“He’d had a reputation during the Great Depression as a soft touch, and another after World War Two as a financier of harebrained manufacturing schemes. He died around 1970, flat broke, loved and admired. Ira, whom the old man had hounded into law school, had spent his life overhearing remarks to the effect that he just wasn’t quite the gentleman his father had been. That was all Rita’s defense attorney and I had in common. Twenty-five years older than I, Ira was rich, vigorous, and driven. ...He wore splendidly old-fashioned three-piece suits, florid neckties, and a trademark gray fedora. He could make a quiet stroll down Main Street look like the third reel of a Frank Capra movie where entered the savior or the villain, take your choice. He kept his main office in Plainfield, by the courthouse, and lived on a splashy Western-style horse farm on Morris Mountain, not far from Rita’s. He was pugnacious, as a good trial lawyer should be, and quite convinced he was the smartest man in the state, which probably didn’t hurt either.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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