Saving Sophie: A Novel

by Ronald H. Balson

  * * *

  “HELLO, MR. JENKINS,” CATHERINE’S receptionist said. She took his coat and offered a cup of coffee, which Jenkins accepted. He carried a large manila envelope. Moments later, she showed Jenkins into Catherine’s office.

  “Here’s the lawsuit.” He placed the envelope on her desk.

  She took out the pleading and skimmed through it while Jenkins sat quietly with his coffee. When she was finished reading, she said, “Who’s your malpractice carrier and what’s the coverage?”

  “LNA. And it’s fifty million dollars, inclusive of defense costs.”

  She nodded. “That leaves thirty-eight million dollars uninsured. Who did LNA hire to defend you?”

  “Alan Beaverton.”

  Catherine raised her eyebrows. “High-priced talent. Are you any closer to finding out what happened?”

  Jenkins set his cup down and sat back in his chair. “Well, it’s pretty obvious. Someone engineered a theft of eighty-eight million bucks from the closing escrow and siphoned the money off to Panama—and from there, who knows where? Harrington and Sommers both signed the wire instructions and both are missing. Hard for me to believe that Sommers did this to me. The firm was so good to him after his wife died.”

  “And you feel you need an attorney for the deficiency?”

  “Of course. Besides, and I know you don’t believe me, but I’ve always thought you have extraordinary litigation skills. Your approach is incisive. Intuitive. You see things that others do not. I’ve known that since the day we hired you. Please, Catherine, we’re in a fix and I need the best. You can name your initial retainer, but I’m prepared to give you a check for fifty thousand dollars this afternoon.”

  Catherine stared into Jenkins’s eyes. “All right, Walter. I’ll take it on. I’d like a satellite office at J and F that I can use for this case.”

  Jenkins breathed a sigh of relief. “Done. And we’ve assigned Rob Hemmer to assist you. Anything you need.”

  “I’ll want access to Sommers’s personnel file and any other files he maintained at J and F.”

  “We’ve already pulled them. He has a file for the purchase of his house and a file, quite thick, for the custody dispute. There’s really nothing in his personnel file, but I’ll set the three files in your office. Then, of course, there’s the Kelsen file.”

  Catherine stood. “I’ll come in tomorrow.”

  NINETEEN

  THE GROUP OF TEN, the self-styled Sons of Canaan, met again in the back of the Breadstone Bakery. A short man, in a black-on-green Palestinian keffiyeh, rushed in, out of breath, agitated.

  “You are late, Rami.”

  “I think I was being followed. I diverted my route and came through the rear of the butcher shop. I ran two blocks behind the square. I didn’t see her again, but I can’t be sure.”

  “How do you know you were followed?”

  “A woman was waiting when I left my building. She pretended to be texting on her cell phone, but when I started walking…”

  “What did she look like?”

  “What did she look like? She looked like any other woman in a burka. But she held her cell phone sideways, like she was taking a picture. I spotted her and she turned her back.”

  Fakhir, the bakery owner, lowered his head and put his hands on top of his knitted taqiyah. “The IDF. They’ve discovered us. And my bakery. We have to abandon our project.”

  “Stop panicking, Fakhir. Rami is a frightened squirrel. There’s no evidence that anything has been discovered,” Nizar said. “Who ever heard of IDF spies running around in burkas?”

  “Nevertheless, I don’t want to meet in my bakery again. We should meet at Arif’s. He has privacy, a house with a wall around it.”

  “Out of the question,” al-Zahani said. “I want no attention drawn to my laboratories. There are to be no meetings at my home. Beside, my granddaughter is living with me.”

  “The granddaughter, the granddaughter, we hear too much of this American Jewess,” said Nizar.

  Al-Zahani jumped to his feet and took a step in Nizar’s direction. “She is my blood, you cocksucker. The lineage of my ancestors runs through her bones. She traces her descent from the ancient Canaanites. You live in Hebron because my father liberated it. My father and my grandfather are icons to our people. They died for us. Can you say the same of your pig family?”

  Fa’iz interrupted. “Stop. What are you accomplishing? You insult his granddaughter? And you call his family pigs? Are you both out of your minds?”

  “Did he not bring her from America? Is she not a Jew?”

  “We will have no more of this,” Fa’iz said. “We will not abandon our glorious plan. We will continue to meet. Fakhir does not want us to meet here, then we will meet somewhere else. We have much to do in the coming weeks. There is an empty apartment not far from here. I will arrange for Rami to rent it.”

  “Maybe we should put off our meetings for a while,” said Ahmed. “If the IDF is looking for us, it jeopardizes the entire operation.”

  “The IDF is not here. The Palestinian police patrol this area; the Israeli police are only in the H2. The IDF knows nothing of what we do,” Nizar said. “If we put off our meetings, then the entire operation is scuttled. Our target date is only two months away.”

  “And we still do not have sufficient quantities,” al-Zahani said. “We will need every bit of two months.”

  “Then we meet at the apartment on Monday.”

  TWENTY

  OLD, FAMILIAR TERRITORY FOR Catherine as she walked the hallways of Jenkins & Fairchild. Bittersweet. It looked the same. Not much had changed. Two years ago, she had considered it a secure, comfortable place to be, only to abruptly learn that the firm valued pandering to clients more than moral imperatives, forcing her to tender her resignation. But she felt no regrets. Quite the opposite. Her present practice was far more satisfying. No intrafirm politics. No pandering to influential clients.

  Staff members smiled and welcomed her back as she made her way to her assigned satellite office, a large, windowed room overlooking the federal plaza on Adams Street. Several expandable folders were sitting on a credenza, the largest, by far, being the matter labeled “In Re: The Guardianship of Sophie Sommers.” She would save that for last.

  She picked up Sommers’s personnel file and thumbed through the contents: application for employment, tax forms, health insurance forms, and yearly self-evaluation letters written to the J&F Compensation Committee. The first several letters were unremarkable. They recited his successful handling of certain mergers and acquisitions. As the years progressed, he assumed more of the responsibilities in the business and transactional group. Four years ago, he was elevated to practice group chairman.

  In the last couple years, since his wife’s death, the file reflected long absences and multiple requests for medical and family leave. Yet, as Walter said, the firm was good to him. His compensation was not reduced. His most recent self-evaluations were short and apologetic. He was sorry for his inattention to the practice. He vowed to do better.

  The last few pages in the personnel file referenced loans from his pension and profit-sharing accounts. These coincided with the period when Sommers was defending the guardianship petition. From the size of the custody file alone, Catherine could surmise the enormity of the financial drain. Loans from the retirement account would have netted him $150,000.

  Sommers’s house-purchase file held little of interest. The home was purchased six years ago for $325,000. It was titled to “John Sommers and Alina Sommers, husband and wife, as tenants by the entirety.” There was a second mortgage and a refinance for a total of $415,000 fifteen months ago, during and after the custody battle.

  The guardianship file consisted of four folders, each four or five inches thick. Catherine poured herself a cup of coffee and started at the beginning. “Petition for Guardianship of Sophie Sommers, a Minor.” She spent the rest of the day perusing the file, occasionally setting papers to the side for f
urther review and copying.

  The al-Zahanis’s guardianship petition was aggressive. It accused Jack of dangerously neglecting Sophie. It asserted that Jack had become so depressed over the death of Alina that he was unable to make day-to-day decisions or properly care for Sophie. “The minor’s residence has become a dark and unhealthy tomb of despair,” read the petition. “Continued residence in the home would be dangerous to the child’s physical and mental well-being.

  “On the other hand, the Petitioners, Arif and Lubannah al-Zahani, are kind and loving grandparents who are capable of nourishing and providing for the care of the child. They have a warm and comfortable home. The best interests of the child would be served by granting guardianship to the al-Zahanis.”

  At the inception of the case, the al-Zahanis filed an emergency motion for an immediate change of custody. It was supported by the affidavits of two private investigators with a picture of Sommers sitting on his front porch, a beer bottle by his side, dabbing his eyes with a tissue. The motion accused Sommers of “diving into alcohol and drugs.” It was obvious the petitioners were pulling out all the stops.

  The affidavits stated that women were coming and going into the home at all hours of the day and night. Grainy pictures were attached showing women entering the front door, time-stamped 1:00 A.M. and 2:30 A.M. The motion continued, “On one occasion, when staying in rustic, temporary quarters because his electricity was shut off, Sommers left the child all alone in the middle of the night without any adult supervision.”

  Judge Karr set the emergency motion for an immediate hearing, acknowledging “serious allegations.” Sommers’s attorney, Harold Fine, asked the court for a short continuance to take discovery and investigate the charges, but the request was denied and a hearing was set for the very next day. A transcript of the hearing was in the file.

  Though it was not a lengthy hearing, to Catherine it clearly indicated how much dirt the al-Zahanis were willing to throw and how far they were willing to bend the truth to win their case. The first witness was the private investigator who had followed Jack surreptitiously for several weeks. He attested to the photographs and his statement that the child had been left alone at some rustic, wooden dwelling. He also testified that Sophie was at home when the “various female subjects were coming and going into the home at all hours of the night.”

  The direct testimony was damaging, and Jack’s attorney needed a strong cross-examination to rebut the inferences of neglect. He began his cross by asking the investigator exactly when he was hired by the al-Zahanis.

  “Nine weeks ago,” he answered.

  “And all during that time,” Fine said, “as you were hired to do, would you take careful note of any activities you thought might be important to your clients in their custody case?”

  “Basically.”

  “If you saw something you thought was not in the best interest of the child, you would write it down, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Or take a picture?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like the pictures you attached to your affidavits?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Anything you thought was wrong.”

  “Correct.”

  “And you took this picture because you thought it was wrong to be drinking a beer on the porch?”

  “I thought it was wrong for the man to be drunk when his child was at home.”

  “Did you talk to Mr. Sommers?”

  “Of course not. We were doing covert surveillance.”

  “So you didn’t know if he was slurring his speech or not?”

  “I couldn’t hear him, counsel.”

  “Did you take any pictures of him falling down?”

  “I’m not sure. Not that I recall at this time.”

  “Not that you recall? Hmmm. You mean you might have taken a picture of him falling-down drunk, a picture that would be very important to your clients in this case, but it might have slipped your mind? Maybe you forgot to bring it with you today?”

  “No. I don’t think I saw him fall down.”

  “How far away were you when you took this picture?”

  “We were on the next block. We have a high-powered telephoto lens.”

  “How many pictures did you take of Mr. Sommers and a beer bottle?”

  “Not certain. But I sure took that one.”

  “In nine weeks?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Well, I thought you told me you were going to take pictures every time you saw him do something wrong.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And that’s the only one with alcohol?”

  “That’s the only one I brought to court.”

  “Are there others?”

  “Maybe. I can’t remember.”

  Fine grabbed a court-stamped document. “I’m going to show you a document entitled ‘Petitioners’s Response to Request for Production of Documents.’ I direct your attention to page two, in paragraph five. There is a list of all the pictures that the al-Zahanis or their attorneys have. Would you take a look at it?”

  The investigator looked at the paper, shrugged, and laid it down. “Okay. So I guess there are no other pictures of him holding alcohol.”

  “Let’s talk about the various female subjects. How many pictures of women coming and going from Mr. Sommers’s home did you produce out of your nine weeks of covert surveillance?”

  “Six.”

  “Who were the women?”

  “How would I know? Why don’t you ask your client?”

  “Thank you. That’s an excellent idea, and I will do that just as soon as we’re finished. But getting back to my question, when you signed your affidavit, did you have any idea who any of these women were?”

  “At two or three in the morning? What’s the difference? Are you going to tell me that’s a babysitter?”

  “No, I’m going to tell you that’s his sister.”

  “There are different female subjects, counselor.”

  “How many different women, sir? Take a look at your pictures.”

  “It appears that there are at least two.”

  “At least?”

  “There are two.”

  “So, in your nine weeks of covert surveillance, you took six pictures of two different women going into Mr. Sommers’s home.”

  “In the middle of the night.”

  “On how many different nights?”

  “Two.”

  “And in nine weeks of covert surveillance, that’s all you’ve got, right? Six pictures taken on two nights.”

  “And the beer bottle, counsel.”

  Fine held up a pointed figure and smiled. “And the beer bottle, thank you for reminding me. So that’s all that Dr. al-Zahani got out of the nine weeks of covert surveillance?”

  “No, counsel. When the subject’s electricity was shut off, he went to a one-room dwelling and left his daughter alone at eleven at night.”

  “You’re absolutely right. I forgot about the dwelling. The electricity was turned off, you say? Did he forget to pay his bill?”

  “No idea, counsel.”

  “Had there been a storm?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Was the electricity out in the neighborhood that night?”

  “I don’t work for the electric company.” The investigator must have chuckled at his smart remark, Catherine thought, because Judge Karr interjected, “The court will admonish the witness. There is no cause for levity here.”

  “This one-room dwelling that Mr. Sommers and his daughter went to, was it a cabin up in the Wisconsin Dells?”

  “Yep.”

  “Is that a water-park vacation area about four hours away?”

  “Correct.”

  “And you went all the way up there to take pictures?”

  “That was my assignment.”

  “Twenty-four hours a day?”

  “Practically. Me or Frankie.”

  “When he left Sophie alon
e in the cabin, where did he go?”

  “How should I know?”

  “You mean you didn’t follow him?”

  “No.”

  “You noted the time he left; did you note the time he returned?”

  “No.”

  “How long was he gone?”

  “Not exactly sure.”

  “You didn’t see him return, did you?”

  “No,”

  “Did you fall asleep?”

  “It’s possible. I can’t recall.”

  “Was Dr. al-Zahani paying you by the hour?”

  “Yeah.”

  “In nine weeks of work, how many hours did you log?”

  “Four hundred eighty-three.”

  “How much were you paid per hour?”

  “Hundred and a quarter.”

  Fine jotted down a couple of figures. “So, for his 60,375 dollars, Dr. al-Zahani got these seven pictures?”

  “I guess you could say that.”

  “Nothing further.”

  Catherine smiled. Fine’s cross was thorough and precise. He had not only damaged the investigator’s credibility, but he had deftly created a platform for Sommers to explain the accusations. Sommers then testified that one of the women was indeed his sister, and the other was his wife’s best friend, Sharon, who had been over for dinner, left her purse, and had come back to retrieve it at twelve forty-five. Sophie and Jack had gone to the Wisconsin Dells when a storm had knocked out the neighborhood’s electricity. Sommers’s momentary absence was due to a noisy toilet in the cabin. He thought he would wake Sophie, so he stepped outside behind the cabin to relieve himself. He was gone for less than five minutes. As to the remaining picture, Sommers admitted to sitting on his front porch having a beer. Sophie was at a friend’s.

  At the conclusion of the testimony, the judge denied the al-Zahanis’s emergency motion, but expressed his concern for the welfare of the child. He appointed an attorney to represent Sophie. He also appointed a social service agency to do a home study, and he scheduled the case for trial.

  After many other pretrial hearings, interrogatories, and depositions, ultimately at trial both sides offered testimony from psychiatrists and child-care experts. Home visits had been made, including a report from a social agency in Hebron. Catherine estimated Sommers’s fees probably ran upward of $200,000. The transcripts of the trial were lengthy, and she copied them and headed for home.