“Bingo.”
“There’s more. I checked with the other jurors personally. The guy who died was the holdout that made the hung jury. The others were ready to convict. I also checked to see if any of the others were approached with a bribe. None. But they only needed one.”
“You’re a thing of beauty, Thomas. What kind of an account was it?”
“According to the will, it was a regular savings account. South Boston Savings.”
“In his name?”
“Right.”
“Which was?”
“Ronald Perry.”
“I need to get some information on the account. Do you know who the executor was under the will?”
“By coincidence, the daughter who came into the three hundred grand. Joyce Perry Frank. She works at the Shaughnessy Funeral Home in Southie.”
“You’re too good, Tom. I’ll get back to you on the bill.”
“Not this time, Mike. Just go with it.”
I checked the phone book for the address of the Shaughnessy Funeral Home. I called and made an appointment with Joyce Perry Frank for two o’clock. I didn’t give any specifics. I didn’t want her to lose that sympathetic, consoling tone of voice until I had a chance to explain what I needed.
There was just time to dash through two hot dogs from one of the Washington Street vendors and pick up a package of Tums for desert. Then out to Southie.
It was nearly two by the time I found the D Street address. I had passed six similar establishments before I found the Shaughnessy Funeral Home. Not surprising, since Southie is still overwhelmingly Irish, and among the Irish, funeral homes are a bustling industry. It’s not that they die more frequently than anyone else. They just seem to do it with more panache. An Irish friend of mine used to refer to the obituary column in the Globe as the “Irish Sports Section.”
Joyce Perry Frank was a roundish woman in her late forties, early fifties. She was neatly attired in a suitably colorless dress. She had that mortician’s ability to smile with her mouth while her eyes conveyed empathy with the bereaved.
“Mrs. Frank, this is a bit difficult. I hope you’ll understand. First, the good news. Nobody died.”
From her expression, I wasn’t sure she considered that good news.
The question was whether to go with the truth and ruffle some feathers, or spin a yarn that would get the same result without ruffling feathers. The problem was that the truth might later become public, and it could be devastating if it took her by surprise. I opted for the truth up front.
“I’m going to be honest with you, Mrs. Frank. I’m investigating an incident of possible jury tampering. It occurred in a criminal case some ten years ago. I’m afraid that the juror was your father.”
She stiffened.
“I believe there was a payoff. A big payoff. Something in the range of three hundred thousand dollars. That’s water over the dam. Nobody wants the money back. There’s something more important at stake. The wrong man was blamed for it. It nearly destroyed him. He still lives under the weight of it. It was a great injustice. He deserves to be cleared.”
“What will this do to my father’s reputation?”
“Well, it may bring it all up again. Apparently, everyone considered it jury tampering ten years ago, anyway. My investigation could confirm it. It would also pinpoint your father as the juror.”
I could see the concern on her face. “What is it you want, Mr. Knight?”
“You were the executrix under the will. I’d like to get your permission to see the records of your father’s bank account. I need to know if a major deposit was made around the time of the trial. If it was, the next step is to find out who paid the money.”
“How will you do that?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet. One step at a time.”
“And this will mean my father’s name in the paper?”
“It could. And I know that’d be painful. And I don’t mean to seem insensitive, but your father’s at rest now. The man I mentioned has been in sort of a living death for the past ten years. He can’t shake the suspicion.”
“Are you his son?”
“No.”
“But you seem to have a son’s feeling for him.”
I had a shot of recollection of how much Mr. Devlin reminded me of the only father I’d known from the age of fourteen.
“Something like that.”
She stood up. “I’ll have to think about it, Mr. Knight.”
I stood, but I didn’t move. I needed one more attempt.
“Mrs. Frank, two things. First, if you help me with this, I’ll do everything in my power to see that the juror is not named. All that’s even suspected now is that it was just one of the twelve.”
“Can you do that?”
“I don’t know. I’ll do my best. The second thing is hard to say without seeming overly dramatic. I’m the only one who cares enough to see this through. I have to go on a trip day after tomorrow. I may not be coming back. Today could be my last chance to work on this.”
She took a deep breath that ended in a sigh. When she looked at me, I could see that whatever she’d decided had cost her emotionally.
“I’m going to give you what you want, Mr. Knight. My father was never happy since that trial ended. It changed him terribly. I think it finally brought on the heart attack that killed him. I believe he’d want me to do this.”
I nodded. “I understand. If I could have a sheet of paper, I’ll draft a consent form. Do you have something showing that you were your father’s executrix?”
“Yes, in my desk. I’ll get it for you.”
By three o’clock, I was getting cozy with one of the officers of South Boston Savings. I was referred to “our Mr. Dunwoody” for this special request. Our Mr. Dunwoody turned out to be one of those people who finds excitement in neatness.
My heart leaped when I checked out his desk with the pad of unsullied paper squared off with the corner of the desk. One silver pen was at attention in its little holder. No fistful of half-sharpened pencils rammed into a Skippy jar here.
The reason this brought joy to my heart was that this was exactly the kind of puppy who might take it as a challenge to his prowess to come up with a copy of a ten-year-old bank statement.
And so he did, but not until he went over the documents I handed him as if they were commanding him to release the Queen’s diary. Fortunately, he found that “Everything seems to be in order.”
I had a printout of activity of the account in hand in fifteen minutes. Looking at items occurring shortly before the start of the Dolson trial, I checked for any out-of-line deposit.
I thought the fixer might have been subtle enough to spread payments out over a period of time, but he wasn’t. It was bold enough to knock your eye out. Three days after the hung jury came in, the sum of three hundred thousand dollars was deposited in the account. As a matter of fact, other than the opening of the account and the monthly addition of interest, that was the sum total of activity in the account. Either he was afraid or ashamed to dip into the funds, or maybe he just wanted it all to go to his daughter.
That settled for me the question of whether or not the jury had been fixed. It left hanging the big one-who was the fixer?
It was about three thirty when I made a cell-phone call to Julie from the bank. I thought I’d save a trip back to the office if there was nothing pressing.
Julie told me that Gene Martino had called about three. He wanted me to get back to him around four thirty. That meant he was on trial, probably in Suffolk Superior Court. He’d be back in his office by that time, after court adjourned at four o’clock. Any other county court would have taken him until closer to five.
I asked Julie if he mentioned which courtroom. He hadn’t, but he mentioned suffering the slings and arrows of the outrageous Judge Mandoski. I decided to fly direct to the courthouse to catch Gene in person in case there was something he’d rather whisper in my ear than in a phone.