Now You See Me...

by Rochelle Krich

  “So Justin became close to Greg,” I said, hoping to get back on track.

  “Sorry. You didn’t come to hear my life story.” She laughed ruefully. “To be honest, I haven’t made close friends yet, and you’re easy to talk to. People probably tell you that all the time. I didn’t mean to go on and on.”

  “You didn’t,” I said. “I’m interested in hearing about your background.”

  “You’re being kind, but thanks. Anyway, Greg was like an older brother. If Justin was having girl trouble, he’d turn to Greg. And Greg would read his material and make insightful comments. Greg is—” she stopped. “Greg was very bright and knowledgeable, and not just about history.”

  “You said Justin has information about Greg that the police may find useful?”

  “It’s about what happened in school, at Torat Tzion. Greg was accused of inappropriate behavior with one of the senior girls.”

  “It was all lies,” Justin said.

  He was standing in the doorway, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. His hair was tousled, and he looked as though he’d just woken up from a troubled sleep.

  “Feeling better, honey?” Cheryl asked.

  He shrugged.

  “Come sit down.” She pulled out the chair next to hers. “Mrs. Abrams brought treats.”

  “Molly, please,” I said. “When people call me Mrs. Abrams, I think they’re talking about my mother-in-law.”

  Justin walked over, but he remained standing, shifting from leg to leg. “I don’t know what my mom told you.”

  “Just what you heard.” Cheryl patted the seat of the chair. “Why don’t you tell Molly what happened, Justin.”

  “I’m not sure anything happened. That’s the point. I don’t want to tell the police something and get someone in trouble if it has nothing to do with Greg’s accident.”

  “You said this girl lied about Greg,” I said. “When was this?”

  “In September, the first week of school.” Justin took his hands out of his pockets. “She told the principal that Greg said he’d give her an A if she put out. It was all a lie, everything.”

  “Why would this girl accuse Greg falsely?”

  “To discredit him.” Justin sat down. “She’s tight with a guy in her class that Greg had accused of cheating.”

  “How could Greg be sure?” Having been falsely accused of cheating, I’m sensitive about the subject.

  “Greg watched him for two years. The kid cheated on tests, plagiarized papers. All the teachers knew it, but no one could figure out how he did it, so they couldn’t prove it. And his family helped build the school.”

  “Adam Prosser?”

  Justin narrowed his eyes. “You know?”

  “I guessed. I heard rumors about him.”

  “Well, it was driving Greg crazy,” Justin said. “Over the summer he spent hours in the UCLA library stacks and online, and he finally had the goods on Prosser. The kid had copied some papers almost verbatim. He bought others online. Greg found a website that helped him trace that.”

  TurnItIn? That was the site one of the kids in the chat room had mentioned.

  Cheryl put a pastry on a plate and set it in front of her son. “You haven’t eaten all day, Justin.”

  “And Greg confronted the boy?” I asked.

  Justin nodded. “Prosser denied it, of course. Greg wanted to give him a chance to come clean before he told the principal. But the next day the principal called Greg into her office and told him a senior was accusing him of sexual harassment. Amy Brookman.”

  A name I hadn’t heard. “Didn’t Greg explain why Amy was lying? That he’d found proof Prosser had been cheating?”

  “Sure. But Greg didn’t have the proof with him that day. He said Amy gave a convincing performance. She cried. She said she was so depressed she had to go on Prozac. And she gave dates when she met with Greg alone and he came on to her.” Justin grunted. “Greg stayed after hours to help her. That’s the thanks she gave him.”

  Justin tore off the top of the Danish, then dropped it and pushed the plate away.

  “When did this alleged harassment take place?”

  “Amy said Greg was coming on to her and threatening her all last year. She’s hoping to go to Columbia or Penn, and a B average won’t cut it. So she didn’t tell.”

  The coffeemaker was gurgling. I could smell the nutty flavor wafting toward me. Above us there was more jumping.

  “But all of a sudden, in September, Amy’s no longer afraid of Greg?” I said.

  “She was still afraid, but she felt she had to speak up. She claimed Greg was picking on Prosser because he’s the one who encouraged Amy to come forward. She couldn’t let Greg get away with his lies.” Justin rolled his eyes. “She also claimed she wasn’t the only one Greg hit on.”

  “Who else?” I asked.

  “Another girl in her class.”

  “Did this other girl accuse Greg, too?”

  “She died last year. They said she had a heart attack.”

  “Batya Weinberg?”

  He looked at me, curious. “You heard about her too, huh? Amy said she killed herself because of Greg. How sick is that, to make up garbage like that? What was Greg supposed to do? Ask the Weinbergs to sign an affidavit saying their daughter didn’t kill herself?” Justin tilted his chair back.

  I nodded, but wondered with some unease whether Batya had killed herself. Dr. McIntyre, I recalled, had seemed edgy when I’d brought up her name.

  “Plus Amy said if anyone was guilty of cheating, it was Greg,” Justin said.

  “In college?”

  “At Torat Tzion,” he said, impatiently. He brought his chair to an upright position. “They said Greg changed kids’ answers on the APs.”

  “Why would Greg do that?”

  “He didn’t do it.” Justin scowled.

  Cheryl put her hand on her son’s. “Molly knows that, honey.” The coffeemaker had shut off. She stood and took the few steps into the kitchen. “They said he did it for the status. Greg was proud that almost all of his students passed the AP. They passed because he prepared them so well.” Cheryl took three mugs from a cabinet.

  Sara, I recalled, had said that Dassie had hoped to have Shankman for an AP history class. That Shankman worked students hard, that almost everyone in his class passed the AP exam. And someone in the chat room had mentioned a teacher who changed answers on an AP exam. Was that chat room visitor someone from Torat Tzion?

  “I can still see Greg the night he told us what had happened,” Cheryl said, holding one of the mugs. “He was devastated. Shocked, hurt. He didn’t know how he would support himself. He’d moved into a new apartment. He’d just bought a new car. More than that, he loved teaching. Working with kids, helping them reach their potential. He couldn’t see himself doing anything else.”

  My mother loves teaching for the same reason. So does my brother Judah, who won’t give up his two classes even though his Judaica store is thriving. I found it hard to reconcile Greg Shankman, model teacher, with the man who had lured Hadassah from her home and threatened to rape her. My mother says the truth can have many faces. Maybe Greg had been both people.

  Something was nagging at me. I reviewed in my mind what Justin had told me. “You said other teachers suspected Prosser of cheating, Justin. Wouldn’t that have rung bells and shown him to be a liar?”

  Justin looked at his mother.

  “Tell Molly,” she said. “She’ll understand.”

  But he drummed his fingers on the table and waited until Cheryl had brought the mugs to the table and was sitting again.

  “Justin,” she said.

  He sighed. “Prosser found out that Greg had a thing with a senior at the high school where he taught before he came to Torat Tzion.” He was looking at me, daring me to say something.

  All I could come up with was, “Oh.”

  “He made a mistake,” Justin said, his tone just short of belligerent. “People make mistakes. That didn’t mean A
my was telling the truth about the harassment.”

  I wondered how certain Justin would be of Shankman’s innocence if he knew about Hadassah. “How did Prosser know this?”

  “He found a letter from the student in Greg’s briefcase. She said their affair was partly her fault, but mostly it was Greg’s. He took advantage of her. She was his student. She was too young to know what she was doing. Now she had to deal with the repercussions. Her therapist said she had to work though her anger so she could make decisions about her life. She didn’t want to hurt him, but she had to consider what was best.”

  “She was going to go to the authorities?” I took a tentative sip of the coffee.

  Justin shook his head. “She was planning to make their breakup permanent and was thinking of moving to Seattle.”

  For a moment I didn’t put it together. “Melissa Frank,” I said. And the repercussion was their daughter?

  “Greg showed me the letter when he got it,” Cheryl said. “He and Melissa had been having problems, and he’d moved out. He looked like the world was coming to an end. It wasn’t just losing Melissa. It was losing Kaitlin, their daughter. Recently, though, he was hopeful. He said he and Melissa were talking about getting back together. I thought maybe he was in denial, but the news said something about reconciliation, too.”

  “What about the letter?” I asked.

  “Prosser made a photocopy,” Justin said. “He got hold of a list of Melissa’s classmates. He located a dozen or so and found one who was willing to talk.”

  “And he showed the letter to the principal?”

  “His father did. He’s on the board of the school. And the kid told Greg if he showed his proof to the principal, Amy would phone Melissa and tell her what Greg had done to her, and to the Weinberg girl. Greg couldn’t take that chance. He was hoping he and Melissa could work things out. But if Amy talked to her . . . So he never showed anyone the proof, and the school fired him.”

  The cheese Danish that had looked so tempting minutes earlier held no interest for me. “Justin, I’m going to ask you something that will upset you, but please understand that I’m just trying to get a clear picture. Okay?”

  He stiffened.

  “How do you know Amy isn’t telling the truth?”

  “Because I know Greg.” He clenched his jaw. “He would never do something like that. And I talked to Amy’s best friend. She told me Amy is crazy about Prosser and would do anything for him.”

  “How did you meet the friend?”

  “I found out where the Torat Tzion kids hang out. I hooked up with this girl and got her to confide in me.” A sly smile flashed across Justin’s face. “They ruined Greg’s life. I wanted to do something, to help.” There was no smile now, only anger.

  “And this girl told you Amy lied about Greg?”

  “Not in so many words,” he admitted. “I think she got scared.”

  “Do a lot of the kids know about all this?”

  “As far as I know, just Prosser and Amy. And maybe Amy’s best friend. They had to be careful. If word got out, it would all backfire, and they’d be in serious trouble.”

  It was too much to absorb. I had spent several days and countless hours worrying about Hadassah and trying to find her. In the process, I’d felt increasing outrage toward the man who had taken advantage of her. Nothing that I had heard now diffused that outrage, but my feelings had become complicated.

  “Justin, your mother told me you didn’t know if you should go to the police. What does all of this have to do with Greg’s death?”

  “At first Greg was planning to go to the local Jewish newspaper with the story, and maybe the Jewish bureau of education. He even talked about going to the Times. He was so angry and depressed. He felt so helpless.”

  “Wasn’t there anyone he could talk to? Someone who would help?”

  “He tried talking to Rabbi Bailor. He told the rabbi Amy was lying to protect Prosser. He didn’t tell him about his girlfriend and daughter. He didn’t know how the rabbi would take that. But Rabbi Bailor told Greg he didn’t have a say about hiring or firing outside of Judaic studies. Plus he and the other principal were butting heads. Greg told the rabbi he understood, but he felt let down. Rabbi Bailor talks the talk, but he sure doesn’t walk the walk.” The young man’s lips curled in derision.

  Cheryl squeezed her son’s hand. “There probably wasn’t anything he could do, Justin. He did write Greg a letter of recommendation.”

  “Whatever. The thing is, Greg decided he couldn’t talk to anyone. Because if he did, the whole thing would come out about Melissa. He couldn’t do that to her, or his daughter. The last time I talked to him he sounded terrible, like he had nothing to live for. And then today my mom and I heard he was killed in a car accident. And the first thing I thought was, that wasn’t an accident. He killed himself. But they made him do it. And they should pay, shouldn’t they? Somebody should.”

  Justin wrapped his hands around his mug. “But if I tell the police, everybody will know Greg killed himself. Melissa, too. They’ll have to tell her. And what if Kaitlin finds out? People talk. You know how that is. What kind of legacy is that to leave your daughter? What I’m asking is, do you think I should tell the police or leave it alone? It’s not like telling them is going to make a difference, is it? Nothing I say or do will bring him back.”

  Chapter 31

  Bubbie G’s hands were floury when she opened the door. “Such a surprise.” She wiped her hands on her red-checkered apron and stood on tiptoe to kiss me.

  “I was in the neighborhood and decided to stop by, Bubbie. Something smells good.”

  “Mandelbrot.” The Jewish equivalent of almond-flavored biscotti. “Bella came a few minutes ago. I’m popular today.” She winked.

  Bella Grubner was sitting on Bubbie’s olive green velvet couch. She’s one of Bubbie’s many friends, most of who are Polish-born Holocaust survivors, many of them widows. Bella is big-hearted, but when it comes to gossip, she could teach Liz Smith a few moves. Hence Bubbie’s wink.

  Bella has a big frame, too. The hug she gave me was practically a Heimlich maneuver.

  “You look beautiful, Molly,” she said. “If I didn’t know you were wearing a sheitel, I would think this is your own hair. Custom, yes? How much did you pay?”

  “It was a gift,” Bubbie said. “From her parents.”

  “How’s your husband, Molly? Such a good-looking man.”

  “He’s great, thanks.”

  “You’re married eight months already, no?” She eyed my stomach. “I see you put on a little weight. Good news?” She smiled.

  “Chocolate,” I said.

  Bella looked confused, then smiled. “It’ll happen, Molly.” She patted my arm. “With some people it takes longer. My niece was married three years, and now she has twins. Kenehoreh,” she added quickly, to ward off the evil eye.

  “Molly has to talk to me about something,” Bubbie said. “Private.”

  “Oh?”

  “Police business,” I said, assuming a solemn expression. “I need Bubbie’s advice.”

  “Oh.” Bella looked at Bubbie with envy.

  According to my mom, Bubbie G qvells in telling her friends that her granddaughter is chummy with LAPD detectives and is in the know about crime around the city. My former seventy-eight-year-old thrice-widowed landlord, Isaac, took similar pleasure in bragging to his poker buddies about his “well-connected” tenant. Now that reading even large-print material has become frustrating for Bubbie (she found the magnifying machine my parents rented from an eye institute too cumbersome), she has my mother read my column to her every Tuesday and phones to tell me her favorite entries. She’s an ardent fan of true crime books and crime fiction—she passed on that love to me—and she rushes to the library to get the latest audio books on tape.

  After Bella left, I followed Bubbie into the kitchen, where eight two-inch-high loaves were cooling on racks on the white-tiled counter.

  She placed on
e of the loaves onto a cutting board. “Don’t let Bella upset you, Molly. She means well.”

  “I know. But it has been eight months, and I didn’t get pregnant with Ron, either.”

  “Bella can say foolish things, but she’s right.” Bubbie picked up a knife. “It’s in Hashem’s hands. And eight months isn’t so long, sheyfeleh. Sara, Rivka, Rachel—they all waited longer.”

  I watched, nervous, as she sliced each loaf on the diagonal into one-inch slices, but though Bubbie has only limited peripheral vision, her fingers were sure.

  When the slices were in the oven, lying on their sides on a greased cookie sheet, Bubbie brought tea and sugar cookies to the breakfast room table.

  “Something is bothering you, Molly,” she said. A statement, not a question. “You have a heavy heart. Friday night, too. It’s about having a baby, or something else?”

  I’m always amazed by how much my sightless grandmother can see. “A man was killed,” I said. “Not a nice man, but still.”

  She nodded. “And?”

  “I’m afraid the killer may be someone I know, somebody in the community. And I’m having mixed feelings about the man who was killed.”

  I told her everything, beginning with Reuben Jastrow’s appearance in the lobby of my San Diego hotel. She listened without interrupting, nodding once in a while as she sipped her raspberry tea.

  “If I had never gone to Detective Connors,” I said when I had finished, “he would never have found out about Hadassah Bailor. He wouldn’t have known that the Bailors had a motive.”

  “The rabbi and his brother-in-law asked you to help, Molly, to use your police connections. This is why they came to you. And the rabbi knew you were going to show the detective the note.” Bubbie leaned across the table and took my hand in both of hers. “You went with good intentions. How could you know this would happen? And if, chas v’shalom, the rabbi or his family is involved, the truth will come out, Molly, with or without you. This is what was meant to be.”