Neon Dragon Read Free

…”
    â€œDon’t tell me. You’re going to Disney World.”
    Humor was not her consuming passion, especially when it interrupted a flow. Personally, I had little else going for me.
    Before accepting her invitation, in effect, to get-the-hell-out-of-her-office, I asked for a copy of the coroner’s report on the deceased and a copy of the indictment. She agreed to send a copy of the coroner’s report to my office as soon as one was prepared. The indictment she was delighted to hand over on the spot. No major concession. As defense counsel, I was entitled to both.
    SUFFOLK COUNTY JAIL is the holding pen for the not-yet-convicted. There was little hope that young Bradley would have any other address pending the trial since bail is almost never granted on a murder-one charge.
    I sat in the interviewing room in one of the two chairs that flanked a well-worn wooden table that had listened to the intimate sharing oftruths and lies between counsel and every conceivable variety of felon since long before I’d joined the battle on the side of defendants. I’d been there before, and every time, I thanked God for the particular twists and crossroads of life that put me in the chair to the left instead of the right of the door. When the interview ended, I was out of there. The person in the other chair was going back to hell. It could easily have been otherwise.
    I knew more about young Bradley than most of the people I’d met in that room. Without much thought over the years, I’d read the articles about the young halfback at Arlington High School running in his father’s footsteps. My interest was more in football than in Bradley, but he did well enough to be a recognizable name, which is an accomplishment for a high-school player.
    He played freshman ball for Harvard, but like many high-school hotshots, he could never quite make the jump to the college level. He was given the option to ride the bench as a sophomore, probably out of deference to his father’s record with the Harvard team, but young Bradley chose to opt out. He left the team and all the bonuses that went with it. His life from that point in time to this early February of his junior year was a blank to me, since he was out of my most constant source of information—the
Globe
sports section.
    Most of the prisoners I’d seen come through that door blended with the society-gone-wrong surroundings. I’ve seen sullenness, anger, craftiness, and, worst of all, resignation. But every inch of the six-foot-four-inch body that stood holding out a strong right hand seemed to say, “I don’t belong here!” He was clean looking, with enough sincere humility to counterbalance the self-confidence that goes with an attractive appearance. But there was more to it than that. Something smacked of quality. Maybe I was seeing a reflection of his father, but there was a bright look in his eyes and a gentleness that made me want to win this one for the right reasons.
    Introductions were briefly made, and we both sat down.
    â€œYour dad asked me to represent you, Anthony.”
    â€œI know, sir. Thank you.”
    It certainly beat “the hell you say!” as a reaction. This kid was beginning to grow on me.
    â€œWhat happened yesterday, Anthony?”
    He gave a slight palms-up gesture. “I wish I knew myself, Mr. Knight.”
    â€œJust tell me what you did.”
    â€œChurch in the morning. Back to the house. I live in Dunster House down by the river. I did some reading for a paper. I guess it was about two in the afternoon, a friend of mine came by and suggested we go into Chinatown for dinner and see the Chinese New Year’s.”
    â€œWho’s idea was it, yours or—what’s his name?”
    â€œTerry Blocher. It was his idea, but I was ready to go.”
    â€œOK. Leave in all the details.”
    â€œWell, that’s what we did. We had dinner at the Ming Tree restaurant on