The Bomb Maker's Son Read Online Free PDF Page B

midseventies shuffles out of one of the offices. By the time he’d turned twenty-seven, Moses Dworsky had already become one of the leading activist lawyers of the 1960s, known for his stentorian voice, jarring physical appearance, courtroom theatrics, and confrontational press conferences that often violated judicial gag orders. He was once six-foot-five, but age and hunched shoulders make him look a few inches shorter. He has wispy white, shoulder-length hair that he hasn’t bothered to tie in a ponytail. His huge ears stick out like tail fins on a ’59 Cadillac, and, combined with his enormous nose, give him an elephantoid aspect. His bushy, white eyebrows shoot upward, like weeds sprouting through a crack in the sidewalk. By objective standards he’s an ugly man, but in his heyday he was quite the womanizer. There’s something uniquely attractive about a homely man who exudes power and confidence. Friends and foes alike called him “Militant Moe.” Only foes called him the “Eloquent Elephant.” He glances at me and cements his eyes on Lovely, establishing that he still likes women and that I can still feel jealousy.
    In this era of business casual, I’m wearing slacks and a blue shirt, and Lovely is dressed in a rose-print frock. However, Dworsky is wearing a business suit and tie. He peers at us with droopy eyes through a pair of bifocals precariously perched on his nose. In the 1970s and ’80s, he was destined for that rare fame reserved for brilliant trial lawyers who shape their careers by cultivating unconventionality, but he had a fatal flaw—he was a true believer. In 1993, he allegedly relayed a message from his inmate-client to a militant group planning to bomb a military base. The message reaffirmed his client’s views that Islamic jihadists were justified in carrying out attacks on American soil because of the United States’ military presence in the Middle East. The Justice Department charged him with obstruction of justice and conspiracy to provide material support to terrorists. In response, Dworsky insisted that he was merely exercising his and his client’s rights of free speech. He avoided prison only because a federal appellate court overturned his conviction, holding that the search of his law office had been illegal under the Fourth Amendment. That didn’t stop the California State Bar from stripping him of his license on the grounds that his conduct constituted moral turpitude. At first, Dworsky was denied a private investigator’s license, but he miraculously convinced a judge to overrule the state licensing board. He’s been working as a PI ever since.
    “I’m Parker Stern,” I say. “And this is Lovely Diamond. We represent—”
    “I am not familiar with those monikers, sir.” His pontificating tone and rabbinical cadence is apparent even in this short sentence. He apparently loves hundred-dollar words and avoids contractions in normal speech. He’s one of those rare lawyers who must’ve come out of the womb wailing behind a lectern. Lovely’s boss, Lou Frantz, is another.
    “Ms. Diamond and I represent Ian Holzner. She’s with the Louis Frantz law firm.”
    He regards her with one eye open and one closed. “You work for Lou Frantz?”
    “Yeah. I’m an associate in the trial department.”
    “Louis Frantz is a low-class prostitute without the cheap eau de toilette,” he says. “Frantz never held a firm belief that could not be changed with the payment of a five-figure retainer. Although I would wager it is six figures in this era of inflation.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Bah!”
    Dworsky is the only person I’ve heard utter the word “bah” who isn’t a pre-1960s movie actor.
    “What’s this about Ian Holzner?” he says.
    “He’s been in federal custody since yesterday,” I say.
    “I did not hear. I do not follow the news.” He raises an arm and thoughtfully strokes his hair, or more accurately, his liver-spotted scalp. After a long silence,