Recently I was asked: “When was the first time you sensed things were going to get bad— really bad? Was it after your accident, or Michelle’s death or a particular case?”
“The car accident— and my introduction to opiates was the catalyst for everything … I guess.“ That’s how I answered the question, but the truth is more disturbing.
I’d been home from the Lawrence General four months before enough skin grew back on my legs so that I could get around. The first thing I did was set up an office in our spare bedroom. Even before the hospital released me I saw the writing on the wall. The partners at my firm were gracious and accommodating, but I couldn’t expect them to wait and not replace me.
Unemployment wouldn’t cut it. Bills began piling up. Liquidating possessions and downsizing was not an option. I refused to do anything other than advance on the success ladder. Without breathing a word to anyone, my thoughts turned to opening my own law firm. The problem was, inevitably my area of expertise would become criminal defense. Of course everyone deserves representation; however, when I finally moved forward I did so promising myself rapists, pedophiles and any other case that didn’t sit well with my conscience was off limits.
The practice of law, in essence, involves molding the truth to suit your client’s interests. I’ve heard it said that in a court of law— “the best liar wins.” As a prosecutor, I approached the job simply, assuming my responsibility was to do justice. When the facts didn’t add up, I refused to move forward. Instead, I’d fold my cards and go to the next file. Many other prosecutors didn’t see it this way. They treated every case like was their last, believing each twisted story told by a cop or prosecution witness as though it were gospel, taking liberties with the truth to secure a convict. Their - win at all costs - attitude mirrored the way I'd seen defense attorneys’ maneuver to spare clients from prison. Ethical gamesmanship didn’t appeal to me. I hoped for a smooth transition to the defense bar, but knew it would involve some degree of moral compromise.
People in the community knew who I was from the DA’s office. Once the word got out that I had switched sides there was no shortage of criminals knocking down my door. One of my first was Doyle. He was a kid from Charlestown, early twenties, broad shoulders, slightly over weight, with an unassuming baby face. “ I could use a good lawyer,” he boasted when we first met, “I’ve got a life sentence in every one of my houses.
We met at the 99 Restaurant to go over Doyle’s latest case. I was surprised to find he’d brought along an associate— a leaner, slightly older Irish looking hoodlum named Harmworth. With me in a suit fresh from court, and this pair clothed like dockworkers, we slid into the booth as the waitress handed us menus.
“Listen sweet heart, we need some time to talk. Leave us alone for a half hour or so before you come for our order.” Like a fawn, the waitress froze while Doyle spoke, then quickly gave us an assuming nod and walked off chomping her gum. The second we were alone Harmworth dialed his cell phone, giving Doyle enough privacy to begin providing me with some background information.
“My mother legally changed our last names to hers when my Dad got pinched for an armored car robbery.” Doyle kept his voice low, almost to a whisper. “Three guards got killed. He ain’t getting out. Ever. ” I knew the case. His words and calm delivery sent a spike of anxiety up my spine, forcing me to adjust in my seat and appraise the depth of the shit I was getting into. Before I could respond, Harmworth began yelling into his cell phone:
“You better have my fucking money by Monday— that’s it — no later! What? Can you hear me? I said Monday! You already had an extra week to pay! If Monday night comes, and I don’t have my money, they’ll be tagging your toe and I’ll make sure you have a closed casket! Ya hear? Are you there? Hey— Hey—!”
When the call dropped Harmworth whipped the phone in front of his face and looked at the blank screen before slamming it on the tabletop.
“That motherfucker!” His eyes swung wildly in Doyle’s direction. “Lets go, he’s in a dart tournament at the Dubliner.”
Seemingly governed by one mind, the pair rose together while I remained seated with an ass clenched so tight it was suction cupped to the booth.
“Come on!” Doyle demanded. “This won’t take long.”
I knew the right move was to stay behind. But if I did it would kill a new income stream and label me a pussy right out of the gate. So —“kuurrr-pop,” I pried myself out of the booth and followed.
It was a short drive to the Dubliner. Not a word was spoken on the way. From the backseat I observed Harmworth working his phone in a panicked frenzy while Doyle commandeered the vehicle as though it were a Sunday drive. Somehow both men seemed to know what “the plan” was. I felt as though I’d been drafted into the criminal NFL from a Pop Warner town league.
We parked directly in front of the old Irish Pub. With giant green shamrocks in the window, and shanty Celtic music blaring through the walls, there was little doubt I would be over dressed. However, that concern was overshadowed by the struggle to control my heart from pounding out of my chest.
One, two, three, we entered single file into near darkness. I followed last behind Doyle with one arm extended like sonar tracking his direction until my eyes could adjust. The bar area was full of regulars. We continued passed them, between two rows of pool tables, to a door at the far wall. Harmworth nearly pulled it open off its hinges. On the other side were more people and brighter lights. All eyes were on one man at the center of the room with a dart positioned gently in fingertips, up behind his ear. Doyle and Harmsworth came in behind him as he sized up the bull’s eye. I followed several feet behind. Our entrance shifted the focus of the room, causing the man with the dart to swing around and meet Doyle’s 9mm. At the same time Harmsworth grabbed him by the opposite shoulder, causing his dart to fall straight into the wooden floor. The man’s eyes widened in horror, and by the look of his jeans, his bladder emptied as they carried back and slammed him against the wall.
“Can you hear me now motherfucker!” Harmsworth shouted. The man didn’t speak and couldn’t move with Doyle pressing the Glock into his temple. Then, looking like a rabid animal, Harmsworth struck with the speed of a rattlesnake, biting into the man’s upper ear. The shriek that followed came from severe disbelief as much as pain. It was a sound that curdled every liter of blood in the room. Harmsworth cranked his shoulder away from the man, whipping his neck right behind, spewing blood and a flesh from his mouth all over his shirt.
“Obviously…. You don’t… need…”
Harmsworth tried to speak, but with cartridge stuck between his teeth and gums anything discernable was thwarted until he dislodged the chunk of ear with his tongue and spit it out to the floor.
… This!” Now get my fucking money by Monday— and don’t make me come looking for you again!”
During the mayhem, Doyle retreated a step allowing the man to double over, holding his head with both hands. No one else in the room flinched. Keeping our backs to the door we exited in a triangle with Doyle at the point holding the burner extended arm at the crowd. Every face turned away.
This incident left a lasting impression. Before long I was present for much worse. But it wasn’t the violence and brutality of the people I represented that surprised me. It was the lack of remorse I thought I should feel — together with the rush that came over me for being being involved. The more shit like this I tagged along for, the more eyes I noticed fell to the floor when I walked in a room. It wasn't what you actually "did" civilians were scared of. The tales got so tall they pissed pants over what people said you had done. All these years later I still feel the faint scent of intimidation now and then. All these years later I'd be lying if I said I still didn't get off on it.
