one of us.
If we were wanted, someone would callover the intercom and direct us upstairs, usually to one of the first assistant D.A.’s,
Reid Cunningham or Dick O’Connor.
It was not that Mitch himself openly avoided me. He would greet me with a “Hello”
and use my name on those occasions when he happened to see me in the hallways or at
an office birthday, Christmas, or farewell party. “Hello, George, how’s it going?”
he might say, although he would not wait for an answer. He would respond to my questions
if asked, but mostly he steered clear of situations where I would have the chance
to ask. He knew my connection but wasn’t sure how deep it ran. His own, apparently,
wasn’t deep enough for him to find out.
By sequestering me in the basement, Mitch was able to limit my exposure to whatever
was occurring in the office. He couldn’t keep me from talking with the other lawyers
or going on coffee breaks with them, but he kept my workload restricted to matters
that generally did not require interaction. Here, George, here’s twenty-seven drunk
drivings for you. You be the OUI specialist. As for Barbara, she was given the domestic
disturbances. The small ones. The pushings and shovings and throwing of plates. The
ones nobody else in the office wanted to go near. Here, Barbara, you take these. You
have a problem, we’ll be right upstairs. Better yet, ask George. That way, you won’t
even have to come upstairs.
I wondered sometimes if anyone would even say anything if I didn’t show up. But I
did show up and I worked hard, in large part because I had nothing else to do. My
fellow prosecutors did not, as far as I knew, have anything against me personally,
but they recognized my lowly status in the office, my office in exile, and understood
that friendship with me was not going to advance their careers. Besides, most of them
were married and I no longer was, which limited opportunities for social interaction
outside the office.
Strangely—to me, anyhow—some of my better friends were the defense counsel I opposed
in court on a regular basis. Guys like Jimmy Shelley, Alphonse Carbona, Buzzy Daizell;
guys with senses of humor about their place on the legal food chain, guys who took
their victories where they found them: getting a felony reduced to a misdemeanor,
getting a not-guilty on five counts even if it meant being hit on another ten; securing
a Colombian client.
“Colombians are near and dear to my heart,” said Buzzy one time. “They pay in cash.”
That was defense-counsel humor.
Sometimes these guys would invite me out for a beer, or to attend a cookout, or even
to a Red Sox game. But I had to be careful. It would not look good if I appeared to
be too close to any of them, and while I was relatively sure that there was almost
no offense that would cause Mitch White to fire me, I did not want to be ostracized
any more than I already was.
In my eight years as his employee, I could remember being in Mitch White’s commodious
corner office only three times. Once was on the day he hired me. Once was on the day
he found out my wife was divorcing me. And I cannot remember the third occasion. Maybe
it was when he told me I would be getting all my assignments directly from Dick O’Connor,
but mostly I was going to be the office’s “Operating Under the Influence” guy.
My visit after my conversation with Bill Telford was, therefore, my fourth to Mitch’s
inner sanctum. It took just two calls to his secretary.
MITCH GREETED ME WITHOUT getting up from his desk. Like every other male in the office, he worked without
his suit jacket when he was not in public. Unlike every other male, Mitch kept his
tie in a knot pulled tightly to his neck. Even though I had put on my suit jacket
for this visit, he made me feel I was a little more casual than the situation required.
“Yes, George.”
Yes, George, I’m a busy man. See all
If we were wanted, someone would callover the intercom and direct us upstairs, usually to one of the first assistant D.A.’s,
Reid Cunningham or Dick O’Connor.
It was not that Mitch himself openly avoided me. He would greet me with a “Hello”
and use my name on those occasions when he happened to see me in the hallways or at
an office birthday, Christmas, or farewell party. “Hello, George, how’s it going?”
he might say, although he would not wait for an answer. He would respond to my questions
if asked, but mostly he steered clear of situations where I would have the chance
to ask. He knew my connection but wasn’t sure how deep it ran. His own, apparently,
wasn’t deep enough for him to find out.
By sequestering me in the basement, Mitch was able to limit my exposure to whatever
was occurring in the office. He couldn’t keep me from talking with the other lawyers
or going on coffee breaks with them, but he kept my workload restricted to matters
that generally did not require interaction. Here, George, here’s twenty-seven drunk
drivings for you. You be the OUI specialist. As for Barbara, she was given the domestic
disturbances. The small ones. The pushings and shovings and throwing of plates. The
ones nobody else in the office wanted to go near. Here, Barbara, you take these. You
have a problem, we’ll be right upstairs. Better yet, ask George. That way, you won’t
even have to come upstairs.
I wondered sometimes if anyone would even say anything if I didn’t show up. But I
did show up and I worked hard, in large part because I had nothing else to do. My
fellow prosecutors did not, as far as I knew, have anything against me personally,
but they recognized my lowly status in the office, my office in exile, and understood
that friendship with me was not going to advance their careers. Besides, most of them
were married and I no longer was, which limited opportunities for social interaction
outside the office.
Strangely—to me, anyhow—some of my better friends were the defense counsel I opposed
in court on a regular basis. Guys like Jimmy Shelley, Alphonse Carbona, Buzzy Daizell;
guys with senses of humor about their place on the legal food chain, guys who took
their victories where they found them: getting a felony reduced to a misdemeanor,
getting a not-guilty on five counts even if it meant being hit on another ten; securing
a Colombian client.
“Colombians are near and dear to my heart,” said Buzzy one time. “They pay in cash.”
That was defense-counsel humor.
Sometimes these guys would invite me out for a beer, or to attend a cookout, or even
to a Red Sox game. But I had to be careful. It would not look good if I appeared to
be too close to any of them, and while I was relatively sure that there was almost
no offense that would cause Mitch White to fire me, I did not want to be ostracized
any more than I already was.
In my eight years as his employee, I could remember being in Mitch White’s commodious
corner office only three times. Once was on the day he hired me. Once was on the day
he found out my wife was divorcing me. And I cannot remember the third occasion. Maybe
it was when he told me I would be getting all my assignments directly from Dick O’Connor,
but mostly I was going to be the office’s “Operating Under the Influence” guy.
My visit after my conversation with Bill Telford was, therefore, my fourth to Mitch’s
inner sanctum. It took just two calls to his secretary.
MITCH GREETED ME WITHOUT getting up from his desk. Like every other male in the office, he worked without
his suit jacket when he was not in public. Unlike every other male, Mitch kept his
tie in a knot pulled tightly to his neck. Even though I had put on my suit jacket
for this visit, he made me feel I was a little more casual than the situation required.
“Yes, George.”
Yes, George, I’m a busy man. See all
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