John Dobbyn: Neon Dragon

There was a daily inspection by Himself, and perfection was the barely passing standard. That left time to shower and don the uniform of a student at Chambers Academy, also his idea. After school, there was the washing and grooming of every horse in the stable before dinner and several hours of homework. I didn’t sleep so much as lapse into unconsciousness by nine to hit the stables by four the next morning.

Mr. O’Connor threw me into the mix of private-school students who had lived the polished life since they came out of the womb. When my self-confidence took the occasional, or rather frequent, nosedive, he was at my back to drill it into me that I could compete with anyone even-up.

And compete I did, for him. I spent three years at Chambers, and at the end of each of the three, Mr. O’Connor was in the audience for the awards ceremony. I was not the brightest bulb in the chandelier there, so I worked my skinny ass down to the nub to see to it that he heard my name every year among the prizewinners.

I made it past the cut into Harvard College, but it was Mr. O’Connor who paid the freight. There was no doubt about whose shoes I wanted to fill. I knew the jump to Harvard Law School would be anything but automatic. That meant passing on the “mixers” and “smokers” and “gentleman’s Cs” and most other social byplay that could have endangered the goal. It was a small price to pay for the smile I saw on Mr. O’Connor’s face in the audience at the Harvard College graduation-and then again when I saw him rereading my letter of acceptance to Harvard Law School.

I asked him one time why he did it, everything from that day in court on. He said it was an impulse, and the impulse got stronger every year.

There is not a softer or more heartfelt way to put it. Mr. Miles John O’Connor, God rest his worthy soul, was the toughest son of a bitch that ever lived. And I came to love him more than I thought anyone could love or admire another human being.

What brought all of this flooding through my memory bank while I stood there being ignored by Mr. Alexis Devlin, was that he was, in some ways, the spitting image of Mr. O’Connor. The Lord knows it wasn’t their appearance. Mr. O’Connor had been trim and athletic and perfectly clad from the crest of his wavy white hair and handsome Irish features and complexion to the Armani shoes six feet and two inches below. Mr. Devlin was roughly carved out of granite like a character on Mount Rushmore. The suit he was wearing was expensive, but I think he sent his larger brother in for the fitting.

The similarity that struck me deeply was in the way their bearing left no doubt of the immensity of their character. Other men, taller men, had seemed like pygmies in the company of Mr. O’Connor. I was getting waves of a similar sensation in the presence of Mr. Devlin.

The man was not given to social preliminaries. I restrained a slight jump when that voice that reverberated off of courtroom walls caught me dead on.

“You’ve accepted the defense of young Bradley. Why?”

That was a question I still hadn’t answered for myself.

“Judge Bradley put the request in a way that was hard to turn down, Mr. Devlin. I don’t honestly know why he picked me.”

“He didn’t pick you.” He spun the heavy leather desk chair around and dropped into it. “He was after me. Now he’s got me.”

“Mr. Devlin, there was no mention…”

“You’re three jumps behind, Sonny. You wear the firm name. This case is going to get more space in the Boston Herald than the Kennedys. Amos Bradley is no fool. He knew I’d be drawn into it.”

It had the ring of logic, and it answered the question I’d had since I left Judge Bradley’s chambers-why pick a rookie when there are a handful of seasoned all-stars ready to take the bat? Still…

“If he wanted you for defense counsel, Mr. Devlin, and I don’t doubt that he did, couldn’t he have just asked you?”

“No. He knows I’m out of criminal work. I wouldn’t touch it, even for him.” I saw his shoulders drop a bit, and I saw something in his eyes that I still can’t fathom. “I guess I’m back in it. Let’s get to work.”

He grabbed a yellow pad and pen with an energy that made me wonder if it was totally against his will. I wondered if something had flowed through the old fighter when he’d heard one more bell.

“Let me have the indictment and the coroner’s report. I assume you got them immediately.”

My right fist clenched behind the chair at the accuracy of my first instincts. The celebration was short-lived. I handed over the copy of the indictment that was still in my suit-coat pocket.

“The DA said she’ll send the coroner’s report as soon as it’s ready.”

His eyes were back on me like a microscope.

“That’s twice you let yourself be taken advantage of today, sonny. Don’t keep up that average if you’re going to work around me.”

He grabbed the phone and punched numbers into it. I came around and sat in the chair I’d been gripping. If he hadn’t invited me to sit down, at least he hadn’t forbidden it.

“This is Lex Devlin. Let me speak to Mrs. Lamb.”

There was a pause, but not a long one. Even the queen DA responded when the king summoned.

“Angela, this is Lex Devlin. I’m entering the defense of young Bradley.”

I’d have traded tickets to Fenway Park for the final game of the World Series to see that grin drop from her lips when she realized that the Perkins School for the Blind was being augmented by the Boston Celtics. There was no audible comeback.

“I’d like you to fax the coroner’s report and a full set of pictures. I’ll need them immediately.”

She apparently saw no advantage in playing snooker with the master, because whatever she said equaled “yes.”

I noticed that Mr. Devlin cut the good-byes to a minimum and rang off without broaching the subject of a plea bargain before he had enough evidence to deal from a position of strength. I absorbed the lesson without necessarily mentioning that the count of my day’s miscalculations was up to three.

“How did you know she had it already?”

Mr. Devlin looked up over the half-glasses that were still focused on the indictment.

“Learn fast, sonny. This graduate course is going to be brief. This case is going to set all of Chinatown on end. That means City Hall’s interested. You’ve got the son of a black judge not everyone wants on the Supreme Judicial Court for a defendant. That’ll get the bar on edge. Believe me, sonny, that coroner’s report was on her desk by midnight.”

He pulled off the glasses and gave me the full look. He held up the indictment.

“How’d you ask for this? I bet you walked right into her office like a piece of raw steak.”

He won the bet.

“Don’t. She’s too powerful on her own turf. Catch her on neutral ground, like outside of a courtroom.”

“Yes, sir. I notice you called her in her office. That’s not the same thing?”

He put the glasses back on, but not before I caught something in his eyes. Associates generally stop at “Yes, sir.”

“I can. You can’t. Not for a lot of years, sonny.”

He read the indictment while I absorbed one of life’s realities. He threw it back to me.

“Start a file. This is straight premeditated murder. She’s going for the full penalty. What have they got?”

“Judge Bradley says they have two witnesses from the Chinese community that can identify him. They say they saw him shoot the victim.”

“And what does he say?”

“He says he had dinner across the street at the Ming Tree restaurant on Tyler Street. He walked over to see the lion. They have a cloth lion with three or four men under it…”