don’t mind…”
    Rodney Dennis stood. “I’m an impatient man,” he said. He narrowed his eyes. “It would be to your advantage to be candid with me, Mr. Coyne.”
    “Is that a threat?”
    He smiled. “Goodness, no. Call it an offer.”
    “Offer declined. Thanks anyway.”
    He looked at me for a moment, then shrugged. “If you change your mind, give me a call.”
    I held out my hand and he took it. “Good day, Mr. Dennis.”
    He nodded. “We’ll be in touch.”
    Xerxes Garrett was the young black attorney who had clerked for me during the year that Julie was on maternity leave, in exchange for my tutelage. When he passed the law boards he turned down my offer to join up with me, which was a relief to both of us. I liked my independence too much to work with a partner. He retained the idealism that I had lost along the way. He wanted to work with the poor and downtrodden. He did not want a career like mine, helping, as he saw it, “rich white folks get richer.”
    So he opened his own office in Cambridge near the Somerville line, not far from Tufts University where he had earned modest fame as a Little All-American linebacker and running back. Poor folks, white as well as black, flocked to him, folks whose landlords allowed apartment building pipes to freeze in the wintertime, folks whose sons got nabbed stealing cars or selling coke, folks who didn’t know how to negotiate bureaucracies to complain about insufficient welfare payments or runaway husbands.
    Zerk was a big, handsome guy. He was also smart and articulate and principled. He had become an excellent lawyer. He was one of those impressive men who grew even more impressive when you got to know him. He had even helped me through a few scrapes.
    Zerk did a lot of business at the big ugly concrete courthouse in East Cambridge. He knew all the ADAs and secretaries and judges there. From what I could gather, they all shared my impression of him.
    “Yo,” he said, when his secretary connected us. “Bossman.”
    “I need a favor, Zerk.”
    “I didn’t figure you were calling