The Mourning Sexton (20 page)

“Very good, Mr. Hirsch. My brother was an ancient history nut. That's why he had a special place in his heart for that crazy building. Especially after he got back from Turkey the first time.”

“Is the tomb still over there?”

“Wouldn't that be divine? I'm afraid not. An earthquake knocked it over in the thirteenth century. Then an army of crusaders called the Knights of St. John built a fortress on the spot. They used materials from the tomb as building blocks. The fortress is still there—right out on that same finger of land in the bay. You can actually see the polished stone and marble blocks from the tomb inside the castle walls. That's all that's left of it in Turkey. The rest is in the British Museum. It's all on display in the Mausoleum Room. My brother was there.” She pointed to the book. “Turn the page.”

He did. The next page had photographs from the British Museum, including sections of the friezes that had decorated the walls of the structure, fragments of the colossal sculptured chariot and horses from the roof, and the damaged statues of the king and queen, each in tunics.

“They didn't completely duplicate the tomb when they built the City Courts Building,” she said. “They left off the horses and chariot and statues. Even so, Pat said they did a pretty fair job.”

She stood. “Come on back. I'll show you his photos.”

He followed her down the short hall to a room on the right. She opened the door and turned on the light.

“This used to be Pat's room. I've changed it around some, but I left his photos on the wall.”

He stepped into the small bedroom, which looked more like an artist's workroom. There were art supplies arranged on wall shelves, three paint-splattered easels neatly stacked against the near wall, a bookcase filled with art books, a desktop with papers, pencils, and pens in tidy order, and a daybed against the far wall.

Framed and hanging in a row above the bed were three twelve-by-sixteen black-and-white photographs of the Civil Courts Building, each taken from a different angle. The photographer shot the first one at street level from about a block away. In that shot, the Greek temple, topped by the four-sided pyramid, loomed high atop the massive structure. In the second photo, taken with a telephoto lens from several stories aboveground, the Civil Courts Building dominated the left foreground, the Old Courthouse just to its right and centered beneath the parabola of the Arch, the left leg of which disappeared behind the temple portions of the tomb, the whole scene foreshortened by the telephoto lens. The third photo had been shot from above, perhaps from a helicopter. It was a bird's-eye view of the tomb replica with an excellent view of the sculptures of the two sphinxlike figures seated back to back atop the stepped pyramid.

He leaned in close, squinting. “What's on the chest of those things?”

“That's the fleur-de-lis of St. Louis.”

Hirsch stood back. “These are remarkable photos.”

“Pat took them.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. Photography was his hobby, and that building was his favorite subject. He took dozens and dozens of photos of it. These were his three favorites.” She smiled at the memory. “My goodness, he just loved going up there. If he thought you were special, he'd take you up there for a tour.”

“I didn't realize they gave tours.”

“Oh, they don't. But he knew how to get in.”

“Did he ever take you?”

“He sure did. We went up there one beautiful spring day, climbed up those zigzag ladders inside the pyramid and out onto the roof. It was quite a view.”

“You said he took Judith on the tour?”

She nodded. “He told me how much she enjoyed it.” Her smile faded. “He was a good man, my brother. He had a fine opinion of your client.”

Fifteen minutes later, he started the car engine and pulled away from Cassie Markman's house. As he glanced in his rearview mirror, he saw a pair of headlights come on farther down the street on the opposite side.

The route back to Highway 40 included several side streets and a main boulevard. He kept checking the rearview mirror as he drove. The same set of headlights was behind him the whole way, although by the time he reached the highway entrance ramp the headlights were three cars back.

When he pulled into the flow of traffic heading west on the crowded highway and moved into the center lane, the several sets of headlights in his rearview mirror all looked the same.

He gripped the steering wheel, his thoughts racing.

CHAPTER 32

N
evertheless, they met as planned at nine that night at Dulcie's office at the law school. Now that she was out of the closet, so to speak, there didn't seem need for a clandestine meeting. Indeed, with her semiofficial role in the case, any effort at concealment might actually create suspicion, especially, as Hirsch realized, if there was a factual basis for his sudden paranoia.

He described his meeting with Cassie Markman earlier that night.

When he finished, Rosenbloom said, “I'd say the fix was in on those warehouse cases.”

“Does Monroe agree?” Hirsch asked.

“Monroe?” Rosenbloom snorted. “The guy is a
schlemiel
.”

While Hirsch had been meeting with Cassie Markman, Rosenbloom had met with Mitchell Monroe, the former Brookfield city attorney. Their professional paths had crossed occasionally over the years, and they vaguely knew each other. Monroe, now in his late sixties, shared a suite with several other attorneys in a suburban office tower.

“What did he say?” Dulcie asked.

Rosenbloom shook his head. “He remembered the cases, of course. You don't forget that kind of ass whooping. But he mainly remembered the happy ending. I asked him about McCormick's exclusion of all of his evidence. He thought the rulings were wrong, but he said it wasn't the first time he'd had things go wrong in one of those cases.”

“That's all?” Hirsch asked.

“That's all. He's fucking clueless. I asked him whether he thought there was anything funny going on in the case, and he gives me this baffled look and says, ‘What do you mean by funny?'” Rosenbloom shook his head in disbelief. “Talk about your
goyishe kup
.”

Rosenbloom reached for another biscotti and took a bite. Dulcie had brought a tin of homemade biscotti and a large thermos of coffee for the meeting. Rosenbloom closed his eyes in bliss as he crunched away.

He gestured toward Dulcie. “My God, Samson, this woman is unbelievable. On top of everything else, she's a gourmet pastry chef. If I ran this law school, I'd give her tenure based solely on these biscotti.”

Dulcie laughed. “Let's hope they make you dean. More coffee?”

“Sure.” Rosenbloom held out his mug. “And while you're at it, how about marrying me?”

“I don't know, Seymour. I'd always wonder if you were marrying me only for my pastries.”

“I may be shallow, my dear, but I'm not that shallow. Rest assured that I'd be marrying you for your body as well. I'll even swear out an affidavit to that.”

“Such a romantic.” She turned to David with the thermos. “Coffee?”

He was smiling. “Sure.”

Dulcie asked Rosenbloom, “Did you give Monroe a reason for why you were asking him about those old cases?”

“I gave him some bullshit story about representing the owners of one of the restaurants out there who were getting hassled by their lender over the value of underlying property. I told him I was trying to use those two verdicts to justify a higher value. He seemed to buy it, but that
schmendrick
is so clueless I could have told him I was representing an equity investor from the planet Neptune. We're talking about a guy who spent his career as a city attorney. That puts him one step up the evolutionary ladder from a Shetland pony.”

“If the fix was in,” Hirsch said, “it certainly gives McCormick and Guttner an interesting prior connection.”

Dulcie asked, “But how can you fix a
jury
verdict?”

“Actually,” Hirsch said, “it's easier and safer than fixing a judge's verdict.”

“How so?”

“Fixing a jury trial is like fixing a basketball game,” Hirsch explained. “You don't need to corrupt everyone. All you need is the key player. In a jury trial, the key player is the judge.”

Rosenbloom said, “The judge can have a huge impact on the outcome of a case merely by what evidence he lets the jury hear.”

Hirsch nodded. “And there are other ways he can influence the outcome. Judges will make comments about certain witnesses or certain evidence or even certain lawyers. Happens all the time, and often in ways that are invisible.”

“Invisible?” she asked.

“Juries pay special attention to what the judge says, and they're very attuned to tone of voice. But trial transcripts don't pick up tone of voice. Especially sarcasm. As a result, the transcript reads one way, but the jury hears it another way. All of which means that fixing a jury trial is less risky than fixing a bench trial.”

“Absolutely,” Rosenbloom said. “Remember, people have no trouble believing that juries do wacky things. So if one jury happens to come in at four million instead of three in a condemnation case, who's gonna raise an eyebrow when the week before another jury awarded some douche bag twenty million dollars because he claimed McDonald's french fries made him fat?”

“If that's so, though,” Dulcie asked, “how are you going to prove anything?”

Rosenbloom smiled. “Good question, Professor.”

“We'll just keep digging,” Hirsch said. “We've made some progress. We've found a few pieces of the puzzle.”

“Or what you hope is a puzzle,” Rosenbloom added.

“Or what you hope are pieces to the same puzzle,” Dulcie said.

Hirsch nodded. “All we know for sure is that Judith thought she found something troubling, and whatever that was, it all started on the afternoon she overheard her judge's telephone conversation with Guttner.”

“Speaking of Jabba,” Rosenbloom said, turning to Dulcie, “tell us about your settlement meeting today.”

“He's quite good at what he does,” she said.

“How so?” Hirsch asked.

“Start with the meeting place. He insisted on coming out here to the law school.”

“Nice show of deference,” Rosenbloom said.

Dulcie nodded. “Exactly. More important, he'd done his homework, or he had someone do it. He knew about my relationship with Judith. He knew about her volunteer work at the clinic. He knew about her rocky relationship with her father, and how guilty her father must have felt about her death. And he knew all the right buttons to push with me. At one point during our discussions, he suggested that as part of the settlement his client might be willing to make a donation to the clinic in Judith's name.”

Rosenbloom whistled in appreciation. “He's a slick bastard.”

“Did he seem suspicious?” Hirsch asked.

“He pretended he wasn't,” she said, “but he was. He has this laid-back manner when he asks certain questions, but you can tell it's all a facade. He asked me when I first heard about the lawsuit. He wanted to know whether I'd known either of you before and how you selected me as the additional attorney.”

“What did you tell him?” Hirsch asked.

“I kept it general enough to be truthful without telling him anything important. I said I found out about the lawsuit when you came to talk to me about Judith. I told him we'd never met before. I told him on the morning of the competency hearing I received a phone call from one of you. I couldn't remember which. I said whoever called asked whether I'd be willing to enter my appearance as an additional attorney to give the court some comfort about Mr. Shifrin's representation. He wanted to know what our financial arrangement was on the case and I told him we hadn't discussed it yet.”

“Was he satisfied with your answers?” Hirsch asked.

“He acted like he was.” She paused, shaking her head. “Who knows? Marvin Guttner is a formidable adversary. He can do the soothing voice and the pleasant smile and the cozy manner, but he can't do anything about those eyes.”

Hirsch nodded. “Ice cold.”

Rosenbloom said, “Enough with the psychoanalysis. Do we have a settlement?”

“We might be close,” she said. “I went through the whole routine and told him I couldn't see recommending a settlement for less than six figures. He winced and pretended that it might be difficult to get his client to go that high. I told him I'd seen better acting in my son's junior high school play.”

“Nice,” Rosenbloom said, grinning. He winked at Hirsch. “This woman is good.”

“I warned him that we'd need more than money to settle. We'd still need some form of vindication.”

“And?” Rosenbloom.

“That's when he suggested the contribution to the clinic. I told him it was a nice gesture, but that we needed something more direct. He told me that an admission of liability was out of the question because it could hurt him in other cases. I suggested an apology. He thought that might be tough to get for the same reason, but he said he would talk to his client. I told him I would talk to you.”

Hirsch glanced over at Rosenbloom, who shrugged and said, “Works for me.”

“One more thing,” Dulcie said. “He told me that once the case settled, all work had to stop. He said that you two would have to sign an agreement to cease all work on any personal injury matter having to do with Peterson Tire and you'd have to turn over your entire investigation file to him.”

“You got to be shitting me,” Rosenbloom said.

“Did he say why?” Hirsch asked.

“He said Peterson Tire didn't want plaintiffs' lawyers out there drumming up new cases based on what they'd learned in a prior case or peddling their files to other personal injury lawyers. He told me it was nonnegotiable. He said that every settlement agreement had to include that provision along with a clause requiring the lawyer to pay Peterson Tire a sum equal to one-half the settlement amount as liquidated damages for a breach of that provision.”

Hirsch looked at Rosenbloom. Neither said a thing. Hirsch turned back to Dulcie.

“Anything over a hundred grand is fine on the money,” he told her. “We'll want some form of an apology. I also like the idea of a donation in her name.”

“How much?” she asked.

“Whatever you think is fair.”

“Okay,” she said. “But what about that attorney provision?”

“I'll sign it,” Hirsch said.

Dulcie frowned. “Are you sure?”

“I'm no longer investigating a wrongful death case involving Peterson Tire. I'm investigating a wrongful death case involving Brendan McCormick.”

“Speaking of which,” Dulcie asked, “has your friend Jumbo been able to find Judith's e-mails?”

Hirsch said, “I haven't heard from him since he left St. Louis. I hope he's still looking. I really want that one from the file clerk in Peterson's legal department. What was her name?”

“Carmen Moldano,” Dulcie said.

He turned to Rosenbloom “She's the one Judith visited in Knoxville. About a week later, she sent Judith an e-mail with a new address and phone number for Ruth Jones.”

“Whose last name may no longer be Jones,” Dulcie said.

The two men looked at her.

Dulcie said, “Carmen said the reason Ruth moved to Chicago was to get married. That's where her fiancé lived. She doesn't know his name, though. Unfortunately, she doesn't have access to any current information on Ruth because Carmen doesn't work at Peterson Tire anymore.”

“When did you learn all this?” Hirsch asked.

“Today.”

“You talked to her?”

“I didn't.”

“Who did?”

Dulcie gazed at him. “Your daughter.”

Rosenbloom tapped his horn once and waved to them as he pulled away. They waved back, standing side by side in front of the law school.

The night was clear, and there was a half moon overhead. Their breath vapored in the chilly March air as they watched the black Cadillac drive off.

Hirsch had been too upset to respond to the news of his daughter's involvement. Rosenbloom jumped into the awkward silence by claiming he had to get home for something. Hirsch wasn't listening. It was all a flurry, and now he was gone.

Dulcie turned to Hirsch. The moonlight highlighted the curls in her hair.

“How?” he said, trying to keep his voice calm.

“She asked if she could help.”

“How did she even—”

“She asked me what I was doing in the case. I told her.”

“How much?”

“Just the wrongful death part.”

Hirsch's thoughts roiled as he walked her toward her car.

“What did she think was the purpose of calling that woman in Knoxville?”

“I told her you were trying to put together a list of former employees who might be worth interviewing if the case didn't settle. I told her that Ruth was an ex-employee we were having trouble locating. I explained that we didn't want anyone at Peterson Tire to know that we were looking for her. I had her pretend to be the younger sister of an old friend of Ruth. It went fine.”

“Dulcie, I don't want Lauren involved in this.”

“She wanted to help you, David.”

“I understand. Look, I'd love
any
good excuse to work with my daughter. But not this case, Dulcie. It isn't what she thinks it is. I'm not even sure I know what it is.”

“She wants to make a connection, David. She's an adult.”

“She's also my daughter.”

“Exactly. Where's the harm?”

“You don't understand my point. She's my daughter. That's the point. I don't want my child involved in this case. And after the settlement, I don't want you involved either.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” There was an edge in her voice.