CHAPTER 1
Friday, April 10, 1981
Boston, MA

-1-

Attorney Mary Ann Devlin, Maddie to everyone but the judges before whom she appeared every day, tried to persuade herself it was too hot to do her daily calisthenics, Royal Canadian Air Force Exercises, Level 5, on the three or four days a week she did not run five fast miles along the Charles River, outrunning the druggies and derelicts who often showed up on her client list in the Criminal Session of the Boston Municipal Court. 

Maddie’s salary as a public defender with Suffolk County Legal Services did not allow the luxury of membership in an athletic club with state-of-the-art equipment, autocrats masquerading as exercise leaders, and a swimming pool to stretch the long muscles of her back and legs.  Dues at the YWCA, as low as they were, were also out of reach.  She purchased her running shoes, factory seconds of the brands worn by the Boston Marathon’s elite runners, on the grey market from a pushcart hidden among the produce stalls in Haymarket.  At her age, halfway between thirty and forty, she was thin, but softly firm, with her mother's auburn hair, an oak leaf in autumn which had just peaked.  If beauty lay in the genes, hers–like Trish Devlin Sullivan’s, like Katie Devlin’s, like all the Devlin women’s–was her birthright.  Her beauty, however, did not extend to her voice.  Aged by circumstance, it was shrill and shaky like that of an opera singer no longer able to hit her notes; a voice so perfect in the court-room, so mood breaking in the bedroom.

Maddie dug the TV remote out from the pile of unread magazines beneath her night table–The New Yorker, The Economist, Vogue–to feed her craving for things not found in the world she grew up in, and clicked on the morning news. Framed in black bunting, nine-year-old Bumper Sullivan’s boyish face filled the screen, a school photo, wearing a white shirt and clip-on tie that sagged from one collar.  His hair swooped across his forehead; his smile was a shade shy of a smirk.  In a halting voice, the announcer recounted how Bumper’s bloodless body had been found by his father, Mayor Charles Sullivan, in the library of the Capablanca Chess Club the previous evening.

“According to high-level sources in the police department,” the announcer continued,” a skull-cap belonging to Avram Levy, also a member of the Club, had been found near the body.  Levy is in custody and his arraignment is scheduled for this afternoon.”

Maddie gasped.  Her lungs felt on fire.  Ever since her daughter’s death thirteen Aprils ago, April had been her cruelest month.  Now it would be Trish Sullivan’s as well.  Elizabeth Devlin Gloucester, Bumper Devlin Sullivan, never cousins in life because of their age difference, now cousins in death.  She counted to ten, then counted to ten again.  At last, her heart rate moderated and she breathed more easily.

She removed the mouth guard she wore so she would not grind her teeth in her sleep–hundreds of dollars to keep perfect a smile she rarely had occasion to use.  She picked up the phone.  The dial tone jarred her and she hung up.  Trish had not called when Elizabeth died, had not attended her wake or funeral.  Bumper’s death tempered Maddie’s grudge, but not the realization that Trish would not welcome her call.  The sins of generations past victimized them both, making present day sins unnecessary.

A photo of Avram Levy’s skull-cap replaced Bumper’s picture on the TV screen.  Maddie applied her lawyer’s mind to the scant information offered by the report.  She rummaged through her bag of defense attorney tricks and treats to make sense of what she had just seen, had just heard.  She played these mind games because an ancient litigator whose nose and ears bristled with the hair of experience once told her visualization was the key to being a successful trial lawyer.  It worked in her professional life, if not her personal.

Leaking this information–Levy’s name, the photo of the skull-cap–to the press was not the style of the Suffolk County District Attorney.  He held his cards so close to the vest the dirt on his hands and fingers smudged his white dress shirt.  Mayor Charlie was too calculating to finger Levy before the public had processed the murder of his son and none of his underlings had the balls to do something like this on their own.  Jewish votes and Jewish money were essential to Charlie’s U.S. Senate campaign.  High-level sources in the police department, the news anchor had said.  It had to be the highest, Police Commissioner Dante Ugolino.  But, why? 

Maddie ticked off potential explanations on her fingers, each a negative.  Ugolino wouldn’t do it to scare off the defense bar because the best made their reputations and fortunes winning high-profile unwinnable cases.  Nor to calm the community because the disclosure was too inflammatory.  Nor to incite anti-Semitism, even though it would.  A mistake?  Ugolino was too foresighted, too farsighted.  

Maddie stopped counting on her fingers as two possible explanations came into focus.  Ugolino was laying the foundation for justifying a cursory police investigation of Bumper’s murder.  The police had their man, so why bother?  Maddie could offer a multitude of reasons why the police should bother–the possibility Levy didn’t act alone being the most obvious, the possibility the skull-cap was a plant by the killer to mislead the police the second most obvious.  Or, Ugolino was generating pretrial publicity that would make it impossible to impanel an impartial jury in Boston, sucker-punching the average defense attorney to move for a change of venue.

Maddie had tried cases in rural Massachusetts, Franklin and Berkshire Counties, and Worcester County north of the city.  Jews were scarce in those parts of the state.  Blue-collar workers, farmers, older people with traditional values and strong bonds to their ethnic communities as well as their churches–older people who had been brought up to believe Jews were responsible for the Crucifixion–filled the jury pools.  Those people would focus on the obvious–the skull-cap beside the body–and ignore whatever smoke defense counsel would blow.  The case would be decided, the guilty verdict rendered, before the lunch break on the first day of deliberations. 

Years of trying cases in the Criminal Session of Suffolk County Superior Court had taught her that Levy needed a Boston jury drawn from a pool large enough to include liberal Democrats, the college educated, a white-collar jury with teachers, engineers, business owners, accountants, people who would listen and assess the evidence rather than be swayed by emotion or prejudice.  It only took one, one out of twelve.  Her trial experience also made it clear to her that Ugolino had outfoxed the defense bar.  He wanted to deep-six a thorough police investigation to force the defense to do the police’s job on the defense’s nickel.  He wanted the change of venue and he was doing his best to finesse the defense into requesting it.  

But, why?  The prosecution’s case must have a weakness.  A set of fingerprints that didn’t match Levy’s.  A break in the chain of custody.  A piece of physical evidence “lost” in the police department evidence room.  Or, planted at the crime scene.  Ugolino was not beneath corrupting a crime scene, something every experienced defense attorney knew but could never muster sufficient evidence to prove.  Too obvious, these weaknesses.  Pre-trial discovery would alert defense counsel to them.  No, it had to be something so subtle, yet so fatal, only one in a thousand defense lawyers would figure it out.  It was the kind of challenge she thrived on and succeeded at more often than not.

Maddie tried to infer what the weakness was.  Less than twelve hours had elapsed since Bumper’s murder, since Mayor Charlie had found Bumper’s body.  Logic said it had to be tied into something Charlie did before the police arrived, before the police tape cordoning off the crime scene went up.  Corrupting the crime scene was one explanation; removing evidence another.  With or without consulting Ugolino first?  Maddie loved conspiracies.  The more implausible, the more she loved them.  Her secret vice, alien abductions.

No, as much as this was her kind of case, she wouldn’t represent Levy, if asked.  She never represented homicide defendants accused of killing a child or any defendants accused of abusing a child, a preference the director of Suffolk County Legal Services had respected to date when assigning cases.  

The camera zoomed in on Avram Levy’s name embroidered in the lining of the skull-cap.  The spidery stitching reminded Maddie of the way her ma had embroidered her name in her church dresses.  Ma had mothballed those dresses for the granddaughter she yearned for, but Maddie had unpicked the embroidery and donated the dresses to a charity which shipped used clothing to missions in Africa.  At the time, Maddie thought seeing her dresses walking down the street would decimate whatever remnant of her fragile psyche had survived Elizabeth’s death; but, now, years later, she regretted acting in such haste.  She rolled to her side, her head resting on an arm.  Hair covered her cheek.  On the television, the newscaster, now perky, moved on to a story about the possible postponement of the Boston Marathon if the heat did not moderate.  

Maddie clicked off the television, eased out of bed, and rested her elbows on the window sill.  The street was quiet, empty except for the heat waves rising off the pavement.  The streetlight opposite her bedroom window hummed softly like a fluorescent light beginning to wear down.  It was six in the morning.  After Elizabeth’s death, it had taken months, years, for her to reset her internal alarm clock, seven months before she first slept through the night rather than awaken for the 3:00 AM bottle, two years before she slept through it regularly.  Habits and routines were another form of grieving; giving them up, a way of letting go.  Which was not the same as forgetting.  Or forgiving.  

-2-

The phone rang as Maddie washed her breakfast dishes.  Half a pink grapefruit.  A slice of whole wheat toast, dry.  A cup of coffee, black, French Press brewed fresh each morning, coarse ground Kenyan coffee beans, the one luxury she allowed herself.  On this morning, she sought solace in a second cup.  Since her da had passed, calls before work were rare, usually a solicitation on behalf of a police or fire relief fund where most of the money went to the company raising it and a penny or two trickled down to the widows and children desperate for money.  She thought about letting the phone ring, but she had been trained to answer a ringing phone just like dogs had been trained to respond to a bell by that Russian whose name she didn’t remember.  In college, she had taken a psychology course to satisfy a science distribution requirement and hated every minute of it.  Now, after eight years in the court-room, she knew more about ins and outs of the human mind than Professor Whatever-His-or-Her-Name-Was.  

“Maddie,” George Harriman said.  “Bumper . . . ”

“I know, Uncle George.  I saw it on TV.”

Detective George Harriman.  An uncle by affection, not blood, who had always been there for Maddie.  Her da’s best friend, their friendship originating in catechism class at St. Dymphna Catholic Church and forged on the beaches of Guadalcanal during World War II, a friendship so strong it survived George’s moving back and forth between the two branches of the estranged Devlin family, an envoy with diplomatic immunity, a friendship which in spite of its strength was unable to reunite what had cleaved asunder two generations before.  And, so, he had stopped trying.  

“Was Ugolino the high police source?” Maddie asked.

“You should go to Bumper’s wake,” Harriman said.

“Why does he want a change of venue?  Did Charlie corrupt the crime scene?  Was the skull-cap a plant?”

“Trish needs your help.”

“Ugolino’s as obvious as the fat hanging over his belt.”

“Maddie!”  Harriman’s voice had the snap of a frustrated beat cop trying to control an unruly crowd.  “Trish needs you.”

“She wasn’t there for me when Elizabeth died.  She wasn’t there for me when I asked Charlie to add the Elizabeth Fund to the list of charities city employees could contribute to through a payroll deduction and he told me to go fuck myself.  She wasn’t there for me when Ugolino vetoed Boston cops taking the Elizabeth Fund’s course in child abuse prevention and you and the union forced him to approve it.  So, why should I be there for her?”

To honor her daughter’s memory, shortly after her death Maddie had founded the Elizabeth Fund, a charity to provide support to victims of child abuse and to educate the public on the problem, a problem that received little or no attention in the press.  Michelle Furey, an attorney recommended by a law school classmate of Maddie’s, had donated her services to form a charitable corporation under Massachusetts law and to qualify it as a charity under the Internal Revenue Code so that contributions were tax deductible.  Furey had declined an invitation to join the board of directors.  Maddie had not believed Furey’s “standard policy” explanation and replaced her as the Fund’s attorney.

“You’ve been through it,” Harriman said.

“What about Father Curry?  I’m not her savior.”

“Talk to her.  For her sake and yours.”

“I tried.  Bumper’s First Communion.  I reached out to her.  You know what happened.”

Aunt Katie Devlin had happened.  Katie had imported the Devlin blood feud from Dublin to Boston and enforced it with the enthusiasm of a nun sowing the fear of God in the minds of impressionable children.  

“Maybe,” Maddie said, “if there’s a time Katie’s not there.”

“That’s the same as saying no.”

“It’s the best I can do.”

“No, it’s all you’re willing to do.”

“You have a nice day, too.”

It would serve Trish right, Maddie thought as she dried her breakfast dishes, if I represented Levy.  Still, she had made a promise to Elizabeth’s memory, a promise more important to her than payback to Trish’s side of the family.

-3-

While commuters crawling along the Southeast Expressway listened to radio talk shows whose ratings fluctuated with how inflammatory the hosts and callers were, three men drenched the Passover matzoh offered for sale by a West Roxbury supermarket with pig’s blood.  The Boston Superintendent of Schools locked down the high school in Roslindale after fights broke out between Catholic and Jewish students, Catholic and Jewish teachers.  Everywhere, people heard footsteps; yet, when they looked over their shoulders they saw only shadows.

Later that morning, Rabbi Isaac ben Reuben, the rabbi of the Chelsea synagogue where Levy davened, absorbed the arrhythmic pulse of the city as he crossed City Hall Plaza.  The heat and humidity of the canicular weather gnawed at his knuckles.  Although he had no memory of it, Nazi hammers had fractured and re-fractured those knuckles as if they were rocks being split apart.  Now they bulged from the back of his hands like cancerous tumors whose cells had never stopped dividing.  An amateur boxer who fought several fights too many was his explanation when people asked.

After the war, the rabbi healed himself by cocooning certain of his memories of the Nazi era to create an amnesia so selective that although he did not forget the Nazi era from an historical perspective, he had no memory of his having lived through it, no memory of his personal experiences.  These memories did not exist for him, but they had enough of a presence in his subconscious to influence his life.  He never married.  He did not share the naive belief so common among American clergy, especially rabbis, that a benevolent God would somehow make things right.  Nor did he question how God could permit such an evil as Adolf Hitler.  For Rabbi ben Reuben, men of unspeakable evil were as much a part of the history of the Jewish people as the Covenant.

Now, the rabbi weaved between the lines of people on City Hall Plaza queued up at the pushcarts offering hot dogs and sauerkraut, gyros and Greek salads, meat pies, and cold soda, pushcarts whose prices for cold drinks rose in lockstep with the temperature.  The lunch hour rush had begun, but the knish and latke vendor’s space was vacant.  Snatches of conversation curled above the pushcarts.  “His blood was drained,” a woman waiting for a gyro said.  “I told the wife not to let the kids out of her sight,” a construction worker told the hot dog vendor.  

Levy’s call to ben Reuben had come shortly after sunrise in time for the rabbi to turn on the news and hear a phrase he thought he had forever left behind in Europe:  blood libel.  “It’s not true,” he screamed at the announcer, but she repeated the phrase twice before moving on to a commercial for a breakfast pastry that could be heated in a toaster.

Pain detonated inside the rabbi’s skull.  He staggered to his desk and collapsed into the desk chair.  Blood libel.  Sparks darted along the neural pathways of his brain tracing white lines against the pinkish hue of his brain tissue as shocking as the bolts of lightning discharged from the Van de Graaff generator at Boston’s Museum of Science.  The white lines roamed freely until they reached an island of black engulfing the hippocampus, a barrier that dead-ended the neural pathways.  The sparks piled up against this barrier like medieval soldiers against a castle wall they could not breach.  As suddenly as it appeared, the pain in his skull vanished.  A thought lingered in the rabbi’s mind.  Something unknown lay dormant within that castle. 

Later, in the synagogue, as he and Jacob Moskovitzky waited for a minyan to assemble for Shacharit, the rabbi repeated the words he had screamed at the television announcer.  “It’s not true.”  

“Not here, not in Europe,” Moskovitzky replied. 

Aged and elderly, they gathered each day in the Chelsea shul with other refugees from Nazis or Stalinists, Bolsheviks or Communists, pogroms or inquisitions as virulent and violent as centuries earlier when Spain exiled its civilization.  The slander was not true, Moskovitzky and ben Reuben agreed, but they knew it did not have to be true to be “true.”  It was the nature of this peculiar and indelible slander against Jews that the truth was in the slandering regardless of the inveterate inaccuracy of what was said.  After a long wait for a tenth congregant, the rabbi asked Yod.  Heh.  Vav.  Heh.’s forgiveness and began the service with nine.  Yod.  Heh.  Vav.  Heh, the name of God expressed as a tetragrammaton since His name was too sacred to be spoken.  

“I will call my grandson,” Moskovitzky said after the benediction.  Moskovitzky had founded Boston’s preeminent Jewish law firm, its name sanitized as Mosca, Baruch and Cohen.  On his ninetieth birthday, leadership of the firm devolved upon his grandson, Jeffrey Mosca. 

“They refuse,” Moskovitzky said after completing the call.  “Jeffrey says they are not criminal lawyers.”

“He’s afraid, Jacob.  In Europe fear made us brave.  Here it makes us cowards.”

“Jews have it too easy in this country,” Moskovitzky said.  “We’ve become complacent.  Forgetful of history.  Our senses cauterized.”

For the remainder of the morning, Moskovitzky continued to seek legal counsel for Levy.  Boston’s principal civil liberties firm, Ginsberg, Levin, and Katz, begged off, confessing that they depended on Jewish contributions to balance their budget and they feared those contributions would cease or be substantially reduced.  Other firms demanded substantial cash retainers or quoted high hourly rates.  One or two admitted they depended on the good will of City Hall to represent their clients effectively.  Soliciting contributions to a defense fund failed.  Jews who raised millions of dollars for Israel in a morning shunned Levy as if he were traif.  The rabbis of wealthy suburban congregations refused to return Moskovitzky’s phone calls. 

“In the old country, we were not our own enemy,” Moskovitzky said.

“Who defends the undefended?”  The rabbi chewed aspirin to relieve the pain in his joints.

“Suffolk County Legal Services.”

“What do they know of blood libels?”

The rabbi went into the kitchen for water to wash down the aspirin grit coating his tongue.  Curling his fingers around a plastic child’s cup with an oversized handle and four large finger notches, he struggled to line it up with the stream of water flowing from the faucet.  Water cascaded around his wrist, soaking the cuff of his shirt sleeve.  He leaned on the edge of the sink to steady his arm.  Slowly, too slowly, the cup filled with water.  Cartoon characters decorated this child’s cup, three large dogs with eye patches chasing a puppy holding a bone.  As recently as yesterday, these characters had amused him; but on this morning, he could only think that somewhere there must be a cup where the puppy was caught and ripped asunder by the dogs.  He raised the cup to his lips and drank, swishing the water around his mouth before swallowing it.  The aspirin particles felt like crushed stone sluicing down his throat.

Now, under a midday sun hotter than the wrath of Yod.  Heh.  Vav.  Heh. at the golden calf, Rabbi ben Reuben hobbled across a crowded brick plaza fronting Boston’s city hall that festered with the talk of blood libel.  The air was so thick with heat that breathing seared his nasal passages and lungs.  The stench of greasy pushcart food, intensified by the heat, made him nauseous. 

He wondered whether he had smelled a similar stench before.  Where?  When?  He did not remember.  He dismissed the thought as a by-product of the heat, worrying instead that at his age, prone to heat stroke, he might not make it to the other side of the plaza.

He gagged, then dry-heaved, and leaned against the outer wall of the entrance to the Government Center subway station to catch his breath.  He sucked on a mint to cleanse the funny taste in his mouth.  His mind felt like a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle that had been dumped from its box onto the table, several hundred spilling onto the floor.  After several minutes, he pressed on across the plaza. 

In the office of Steve Frohling, Director of Suffolk County Legal Services, the rabbi shivered in the draft of the air conditioner.  “Sit.  Please.”

That was the same invitation the agent of the Immigration and Naturalization Service had issued to the rabbi when his turn finally came for the interview that would determine whether he would be allowed to enter the United States.  Many hours he had waited in a large room which smelled of hundreds of unbathed people, the sweat of his hands staining the paper with the interview number that has been assigned to him.  New York.  1946 or 1947.  The rabbi did not remember which.

The nameplate on the agent’s desk identified him as Mr. Minzhe and he resembled the waiters in the Chinese restaurant across the street from the docks in London.  The rabbi did not eat in that restaurant even though he was hungry because neither the food nor the kitchen was kosher.  On the boat, during the long ocean voyage, he had no choice but to eat.  To absolve himself, the rabbi invoked the doctrine of Pikuach Nefesh, the principle in Jewish law that the preservation of human life overrides the restrictions of Kashrut, the Jewish dietary laws mandating what observant Jews could and could not eat.  Perhaps, he would have survived the voyage without eating, but he had heard the INS turned away people who were sick.  In his mind, Pikuac Nefesh applied.

“The early 1930’s,” he had replied when Mr. Minzhe asked him when he had been ordained as a rabbi.   “I came to the rabbinate later in life than most.”

“And then?” Minzhe had asked.

“Now, I am here?”

“From then to now?”

The rabbi paused.  “I don’t remember.”

Minzhe eyed him with the look of a judge being told by a recidivist that he would not do it again if given probation rather than a jail sentence.  “Recite the Shema,” he said.

“The Shema?  You know this prayer?”

“It was drilled into my head in Hebrew school.” 

Because of Minzhe’s sallow skin tone and Chinese features, the rabbi assumed he was not Jewish.  The rabbi knew the presence of Jews in China had been documented as early as the seventh or eighth centuries.  He knew the history of the Jewish community in Kaifeng in the Henan province, a Chinese community that practiced Judaism.  But, he had never met nor seen photos of any Chinese Jews.  To him, they were as exotic as the black Jews of Ethiopia.    

After the rabbi finished, Minzhe said, “Now, the Amidah.”

Again, the rabbi did so.

“The blessing before and after reading the Haftarah.”

“You know this blessing?” the rabbi asked.

“You fake it at your own peril,” Minzhe said.  After the rabbi complied, Minzhe conceded he was a rabbi.  “Normally, your memory gap would disqualify you from entry into the United States, but I will use a generic description of a typical Jewish experience during the Nazi era to answer the personal history question.”

“You will make up my history?” the rabbi asked.

“If I don’t, you’re on the next boat back to Europe.”

Using carbon paper, Minzhe made a simultaneous copy of the statement he entered on the rabbi’s immigration form and gave the copy to the rabbi to memorize in the event the INS called him in for further questioning.  “Welcome to the United States.”  Minzhe stood and offered his hand in friendship.

Now, accounting sheets covered Frohling’s desk, sickly yellow, sickly green, many stained with brown coffee rings. Numbers filled the columns, some written over, others blemished by erasures made by dirty erasers.  “Next year’s budget,” Frohling said.  “Every dollar has to do the work of twenty.”  In the fluorescent light, Frohling’s skin was sickly and slack.   

Frohling listened between bites of prune Danish and slurps of coffee as the rabbi explained Levy’s predicament.  Crumbs gathered on the bulge of his stomach.  He gulped the last of his coffee and pushed the final bite of Danish into his mouth, then brushed the crumbs away, crushed his cup, and balled the wax paper from his Danish, tossing both into the waste basket.  “I thought you people took care of your own.”  

Rabbi ben Reuben squirmed in his chair.

Frohling continued, “We don’t get many Jewish lawyers here.  They’re too clever and amscray as soon as they figure out the way to the court-house.  The one we got now, Larry Gingold, we’re his last resort.  B & E, A & B, larceny under, fine; but a capital case, never.”  He tapped a cigarette against his thumb nail, then lit it.  Its tip glowed with each inhale.  Each exhale looked like a plume of smoke from a chimney.  “Levy’s little hat under the chair, you don’t need a law degree to know how damning that piece of evidence is.”

“I apologize for wasting your time.”

“We’re prisoners of the law here, obliged to represent indigent defendants.  All indigent defendants.  No picking, no choosing.  If Pol Pot walked through that door and proved he was penniless, we’d have to defend him.”

“Pol Pot?”

“Cambodia’s Hitler.”  Frohling tapped the ash off his cigarette.  “I know the perfect attorney for Levy,” he continued, “someone here who has a better than even chance getting him off, the best defense attorney in the city, public or private.  Maddie Devlin.  Bad news is, she won’t defend him.  She’s as Irish as green beer on St. Paddy’s Day and comes with more baggage than all the skycaps at Logan.”  

Devlin, the rabbi said to himself.  Maddie Devlin.  A spark of recognition smoldered in his memory.  Several years ago, he recalled, she contacted him to solicit a contribution from his congregation to a charity she had founded to provide support to victims of child abuse.  The Elizabeth Fund.  “We are a poor congregation,” he had told her, “but I will mention it at Friday night services.”  That was his standard reply to solicitations from outside the Jewish community.  He didn’t remember whether the congregation made a contribution to the Elizabeth Fund and, if it did, how much. 

Frohling blew smoke rings at the air conditioner.  In the rush of frigid air, they twisted and turned and tore apart.  “A man in your line of work must have a pretty good read on human nature.  What are your top five motivators, the five things that really make people tick tock?  Maddie brings two of them to Levy’s defense.  First, hatred, or more precisely, its stepsister, revenge; second, greed.”  He leaned across his desk.  “Bumper Sullivan’s mother’s a Devlin.  There’s a blood feud between the two sides of the family what goes back to the old country.  Getting Levy off would wreak a lot of revenge for her.  As for greed, she’s been lusting for a break-out case since the day she got here, something to rescue her from the poverty of legal aid.  Sounds good, you say?  Not so fast.  She never defends anyone whose victim’s a kidbecause once upon a time her kid was the victim and her ex-husband walked when his attorney out-lawyered the prosecution.”  

Frohling brushed a cigarette ash from the budget papers.  “And she’s got a chip on her shoulder bigger than an Egyptian pyramid.  She thinks she’s been blackballed by Boston’s white-shoe law firms ’cause she’s a woman, Irish, divorced.  Truth is they won’t go near her ’cause they think she’s a bit touched.”  He tapped the side of his head with his finger.  “Unhinged.  They’re afraid she’ll drop off the deep end any time.”

“You’re not?”

“I am, big time; but here we take what we can get and thank God for it.”

The rabbi bit his tongue as pain radiated from his knuckles throughout his hands.  “You would ask her?”  

“We’d be collateral damage.  I fight for every paper clip and, Constitution be damned, I never have the money to defend as zealously as possible everyone entitled to free legal counsel.  If Levy’s indigent, I’m stuck, even if it means blowing the whole year’s budget on one case.  And next year come budget time Beacon Hill will punish us big time.  Fifty cents on the dollar if we’re lucky.  One thin dime if we’re not.”

The rabbi gazed at the water tank on the roof of the adjacent building.  Its copper sheathing, once shiny, was crusted with the turquoise of age.  He had, he realized, as much free will as that copper sheathing had in choosing whether to be oxidized or not.

Talk of Avram Levy and Bumper Sullivan still suppurated from the bricks of City Hall Plaza, but the lines at the pushcarts were shorter and the rabbi’s passage through the stench faster.  “Hey, mister,” they gyro vendor shouted.  “The lamb she is tender.”  The rabbi quickened his step.  There was a vague familiarity to the wisps of smoke rising from the charcoal, but he couldn’t place it.