The Mourning Sexton (31 page)

“Oh, my God . . . oh, my God . . . oh, my God.”

Hirsch's last view of Marvin Guttner was just after two agents pushed him up into the back of the government van. He'd collapsed into the seat and slumped forward, head down. Someone slammed the door shut. As the metallic reverberation faded, and just before the driver started the engine, he could hear the sounds of weeping.

CHAPTER 49

I
t was Tuesday. Four days later.

Hirsch was seated in the office of the United States Attorney for the Eastern District of Missouri. He leaned back in his chair and watched as the FBI agent ushered Jack Bellows out of the office and closed the door behind them. He turned back to Russ Jefferson.

Jefferson shook his head. “Not much help there.”

Hirsch sighed. “Nope.”

Even so, it had been a remarkable four days.

Guttner had vanished from public view late Friday morning when the unmarked van pulled out of the zoo's service entrance. The feds moved him to an undisclosed location, where he'd been ever since. The only people who'd seen him were his criminal defense attorney, three FBI special agents, Russ Jefferson, two of Jefferson's assistants, and a court stenographer.

They allowed Guttner a telephone call to his wife Friday night to tell her that he'd been called out of town on an emergency and would be gone several days. The agent listening in said she hadn't seemed concerned. Hadn't even asked where he was calling from, or where he was going to, or when he'd return. He called her again on Saturday around dinnertime to say that he was still out of town and might not be home for a few more days. All business. No hint of intimacy between husband and wife.

Later that Saturday night, sometime between seven-thirty, when Jefferson left Guttner and his lawyer alone in the room, and eleven twenty, when Guttner's attorney stepped out in the hall to ask the FBI agent to summon Jefferson, Guttner finally acknowledged the gravity of his predicament. Each of the seven hundred secret payments to McCormick was clearly and incriminatingly documented on the papers that Judith had hidden in the safe. Each of those payments constituted no less than three and possibly as many as five separate federal crimes. A sentence of just one year per felony would yield a prison term spanning two millennia—and that didn't include the sentence-enhancing consequences of a finding that the bribery scheme constituted an “enterprise” under the Racketeer-Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act.

All of which must have suggested to Guttner the prudence of exploring a plea bargain. The main obstacle was the person who'd be seated across the bargaining table. Even in a typical case, Russ Jefferson was no Monty Hall, and here he saw even less reason to deal. He already had enough evidence to render Guttner's pension plan irrelevant. Nevertheless, as Guttner's attorney finally got him to concede, in criminal conspiracy prosecutions the inventory-accounting rule known as FIFO—first in, first out—seemed to resonate with the judge at sentencing time. True, Jefferson responded, but the degree of resonance depended upon the quality and quantity of the goodies that the first one brought to the bargaining table. Guttner's attorney assured him that his client could deliver quality and quantity.

The court stenographer joined them at noon on Sunday. She stayed until six that night and returned the following morning. By the time she'd packed her equipment Monday afternoon, Guttner had given Russ Jefferson enough evidence to convict McCormick and the inner circle of executives at Peterson Tire and two other members of Guttner's law firm of enough crimes to ensure that the only way most of them would leave prison was at room temperature in the back of a hearse.

But Guttner's knowledge of criminal activities did not include the circumstances surrounding the death of Judith Shifrin. He readily conceded that he'd suspected from the outset that Judith's death was not an accident. Those suspicions had been heightened by McCormick's reaction to Hirsch's lawsuit. From the moment McCormick had learned of the case, he started pressuring Guttner to get it settled. He'd call Guttner several times a week for status reports, warning that an investigation of Judith's death could endanger them all. In short, Guttner believed that chance had nothing to do with Judith Shifrin's death. Unfortunately, he had no admissible evidence to back that up.

Nor had Guttner been involved in the hiring of whoever it was who tried to kill Hirsch atop the Civil Courts Building. His best guess was that McCormick handled that part on his own. Which was not to suggest that Guttner and his client were innocent bystanders, as Guttner conceded. Peterson Tire had arranged for the surveillance of Hirsch, which resulted in the report to Guttner on Hirsch's back-to-back visits to the bank. And Guttner himself had hired the investigator who'd turned up the chaser materials on Rosenbloom. But he swore, literally, that he had nothing on Judith Shifrin's death—or Markman's death.

That was Sunday and Monday. At Hirsch's urging, Jefferson turned up the heat on Jack Bellows on Tuesday morning. Two U.S. marshals accosted him in the parking garage of his office building as he arrived for work. Flashing their badges and escorting him to the back of a dark blue Ford with tinted windows, they whisked him out of the garage. By the time they opened the rear door of the Ford in the basement of the United States Courthouse, Jack the Ripper had become Jack the Pisser. The marshals tried to keep a straight face as they rode up the elevator with him, pretending not to notice the sharp odor or the dark stain in the crotch of his two-thousand-dollar suit.

Bellows had no knowledge, or even any suspicions, concerning any aspect of any of the crimes at issue. Hirsch wasn't surprised. He'd assumed that Bellows and his client had been completely out of the loop from the start. His hope was that Bellows had followed up on his boasts about retaining a top pathologist.

And he had. Two of them, in fact. And Bellows, frantic to cooperate, instructed his office to hand-deliver copies of both pathologists' reports to the U.S. Attorney's Office. While the feds waited, Jefferson's secretary located an old pair of sweatpants for Bellows to change into.

Hirsch had joined Jefferson while Bellows was in the men's room changing pants, and thus he was there when the reports arrived. Unfortunately, they were less conclusive and less incriminating than the oral report Hirsch had received from Henry Granger. Like Granger, both of Bellows's pathologists dismissed any contention that the decedent had suffocated against an inflated air bag. They also agreed from the X-ray evidence that Judith's spinal cord was intact, and thus not related to the cause of her death. Those two conclusions, however, led the experts down pathways of conjecture far different than Granger's.

One of them, an Ohio professor of pathology named Rupert Tomaso, speculated that Judith might have had a latent medical problem that could have been exacerbated by the sheer force of the impact. Perhaps a heart valve defect, he suggested, or maybe a severely weakened artery in her brain. But the existence of that causal link, his report explained, could only be confirmed through an autopsy.

The other pathologist, a former Detroit medical examiner named Dr. Johnny Hsieh, noted the same reference to petechial hemorrhages that had caught Henry Granger's attention and also noted the phrase
slight compression of soft tissue of neck
. But those observations generated an entirely guiltless hypothesis. Dr. Hsieh speculated that at the moment of impact the decedent could have had a large object in her mouth, perhaps an ice cube or a chunk of food. The force of the impact could have driven that object into her trachea, cut off the flow of air to her lungs, and caused her to suffocate. Dr. Hsieh surmised that the soft tissue compressions on her neck were caused by her own hands as she tried to dislodge the object that was choking her. But to confirm this as the cause of death, Dr. Hsieh stated in his concluding paragraph, one would need to perform an autopsy on the decedent.

After Hirsch and Jefferson finished reviewing the reports, Jefferson sent Bellows on his way with a stern warning about maintaining strict confidentiality concerning what had transpired. Bellows nodded submissively, avoiding Hirsch's eyes. Hirsch couldn't help but smile as he watched Bellows depart, the top half of him dressed for the boardroom in his expensive suit jacket, dress shirt, tie, and platinum cuff links, the bottom half in baggy, paint-stained sweatpants, one hand holding a calfskin briefcase, the other a plastic supermarket bag containing his damp pants and underwear. Arrogance was a tough attitude to maintain after pissing in your pants.

“Let's not lose perspective here,” Jefferson said. “Thanks to your work, we still have plenty on Judge McCormick.”

“But not for murder,” Hirsch said.

“True. Unfortunate, but true. Still, Brendan McCormick is going to be behind bars for a long time. Probably the rest of his life.”

“He killed her, Russ. He killed her with his bare hands. And he probably arranged for the death of that reporter, too.”

“You could be right, David, but we can't prove it. Even so, he is still going to end up in jail for a long time.”

“But not for murder.”

“That is the way the system works. That is the way it has always worked. You know that. You worked in this office. Far worse men have gone to jail for far less. Let us not forget that when the federal government finally convicted Al Capone, the charge was income tax evasion. Think of it, David. One of the most notorious criminals of the twentieth century. How many men did Al Capone murder? How many lives did he destroy? How many serious crimes did he commit? But when he finally entered prison, it was for failure to pay the taxes on those ill-gotten gains. When Brendan McCormick enters prison, David, it will be for far worse crimes than income tax invasion. Although—” Jefferson smiled, “I suppose he'll go to jail for that as well. . . .”

“But he won't go to jail for her death.”

Jefferson nodded. “But not for her death.”

Hirsch stared at his former colleague. “Let me try, Russ.”

Jefferson frowned. “Pardon?”

“Give me a chance to get him to incriminate himself.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Put a wire on me. Let me meet with him. Let me talk to him. Let me see if I can get him to admit it.”

“Don't be ridiculous, David.”

“I'm serious, Russ. I know him. I know what buttons to push. Put me in there with him. Forget the wire. You've got more than enough probable cause to put a bug in his office. Any judge will sign that order. Let me give it a try. One meeting. What's the risk? You already have enough to convict him on scores of other crimes. If I strike out, it doesn't matter. But if I get him to admit that he killed her, well . . .”

Hirsch leaned back in his chair, overcome by emotion. He shook his head.

“Well what, David?”

Hirsch tried to organize his thoughts. “I don't represent the government here, Russ. I represent Judith Shifrin. When her father hired me, he told me he wanted one thing: justice.”

Hirsch paused. “I don't think I'm sure what justice means anymore, Russ. Maybe it's a farce to have someone like me out there searching for it. All I know is that if Brendan McCormick killed her, if he grabbed her by the throat and choked her until she died, Russ, if he . . .”

He paused again, his voice trailing off. He stared down at his hands.

Jefferson was studying him, waiting.

After a moment, Hirsch looked up, his eyes intense. “If Brendan did that to her, Russ, then that's a crime he ought to be forced to answer for. Let me try to make him do that. Just give me one chance. That's all I ask.”

Jefferson stared back, his arms crossed over his chest.

CHAPTER 50

“
N
N
u?
” Rosenbloom asked, his chopsticks poised over the half-empty carton of Szechuan beef. “How was it?”

“Low-key.” Hirsch popped a piece of spicy broccoli into his mouth and crunched. “Jefferson had me walk the grand jurors through each piece of evidence—the key entries on her credit card and phone bills, the important notes and memos Jumbo retrieved from her computer, the documents she hid in the safe.”

Rosenbloom nodded, chewing as he listened. “Think they understood?”

“They seemed to. Jefferson's people put together summary charts from the financial documents. That made it a lot easier for them to follow along.”

“Are they finished with you?”

“I think so. At least for now.”

They were in Rosenbloom's condo. Just the two of them. Rosenbloom had been out of the office at meetings all afternoon and was flying up to Chicago early in the morning for a bankruptcy seminar. The only time they could get together was tonight, so they agreed to meet for dinner at Rosenbloom's condo. Hirsch brought dinner from his favorite Chinese take-out, and Rosenbloom supplied the beer.

Rosenbloom twisted off the cap from another Bud long neck and took a long sip. “So when does Jabba get to sing soprano before the grand jury?”

“They have him scheduled for tomorrow afternoon and all day Friday.”

Rosenbloom chuckled. “Oh, to be in the room for that one. I'd love to watch that nasty prick squeal.”

“He's looking pretty down these days.”

“Reminds me of my favorite self-help book.”

“What's that?”

“When Bad Things Happen to Nasty Pricks.”

Hirsch smiled. “Haven't read that one.”

“I'll lend you my copy. So tell me, Samson, where's the big soiree gonna be Saturday night?”

“I haven't decided yet. We'll meet at my apartment at six for drinks and appetizers. I'll find us a nice restaurant and make a reservation. Just the four of us—you, me, Dulcie, and Lauren.” He took a sip of beer and smiled. “I'm looking forward to it. We can all finally relax, have a nice time, with this case finally behind us.”

“Yeah. That will be nice.”

Rosenbloom tired early these days. He didn't put up much of a fight when Hirsch insisted on cleaning up. He stayed at the kitchen table, slightly slumped in his wheelchair.

As Hirsch washed the dishes, he struggled with whether to tell Rosenbloom about tomorrow—and if so, how to even raise the subject.

Rosenbloom took care of that part. “Is there a Chapter Thirteen docket tomorrow?” he asked.

Hirsch nodded. “Judge Shea.”

“You going to cover it?”

He glanced back at Rosenbloom. “I asked Barbara to cover it for me.”

“How come?”

Hirsch thoroughly soaped and rinsed a glass and held it up to the light. He said, “I'm meeting with Brendan McCormick.”

“You're what?”

“Russ and I talked it over. He agreed.”

“Whoa. Back up a second. Why the hell would you want to meet with McCormick?”

“They're going to bug his office.”

He shut off the faucet and turned toward Rosenbloom. He dried his hands with the dish towel. “I'm going to see if I can get him to admit that he killed her.”

“What?” Rosenbloom almost came out of his wheelchair. “Are you out of your fucking mind? You can't let those government bastards use you like that.”

“It was my idea. I had to fight Russ to get him to agree.”

Rosenbloom was frowning. “I don't get it. Why?”

Hirsch came back to the table and sat facing him. “This is my last chance, Sancho. They arrest him tomorrow afternoon no matter what. They don't have enough to make a murder case. Not even close. And they never will once they arrest him.”

“This is crazy.”

“No, it isn't. Just think if I can get him to say something incriminating.”

“What if you can't?”

Hirsch shrugged. “So be it.”

Rosenbloom moved his head back and forth, mulling it over. He suddenly looked up at Hirsch. “Hold on. Didn't you tell me he has a gun cabinet in his office?”

“Don't worry. The FBI is going into his office tonight to plant the bug. While they're in there, they'll make sure no gun is loaded.”

“What if he goes berserk tomorrow? What if he attacks you?”

Hirsch smiled. “I'll whack him with my cast.”

“I'm serious.”

Hirsch sat down across the kitchen table from Rosenbloom. “The feds know what they're doing. We've gone over everything. Once I enter his office, two FBI agents will take up position right outside his door. If anything suspicious happens, they'll bust in.”

Rosenbloom studied him. After a moment, he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “You don't need to do this.”

Hirsch reached across the table and squeezed him on the shoulder. “I'll be fine.”

Rosenbloom sighed. “When are you going to learn, Samson?”

“Learn what?”

“That it doesn't work this way.”

“What doesn't?”

“Life. You don't get closure in the real world. No one gets to live happily ever after. That's how things work down here,
boychik
. Even if you nail McCormick tomorrow, it's not going to bring her back. It's not going to make her father a better person. Hell, it's not even going to remind him that he had a daughter.”

Rosenbloom shook his head. “
Oy,
Samson. How can someone so smart be so dumb. So when exactly is this taking place?”

“Tomorrow at ten.”

“Does he know you're coming?”

“I called his secretary this morning. I told her I needed to see him tomorrow. She called back to say he could meet with me at ten.”

Rosenbloom shook his head. “What am I going to do with you?”

Hirsch paused at the front door and called back, “So give me a buzz tomorrow night when you get back from Chicago. I'll come over and give you the blow by blow.”

“Wait, David.”

Hirsch turned.

Rosenbloom was wheeling himself down the front hall toward him.

“Thanks,” Rosenbloom said.

“Hey, you supplied the beer.”

“Not for that.”

“What?”

“For letting me know.”

“Letting you know what?”

“About your meeting tomorrow with McCormick.” His eyes were moist. “You be careful, okay?”

Hirsch leaned over and kissed him on top of his bald head. “Get some sleep, Sancho. You're up early.”

But he hadn't told Rosenbloom everything. As he rode the elevator down to the garage, he thought of what he'd left out. Of what he couldn't, and wouldn't ever, tell him.

One key term of his deal with Russ Jefferson was his promise to make sure that nothing came of the surveillance videotape and affidavits that Guttner had compiled on Rosenbloom. If any copies of the videotape or affidavits should surface in the future, Jefferson would say that Rosenbloom had been cooperating with the feds on a criminal investigation.

That had been the easy part of the deal, and, as Hirsch expected, Jefferson accepted immediately. Like any federal prosecutor, he was far more interested in getting access to key documents at the heart of a massive corruption of justice conspiracy than he was in pursuing a bankruptcy lawyer over some hundred-dollar referral fees.

The hard part of the deal, and the part that Hirsch agonized over before broaching with Jefferson, was how to let Rosenbloom know that someone out there had discovered what he was doing. Even though his conduct might seem penny-ante stuff in the world of crime, it was tainted conduct nevertheless. While a federal prosecutor might not bite, Rosenbloom's referral arrangement could still land him in a disciplinary proceeding before the Missouri Supreme Court. For Rosenbloom, that would be almost as painful as a criminal conviction.

Thus someone had to tip him off.

Hirsch couldn't bear the thought of being the one to tell Rosenbloom about Guttner's evidence. He knew Rosenbloom would be humiliated—and not just by Hirsch's discovery of his little secret. He'd be humiliated by the circumstances surrounding Hirsch's discovery, including the meeting with Guttner and the subsequent deal worked out with Jefferson. Hirsch loved Rosenbloom's wit and his bawdiness, but above all else he treasured the dignity beneath that bluster. It was, he understood, the core of their relationship. He would never do anything to damage that bond.

So he'd worked out another term of the deal with Jefferson, a provision to ensure that Rosenbloom would never know how or where Jefferson got the materials. The ploy was simple enough: a week or so after Guttner's arrest became public, Jefferson would summon Rosenbloom to his office. He'd show him the videotape and the affidavits and he'd explain that the FBI had discovered it while searching though Guttner's files. He'd give them to Rosenbloom, assure him that there'd be no reference to them in the investigative file, and let Rosenbloom deduce on his own his need to change his techniques for getting business.

That was the deal he'd worked out with Jefferson, and that was the deal he could never reveal to Rosenbloom.

Hirsch stood alone in the center of his apartment. The place seemed even quieter than usual.

But quiet was okay for now. He had a long night ahead of him.

Over the span of his career, he'd made hundreds of presentations to judges. To trial judges, appellate judges, and even Supreme Court justices. Other attorneys liked to gather their minions a day or two in advance and run through a mock presentation with everyone firing questions and offering critiques. Not Hirsch. He'd found that the best time to prepare—to organize his points, to polish his words, to prepare for the tough questions—was alone on the night before. Even for his Supreme Court appearances. All three times, he'd done the final preparations into the wee hours in his hotel room. Alone.

And so it would be tonight. He checked his watch. Twenty minutes after nine.

But first things first. He needed to confirm the
minyan
for the morning service. He kept the list of phone numbers paper-clipped to the Jewish calendar hanging on the wall by the telephone. As he approached, he could see that tomorrow's date was printed in red. Red meant holiday. He looked closer. The fourth of May was also the fourteenth of Iyar.
Pesach Sheni,
or the Second Passover. The only “second chance” holiday in Judaism, as he recalled from Rabbi Saltzman's commentary last year. A special day for Jews who were unable to obey the commandment the first time around.

As he reached for the phone, he thought again of his telephone conversation with Dulcie that afternoon. He'd called to invite her to the dinner on Saturday night.

“Sounds great. How 'bout if I come by early? I'll help you set up the appetizers and drinks.”

“You don't need to do that.”

“My pleasure. By the way, Mr. Talmud, is it true that it's a
mitzvah
to make love on
Shabbat
?”

He'd laughed. “So the rabbis tell us.”

“I don't know if I'm ready for such a big
mitzvah
yet, but my ex does have Ben for the entire weekend, and suddenly the thought of Saturday is making me feel a little more religious.”

He was grinning as he punched in the first telephone number on the list. As the phone rang, he checked his watch again. In a little over twelve hours, he was scheduled to appear before the Honorable Brendan McCormick. Regardless of the outcome, he knew one thing for sure: This would be his final appearance before Judge McCormick.