“Hathorne,” Craig said. He said it slowly, accentuating each syllable.
“Hathorne what? He’s locked up.”
“He’s been locked up. Think about how much he’s pulled off from the inside, just with the computers he’s had access to. That was one of your better arguments for confinement, remember? The guy can get through a firewall like it’s a paper bag. He runs circles around the IT guys at the psych hospitals—forget about corrections staff.”
“Well, sure, that was part of it. Hathorne’s family would have left him alone with a laptop and an internet connection.”
“Right,” Craig said. “And you argued that was intolerable. The guy is dangerous, no matter where he is. It’s a cyber issue.”
“Yeah, but he’s not escaping by use of a computer and then killing people.”
“He doesn’t need to escape. How much damage did he do to you while this case was playing out?”
“They didn’t know as much about him then,” Joe said and sighed. “Anyway, whatever he got, he used on me already.” This was true, and if Joe had a family or even a wife still, it would have bothered him much more. Hathorne, hacking the nearly obsolete computers available to him in prison, had gathered quite a bit of information on Joe: his address, his driver’s license history, and a bunch of other stuff, including psychiatric and medical records. He had filed a bar complaint against Joe, citing an untreated drinking problem, which wasn’t entirely untrue. The complaint went nowhere, but Joe had had to go through a “voluntary interview” with a counselor about his drinking habits.
“That stuff about the drinking that he pulled up?” Craig said, as if he’d read Joe’s mind. “That would have kept me up nights. I don’t want anyone knowing how much I put away, least of all my wife.”
“She knows. And, yeah, that hit home. Mostly because it had some truth to it.”
“Whatever. You’re functional.”
I thought I was, Joe thought. Obviously, I overcalled that one. “Okay, he collects information. I’m sure he’s thrilled about what he’s seeing now.”
“Collects information? How do you know he isn’t sending information?” No more funny faces. Craig was dead serious.
“Sending it? You mean communicating with someone?”
“Of course. Jesus, he did that from behind bars for years!”
“Yeah, but . . .” Joe trailed off and ran his hand through his hair. “I mean, yeah, he made contact with a few other assholes like him. So?”
“He’s behind this somehow. He’s setting you up. I know it. And I know you know it.” There was a long pause.
“But even if . . .” Joe trailed off.
“Even if what? Find out.”
“Find out how? I’m about to be indicted. I need a lawyer, boss, not a conspiracy theory.”
“I have an idea about a lawyer.”
“Me too. I’ve got plenty of names in my head, but—”
“Aideen Bradigan,” Craig said. Joe was taken aback. Joe hadn’t spoken to her, other than via the occasional text, since the long process of her husband’s death and funeral the previous fall. She seemed to be doing well, but as far as he knew, she had no plans to return to legal practice, let alone as a defense attorney.
“Aideen? What about her?”
“She needs something to do. Like defending you and getting to the bottom of this.” Craig said all this as if he were proposing that Aideen pick up groceries for Joe on the way home. “And she’s better than both of us put together.”
“She’s in early retirement. The city gave her a good settlement.”
“She says she is, but she doesn’t want to be. She needs this. Have I been wrong before? I mean, you know, about really big stuff?”
Joe sighed. “Not that I remember, no.”
“There you go.” Craig met Joe’s gaze, all the clownishness dropped. “Look, I know you didn’t do these things. Fight like you didn’t.”
“I have to believe it really wasn’t me before I can do that.” It was almost a whisper.
“It wasn’t. I know it wasn’t.”
“I wish I believed that,” Joe said. He was breathing in gulps, trying not to crack. “I wish I believed it like you do.”
“My youngest,” Craig said after a long pause. Joe pictured Craig’s son Victor, who at eleven lived with a host of complex disabilities but was still a loving, mostly happy kid.