The Mourning Sexton (13 page)

Hirsch waited until Bellows was quiet.

“I didn't call this meeting, Jack,” he said. “I'm simply answering your questions.” He turned to Guttner. “Do you have any more?”

“David, I can assure you that we understand your client's desire for some measure of justice in this case, for an acknowledgment that someone is responsible for his daughter's tragic death. I truly believe that this will not be an insurmountable hurdle here. We are all creative lawyers. Among the four of us we must be able to devise a way to satisfy your client's desire without prejudicing our clients' interests. So let us assume, at least for now, that we can accomplish that task. That still leaves us with the monetary issue. Rather than review the facts pertinent to liability and damages, facts I daresay we are all conversant with by now, I suggest that we cut to the chase. Even assuming what none of the defendants will concede, namely, that you could actually establish liability, this is not a big money case. You have virtually no hard damages, and very little in the way of persuasive soft damages. I should think you would be lucky to get fifty thousand dollars out of a jury. Be that as it may, in the interest of getting this case behind us and thereby avoiding significant legal expense, we are prepared to offer you seventy-five thousand dollars to settle the case.”

Hirsch shook his head. “Not even close.”

“What?” Bellows said. “Are you crazy?”

And that's when it clicked. He tried to remember which Japanese martial art it was. The one that had you use your opponent's strength to disarm himself. The name didn't matter. The concept did.

Hirsch gazed at Bellows, pretending to consider his question. “I'll discuss the offer with my client, but I won't recommend it. Not at this stage of the litigation.”

“I don't understand,” Beth Purcell said to him. “Why does it matter what stage we're in?”

“It's too early. At least one area of damages is still uncertain.”

“What area is that?” she asked.

“Pain and suffering.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bellows said, “what the hell are you talking about? I saw the medical examiner's report. We all did. She died instantly.”

“Not necessarily.” Hirsch kept his tone matter-of-fact.

“What's that mean?” Bellow asked.

“The report mentioned asphyxia as part of the cause of death. If she was conscious after the impact, that would have been a horrible way to die. The pain and suffering would be substantial, and so would be your exposure.”

“Oh, come on,” Bellows snapped. “How are you ever going to prove pain and suffering here? There wasn't even an autopsy.”

“But there were X-rays,” Hirsch said, “and morgue shots. I understand a good forensic pathologist can do wonders with that stuff.”

“Do you believe this guy?” Bellows asked the others, amused. “He's going to tell his client to reject seventy-five grand because a forensic pathologist
might
—not
will,
mind you, just might—opine that this gal was conscious for a few seconds after the accident.” He turned to Hirsch. “I got some news for you, pal. Believe it or not, this isn't Ford's first wrongful death case, and this certainly isn't the first time some shyster has tried to inflate his case with this bullshit tactic. Ford has access to the best pathologists in the nation, and you can be sure I'll get one assigned to this case pronto.”

Hirsch shrugged. “Fine.”

Bellow chuckled. “You've got to understand something, Hirsch. Peterson Tire is the only defendant with any reason to try to suck up to Brendan McCormick here. But even they have their limits. We're sure as hell not holding back much longer. If I were you, I'd jump at Guttner's seventy-five grand like it was a lifesaver, 'cause once it's off the table, pal, you're going down. And you're going down hard.”

CHAPTER 19

H
irsch was on the sagging couch in Abe Shifrin's living room, his overcoat still on, his briefcase on the floor between his feet. The smell of rotting garbage filled the house.

Abe Shifrin stopped pacing, clutched his hands in front of his chest, and sighed. “Oh, my God.”

He gave Hirsch a woeful look and started pacing again, head down, hands now clasped behind his back. The old man hadn't shaved in days. His clothes were wrinkled and stained.

He stopped and turned toward Hirsch, his face a mix of pain and anger.

“Seventy-five thousand? That's what they call an offer? And then what? I'm supposed to forget? Pretend like it never happened? And also I'm supposed to forgive her? Forgive and forget? After what she's done to me? To me?”

He stared at Hirsch. A tear rolled down his cheek. “Never. Tell her forget it.”

He started pacing again, head down, mumbling to himself.

Hirsch tried to parse what he'd just heard.

“I don't understand.”

Shifrin glanced at him as he paced. “You don't understand? That's because you're not me. You haven't lived with this torment.”

Shifrin gestured toward the framed photographs of his wife and daughter on the wall. “Why would she do that to me?”

“Do what?”

“Leave me. And for a
schvartza,
yet. It's a
shanda,
I tell you. It wasn't enough she should leave me. Oh, no. She had to disgrace me as well.”

“Are you talking about Judith?”

He held up his hands. “Never say that name around me.

“After what she did”—he made a dismissive gesture—“she's dead to me. I was good to her, sir. A good provider. A nice home. Money for clothes and for jewelry and for whatever else a woman might want. And was she grateful? Did she show respect? Ha! She walked out on me. Left me for another man. For a
schvartza.
And now her lawyers want to buy me off for seventy-five grand?” He shook his fist. “Tell them to shove it. I won't take their bribe money.”

Hirsch stood up. “I think you might be confused, Mr. Shifrin.”

The old man looked up at him, eyes blinking. “What? What are you saying?”

Hirsch walked over to the framed photos on the wall.

“This is Judith,” he said, pointing. “She was your daughter. This is your wife. Her name was Harriet.”

“Harriet? What are you talking Harriet? I think I know who I was married to, sir.”

Hirsch shook his head. “No, Mr. Shifrin. Judith was your daughter.”

Shifrin looked back and forth between the pictures, a puzzled frown on his face.

Hirsch continued in a gentle voice. “Your wife Harriet died of cancer, Mr. Shifrin. Many years ago. You loved her very much. After she died, your daughter took over many of her chores. She cooked your meals and washed your clothes and cleaned the house. Her name was Judith.” He pointed to her photograph on the wall. “That's Judith. She was a good girl, Mr. Shifrin. Judith was killed in an automobile accident three and a half years ago. That's why I am here tonight. I am your lawyer. We filed a lawsuit against the makers of the car and the tires and the air bags. I am here tonight because the defendants have made an offer to settle that lawsuit. They have offered you seventy-five thousand dollars. I have come here to discuss it with you.”

Shifrin moved closer to the photograph of Judith. He leaned forward and squinted at it for a moment. He turned to Hirsch, baffled.

“What are you trying to tell me? She's dead? When did this happen?”

CHAPTER 20

H
irsch stood at the picture window of Rosenbloom's high-rise condo and stared into the night sky over Forest Park. In the distance, silhouetted atop Art Hill, were the outlines of the Art Museum and the statue of the city's namesake, King Louis IX astride his horse. Directly over the museum hung a crescent moon.

The living room was dark. A light in the hall cast just enough illumination for him to see the reflection of Rosenbloom in his wheelchair, staring at Hirsch's back.

Hirsch had phoned from his car after leaving Shifrin's house. “Sancho, we need to talk.”

“Then get your ass over here.”

Rosenbloom's condo, with its parquet floors and graceful fixtures and elegant lines, reminded Hirsch of the Park Avenue and Upper East Side apartments of the New York City lawyers he'd worked with back in his glory days. It was the last place you'd expect to find Seymour Rosenbloom, who seemed far better suited for a two-flat in a middle-class neighborhood. Two years ago, after his M.S. reached the stage where life in a two-story house was no longer an option, he sold the beloved family home in University City, where he and Sarah had raised Nathan and a menagerie of pets, and moved into West Park Towers, with its all-important elevator running from the underground garage to his condo on the sixteenth floor.

Hirsch had helped him pack his personal belongings over two weekends back then. That had been a difficult journey into the past for Sancho—made especially so by his disease, which seemed to have stripped the protective layer between his memories and his emotions. Plenty of tears those two weekends.

“I have an idea.”

Hirsch turned from the window. “Pardon?”

Rosenbloom rolled himself into the living room. “Let's play a game of pretend. Indulge me.”

“Go ahead.”

“Let's pretend that she really died in the crash. No foul play. No loose ends. Let's pretend it happened exactly the way McCormick and the cops and the medical examiner said it did. You with me so far?”

“So far.”

“And let's also pretend that she died instantly. No pain, no suffering. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“That's our scenario. Now, let's pretend that the other side offers seventy-five grand. What do you do?”

“I talk to my client.”

“What do you tell him?”

“I tell him the offer is too low, but it's a good start.”

“What's your counter?”

Hirsch shrugged. “Two fifty, maybe three.”

“What's your bottom line?”

“One fifty.”

“Maybe less?”

“Maybe.”

“What about your client's desire for retribution?”

“You mean the admission of guilt?”

“Think any of the defendants will give you that?”

“No.”

“So how do you deal with that?”

“I try for an expression of sorrow, assuming it was really just an accident. I'd let them deny liability but include a paragraph in the settlement agreement stating their deep sadness over what happened to his daughter.”

“I like it.” Rosenbloom nodded. “They might go for it. You'll be a hero.”

“Maybe in your game of pretend. I'm stuck with reality.”

“Wait. I'm not done with our game. Let's compare fantasies. If we make mine real, you settle the case, and probably for a nice pile of money. Don't knock that part, my friend. Between the restitution order in your criminal case and child support for Lauren, you're barely one rung above our Chapter Thirteen clients. Be glad your older daughter's out of school. And don't forget old Jack the Ripper, who is about to cry havoc and let slip his dogs of war. There's a pleasant thought, eh? Two years of trench warfare with that cretin. But a settlement, well, a settlement solves everything. It eliminates the litigation death march, earns you a big payday, and maybe even gets you a little positive spin in the press, which wouldn't be such a bad thing. Let's face it, Samson, your media profile could use a little buffing.”

Hirsch smiled. “It's tempting.”

“Tempting? That's an understatement. Especially if we compare my fantasy to yours, also known as Samson's Last Stand. Our first problem with your fantasy is that this ain't Hollywood and you ain't Luke Skywalker. Our second problem is that before you can catch a killer you need a murder. But let's set those pesky little problems to one side, okay? What if McCormick actually killed her? And let's not forget how big of an ‘if' that if is. But let's assume he did. What's that mean for you? It means you're going to be trying to build a circumstantial case for murder against a federal district judge. Even worse, you're going to be trying to build it in the face of a determination by the medical examiner on duty that night that the cause of death was the accident. And just to add one other tiny hitch, she died more than three years ago and wasn't embalmed. That means that key physical evidence—probably the only physical evidence—has decomposed.”

Rosenbloom shook his head.

“In the face of all that, Samson, you want to try to gather enough evidence to convince a prosecutor to charge a federal district judge with first-degree murder? That's the equivalent of hunting a Bengal tiger with a BB gun. The only thing worse than missing him is hitting him.”

“I know all that, Sancho. So what? That doesn't mean we just walk away.”

“Wait.” Rosenbloom was staring at him. A grin spread over his face and he shook his head in amusement.

“What?”

“You slick bastard.”

“Huh?”

Rosenbloom chuckled. “I just realized what's going on.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It's Dulcie, right?”

“Pardon?”

“You're trying to impress that foxy professor.”

Hirsch gave him a weary smile. “There are far easier ways to do that than rejecting a settlement offer in this case.”

“Ah, but none so noble. Especially for her. Hell, it's what she does for a living. Look at her clinic. Defender of abused and exploited women. Champion of the underdog. And along comes Mr. Former Male Chauvinist Pig Felon Seeking Redemption. You're a goddamn chick flick come to life.”

Hirsch shook his head. “To quote a wise man, this isn't Hollywood and I'm no Luke Skywalker. Moreover, she's been through her own version of hell with an ex-husband. Her clinic is a lot more grit than glory. I wouldn't call her a romantic.”

“Call her whatever you want, but you have to agree she's a total babe.”

“No dispute there. But that's no reason to turn down that settlement.”

“And this fantasy of yours is?” Rosenbloom gave him a sad smile. “
Oy,
Samson, look at us. We're not the Hardy Boys. Be sensible. Judith Shifrin is dead. She's going to stay dead no matter what you do. If you can squeeze a six-figure settlement out of those bastards, you're going to be a genuine American hero.”

“This isn't about us, Sancho. You know that. Her father didn't hire me to broker a deal. The least I can do is to try to find out the truth about his daughter's death. I owe it to him—and to her, too.”

“Why?”

“You know the answer as well as I do. I'm a lawyer and he's the client. I'm doing what he hired me to do.”

Rosenbloom rolled his wheelchair across the floor to the other picture window. He stared out at Forest Park.

After a moment, he turned to Hirsch. “Speaking of lawyers, you do recall that I am actually the lead lawyer on this case, don't you?”

“I do.”

Rosenbloom rolled his eyes. “If I had any sense, I'd yank your ass off this case and settle it myself.”

He leaned back in his wheelchair and sighed. He smiled at Hirsch.

“You're crazy, Samson. You understand that, right? Fucking nuts.”

Hirsch was smiling. “I hope not.”

“Oh, trust me on this one, Samson. You're completely irrational. Off your rocker. But guess what? If you're crazy enough to take on a goddamn federal district judge, I can't let you do that on your own.”

“Of course you can. This is my client. This is none of your business.”

“Hey, you're my business,
boychik
. And I'm yours.” He patted the side of his wheelchair. “She ain't much of a donkey, but she'll do.”