The Ex(34)

“But you weren’t suing him for being a bad person. You blamed him for his son’s decision to commit mass murder.”

“I don’t know you, Ms. Randall, but do you have good parents? Not, like, perfect-1950s-television-style parents, but basically decent parents who loved you and supported you?”

“Yes. Very much.”

The lie came effortlessly. Hannigan didn’t need to know that Hank Randall was an alcoholic who told me that I was “selfish” for going away to a “fancy New York college” instead of staying in Oregon because my mother “needed me.” Or that the reason my mother needed me was that, when my father wasn’t hitting her, she made herself feel better by reminding me at every opportunity that I wasn’t nearly as good as I thought I was.

“Good for you, because there is no greater misery than to know that your own parents are disappointed in you. Malcolm Neeley was the kind of person who was disappointed in every single person who wasn’t named Malcolm Neeley, but he was especially unforgiving of the people he was supposed to love and protect. Okay, one more story, this one from Max’s ex-girlfriend. She came to me on her own, all too happy about the prospect of nailing the elder Neeley to the wall. I got the impression that Neeley basically controlled Max and it took its toll on their relationship. Anyway, the day Todd and Max’s mom overdosed—Vicodin and vodka, if you’re wondering—was two days after Max went back to Princeton for his senior year. Afterward, whenever Todd would act especially withdrawn—staring into space, rocking back and forth, totally out to lunch—their father would yell at Todd: This is why your mother didn’t want to be alone in the house with you. It was a two-for-one mind f*ck: Todd got the message that Mom killed herself because he was a head case, and Max got the message that it wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t been away at school. I asked Neeley about it in his deposition. His response? He was trying to get Todd to learn from his mistakes and act more like a man.”

“Okay, kicking puppies is starting to sound like a step up for this guy.” I asked Hannigan if I could get a copy of the deposition transcript, and he tapped a quick note into his phone.

“I still think we had a good lawsuit,” he said. “Neeley was the one who purchased the guns his son used at Penn Station. And he knew his son was seriously disturbed—arguably he even made him that way—and he actively blocked the mental health system from providing much-needed care.”

“So why’d the case get dismissed?” The media had reported the fact of the lawsuit’s dismissal, but not the reasoning behind it.

“I looked you up. Columbia Law Review. You can probably guess.”

“No proximate cause: Todd was responsible for his own actions. And if that’s the case, you’re suing Neeley for failing to stop his son, and there’s no duty to protect strangers.”

“You nailed it. We tried to argue that he and his son in concert were the cause, because his son couldn’t have acted without his father’s assistance. The judge didn’t buy it.”

I used his summary of the dismissal as a way to circle back to what I really wanted to know. “And just how angry did Jack seem about that?”

He inspected the last piece of bread crust in his hand, dropped it to his plate, and began pulling fresh napkins from the stainless steel holder. “People say things they don’t mean, Ms. Randall. You’re a criminal defense attorney. You know that.”

I pushed my final remaining pierogi away with my fork and braced myself for what was coming next. “What exactly did Jack say that he didn’t mean?”

“He said, ‘If there’s any justice in this world, Malcolm Neeley will find out exactly what it feels like to have some gun-happy madman ruin his life.’”

I closed my eyes. “Is that a direct quote?”

“Pretty close.”

“Why didn’t you just lead with that?”

“Because I wanted you to have some sense of why I didn’t read anything into it, and why I still don’t. In context, it was an extremely natural emotion to express.”

“And please tell me you were the only one to hear him express it.” Communications between Jack and Hannigan were covered by attorney-client privilege.

“There was one other plaintiff there.”

“Who was it?”

“Nope, can’t do that. But Jack will be able to tell you. And then I guess you’ll find out sooner or later if the police know about it, but it won’t come from me.”


“DON’T TAKE THIS THE WRONG way, Olivia, but you literally smell good enough to devour.”

The words could have been stomach churning if they hadn’t come from Don, and if I wasn’t acutely aware of the scent of smoked meat that accompanied me into the conference room. “Gary Hannigan would only make time if it involved a Reuben from Veselka.”

“You’re killing me. Any luck with the brother’s former partner?”

“No, but I did bring back this.” I revealed the takeout bag I’d been holding behind my back.

“An angel,” he declared. “A goddamn angel.”

As he dug the supersize sandwich from its Styrofoam container, I perused the documents spread out across the table. “Any luck?”

“Possibly, at least enough for a few surprises.”