“A plaintiff's lawyer? Never.” Shifrin wrinkles his nose in disgust. “Goniffs is what they are. Ambulance-chasing goniffs. I'd like to flush every one of them down a toilet. I owned my own business for forty-two years, Mr. Hirsch. Shifrin Plumbing Supplies. I spent half of my time fighting those miserable shysters. Never paid one of them a penny either. Ask around and you'll find that's true.”
He doesn't need to ask around. Although Shifrin sold his business a few years ago and supposedly has mellowed since his daughter's death, he's still known around the synagogue for his quick temper and imperious manner. Hirsch once saw him snapping orders at the caterers during a bar mitzvah kiddush—a function at which Shifrin was merely a guest. Mendel Klein refers to him, out of earshot, as the Little Emperor.
“No, Mr. Hirsch,” he continues, “I want a real lawyer. Understand, sir, that it's not money I'm after. To tell you the truth, I couldn't care less about the money. Blood money is what it is. You can keep it all yourself or donate it to charity, whatever you want. This for me is not about money.”
“Then what is it about?”
Shifrin stares up at him, his eyes watering from the cold. “Justice, Mr. Hirsch. That's what this is about. Nothing else. My only child is dead, sir. I am all that's left to say Kaddish for her. My little girl skids off the road in that crappy car and dies, and those rich bastards in Detroit go on like nothing happened.” He shakes his head angrily. “That's not right. They should remember her yahrzeit, too.”
Not this, he thinks. Not now.
A sudden gust of wind snaps at their overcoats.
“Last month, Mr. Hirsch . . .” Shifrin hesitates. “Last month my doctor sent me to a specialist. For some tests. He was worried, thought something maybe was wrong with my head, something besides old age. Well, guess what happened, Mr. Hirsch? They took all these tests and they studied the results and now they tell me I have that Alzheimer's situation. Early stage, they say, but that's for now. What about next month? Next year? I read the newspapers, sir. I watch the news. I know what's waiting for me and my brain right around the corner.”
Shifrin pauses to shake his head.
“She was an only child, Mr. Hirsch. No brothers or sisters to mourn her. No husband, no children. Her mother—aleya ha'sholem—is dead and buried.”
He gives the gabbai a sad smile.
“It's a funny thing, Mr. Hirsch. I used to worry that when I died, the memory of my daughter would go into the grave with me. But now— My God, now, Mr. Hirsch, her memory is going to die before I do.”
Shifrin's lips quiver slightly.
“Even her own father is going to forget she ever lived on this earth. That's why I come to you, sir. Not for money. I spit on their money and I spit on them. Help me, Mr. Hirsch. Help me save my Judith's memory.”
They face each other in silence. Shifrin stares up at Hirsch, the wind flapping his coat, his hand holding his hat in place.
Finally, Hirsch asks, “Do you have a file?”
“Oh, this I have.” Shifrin is grinning. “Absolutely, sir. Don't move. I'll be right back.”
Hirsch watches him scurry over to his car, open the trunk, and rush back with a thick folder under his arm.
“Here you are, sir.” Shifrin holds out the file. “In here is everything I could put my hands on.”
“I'll review it. No promises.”
“That's fine—no, that's excellent. I'm so relieved, Mr. Hirsch. Judith and I, we had our fights, you know, but what family doesn't, eh? Oy, listen to me talking away like it's a Sunday in the park. I'm making you late for work standing out here.”
He reaches out his gloved hand and they shake. Shifrin has little hands—rigid little hands. He grasps Hirsch's right hand with both hands. “God bless you, sir.”
The gabbai is still standing by his car as Shifrin pulls out of the parking lot, pausing at the exit to tap his horn three times and wave.
The gabbai does not hear the horn. He is staring down at the file, the wind riffling the pages. Off in the distance a train whistle sounds—a long mournful wail. As the sound fades, the gabbai lifts his face toward the gray sky.
CHAPTER 2
His plan was barely an hour old when it started unraveling. The first sign of trouble arrived in the form of Dick Brandon's scheme to sell his dead father. It was, to say the least, an unusual proposal for repaying your creditors.
Hirsch had driven downtown after his parking lot encounter with Abe Shifrin and gone directly to bankruptcy courtroom C for Chapter Thirteen day. He had nine debtors on the docket that morning. One was Dick Brandon, whose original repayment plan had cruised through the creditors meeting two months ago. A week later, he lost his job as second-shift manager at the Denny's in Sunset Hills, and with it the funding source for the plan. With seventy grand in debt and no job, he was facing a motion to convert his Chapter Thirteen repayment plan into a Chapter Seven liquidation.
Judge Shea was running late, which gave Brandon a chance to explain his bizarre scheme to Hirsch in the hallway outside the courtroom. He told him about a plaintiff's lawyer named Hildebrand across the river in Belleville who supposedly had a group of investors—“Deep pockets,” Brandon called them—willing to buy personal injury claims.
“Cash on the barrelhead,” Brandon told him with a wink.
He was a burly guy in his late fifties with thinning brown hair slicked across his forehead, deep-set eyes, a ski-slope nose splotched with red veins, and a ragged mustache.
His plan, he explained, was to sell his father's claim.
“His claim for what?”
“For getting himself killed, that's what.”
“Who killed him?”
“Bastards that run that nursing home. We're talking gross negligence. We're talking crappy food. We're talking filthy rooms and broken air conditioners and a staff of damn morons. We're talking food poisoning and pneumonia and a staph infection—and all in his last year. Staph infection killed him. It'll be four years this February.”
Brandon explained that a drinking buddy of his had a cousin who'd sold her back injury to the Belleville lawyer and his deep pockets for sixty thousand dollars.
“So I says, shit, if that gal could parlay a bad back into sixty grand, I oughta be able to sell my daddy for triple that. Me and my brother Paul split the take fifty-fifty and I still got enough to pay off the debt.” He grinned. “It's a great country, ain't it?”
Back in the courtroom, Hirsch approached Rochelle Krick, the bankruptcy trustee. She was in her usual spot up front, seated alone at counsel's table.
She frowned as she listened to his request for a continuance of the hearing on the Brandon motion. Krick was a serious young woman with short curly black hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Her lips pursed in concentration as she paged through the court papers in one of the three accordion files on the table in front of her. She removed a folder and read the court order on top.
“He's already had one.” She looked up at Hirsch. “You know how much Judge Shea hates a second continuance.”
“He'd go along if you recommend it.”
“Tell me why I should.”
“My client has an idea that could generate enough money to fund his repayment plan, but he'll need more time to put it together.”
She sighed. “How many times have I heard that? Okay, Counselor, I'm all ears.”
Hirsch kept his expression neutral. “Mr. Brandon believes he has a strong claim for wrongful death against the nursing home where his father died. He believes he can raise some money by finding an investor for the claim.”
She pulled out the debtor's schedules of assets and liabilities and ran her index finger down the columns. “He didn't list it. Where is the case pending?”
“He hasn't filed suit yet.”
“When does he plan to file?”
“Soon, I believe.”
“Soon?” She looked up at him. “When did his father die?”
“Almost four years ago.”
A
nd the moment he said the number it clicked.
“Four years?” she said.
He knew what was coming.
“Did his father die in Missouri?”
How could he have forgotten something that basic? How could he be so out of it?
He thought back to Abe Shifrin in the parking lot that morning—the morning after his daughter's third yahrzeit—the old man staring up at him, a gust of wind tugging at his coat. The third yahrzeit. And yet he'd remained oblivious.
“Mr. Hirsch, the statute of limitations for wrongful death is three years. I'm afraid your client is out of luck.”
Three stately raps of the gavel, and then the clerk's deep voice:
“All rise.”
But he hadn't considered the significance of lunar time versus solar time. The moon's rotation around the earth controls the Jewish calendar while the earth's rotation around the sun controls the Gregorian calendar. As a result, the two are never in synch. On the Jewish calendar, each month begins on the first day of the new moon. One moon cycle multiplied by twelve equals roughly 355 days, which means that each year the Jewish calendar falls another ten days behind the Gregorian one. To keep the days in harmony with the seasons, the Jewish calendar inserts a leap month every third year, which is why Hanukkah and the other holidays seem to jump around the Gregorian calendar.
The Jewish calendar governed the yahrzeit for Judith Shifrin while the Gregorian calendar governed the statute of limitations for her wrongful death claim. On the Jewish calendar, Judith Shifrin died on the twenty-eighth day of Kislev, which meant that her yahrzeit would be on the twenty-eighth of Kislev each year no matter where in December that date fell that year on the Gregorian calendar. This year, the twenty-eighth day of Kislev happened to fall on the sixteenth day of December. Three years ago, when the attending physician at St. John's Hospital pronounced Judith Shifrin dead on arrival at 10:14 P.M., the date on the death certificate was December 18.
All of which meant that her death claim was still alive.
Just barely.
Good news for Judith's father, bad news for Hirsch. When he'd taken the file from Abe Shifrin that morning, he'd had no intention of actually handling the lawsuit. None whatsoever. His plan was to play the limited role of go-between—to review the file, perhaps hire an investigator to poke around for evidence of defects in the vehicle or the tires, make a preliminary assessment of liability, and find Shifrin an experienced personal injury lawyer. He wasn't concerned about the old man's aversion to plaintiff's lawyers—an aversion no doubt based on a few unpleasant encounters with bottom fishers. The top plaintiffs lawyers had an extraordinary ability to connect with people, to inspire trust and empathy from complete strangers. That's why juries awarded their clients millions of dollars. When he took the file, Hirsch had no doubt that he could find Shifrin such a lawyer.
But today was December 17, which meant tomorrow was D-Day for the wrongful death claim. No time for investigators, no time for careful analysis, and surely no time for screening interviews with personal injury lawyers. There wasn't even time to figure out whether Judith Shifrin's death merited a lawsuit, although he had to make that decision anyway since there was no one else.
Shifrin's folder included copies of the accident report and the medical examiner's report, a spec sheet on the Ford Explorer for the model year involved, various news clippings (including Judith's obituary), and several photographs of her, ranging from a fifth-grade Sears portrait through her law school graduation picture.
Seated at his desk that afternoon, Hirsch shuffled slowly through the photos, watching her grow from a pudgy, rosy-cheeked eleven-year-old girl with pigtails, glasses, and braces into an earnest young woman with shoulder-length black hair and a slender, almost wiry figure. Gone were the glasses and braces—the former giving way to contacts (he assumed), and the latter having helped create a lovely smile. He studied the photos, trying to connect with the dead woman, forcing back thoughts of his own two daughters. Judith Shifrin was somewhere along that continuum between attractive and plain.
In her high school graduation picture, she was posed with her father. He stood at least a head taller than his daughter, which meant that she was quite short. Her father stood at attention next to her, his shoulders back, his expression stern, while Judith looked the role of submissive daughter. She reminded Hirsch of the quiet girls from his high school—the ones who turned in all their homework assignments on time, never raised their hands in class, and served as the recording secretaries for one of those earnest high school clubs for Russian studies or future nurses. By the time of her law school photograph, there were subtle changes. She stood alone, her diploma in one hand and her cap in the other, looking a bit more intense, a bit less submissive—the determined young lawyer marching off into the world.
He picked up the accident report, which included a three-page statement from the sole witness, Judge Brendan McCormick. McCormick's statement, taken at the hospital the following morning by one of the officers from the scene of the accident, generally confirmed Hirsch's recollections, probably because the statement had been quoted and paraphrased in the news stories that Shifrin had clipped for the file and that Hirsch must have originally read in the prison library. McCormick's memory of the accident was somewhat fuzzy, in part because it happened so quickly and in part because he'd been fiddling with the car radio at the time and in part because he was drunk. He recalled Judith giving a surprised gasp. He'd looked up from the dashboard to see a small animal—a fox perhaps, or maybe a large cat, he wasn't sure—dart across the road in front of the vehicle, moving left to right. Judith swerved hard to the left to avoid the animal and centrifugal force shoved him against the door. He felt a slight acceleration, and then a tree seemed to leap out of the forest at them as she cried, “No!” The next thing he remembered was the sound of rapping on the window and a male voice shouting, “Are you okay, sir?”
That voice belonged to a high school senior named Charlie Peckham, whose 911 call that night was logged in at 8:43 P.M. According to Peckham's statement, he was driving home after a concert band practice and had taken a shortcut through the country club grounds when he spotted the rear lights of what turned out to be a Ford Explorer almost hidden in the trees off the side of the road. He got out of his car to check it out. The driver's side of the front end of the Explorer was crushed against the trunk of a large tree, but the engine was still running. The headlights were angled in crazy directions, spotlighting tree trunks and bare limbs dusted with snow. He peered inside the vehicle and saw a large man in the front passenger seat and a small woman behind the wheel. Both air bags had deployed. The man was moaning and moving his head slightly. The woman was motionless, her face pressed against the partially deflated air bag.
McCormick's sensation that the vehicle had accelerated before the collision seemed consistent with the physical evidence. The tire tracks suggested that Judith Shifrin had not applied the brakes. The investigating officer concluded that a combination of panic and unfamiliarity with the vehicle had caused her to mistakenly step on the gas instead.
Hirsch turned to the medical examiner's report. There had been no autopsy. The assisting technician had taken X-rays and photographs of the corpse and samples of blood, urine, and vitreous fluid. The results of the toxicology tests revealed a small amount of alcohol (below the legal limit, indicating perhaps one drink, the pathologist's notes stated). Judith Shifrin was tiny—just five feet tall, ninety-two pounds.
The X-rays and photographs were contained in a sealed envelope labeled “Forensic Materials—Duplicates,” which Shifrin must have obtained in his efforts to put together a complete file on his daughter's death. Understandably, he'd never broken the seal to view the contents.
Hirsch did.
But the X-rays were meaningless to him, anonymous skeleton sections. He flipped through the morgue shots, disturbed by the stark white flesh, the frail naked body, the gray lips, the vacant eyes.
Even though the
driver's side air bag deployed, the impact from the collision had killed her. Hirsch was not familiar with much of the medical terminology in the report, but he understood the medical examiner's conclusion: “Cause of Death: Blunt force trauma with asphyxia, apparently caused by motor vehicle accident and deployment of air-bag system.”
To that conclusion Hirsch added his own: an unfortunate accident with no one to blame but fate.
CHAPTER 3
Seymour Rosenbloom closed the file folder and slid it across his desk toward Hirsch. “This is a no-brainer.”
“What's that mean?”
“Sue the bastards.”
“Which ones?”
“All of them. Ford Motor, the tire manufacturer, the outfit that made the air bags, anyone who had anything to do with that car. Sue them all.”
“On what ground?”
“On the ground she's fucking dead. On the ground that drunk knucklehead survived and she didn't. What's that all about, huh?”
Rosenbloom backed his wheelchair away from the desk and wheeled himself toward the window. He peered out at the lights of downtown and then turned toward Hirsch with a grin.
“Come on, Samson. If you're going to play the personal injury game, you're going to need the proper mind-set. You're going to need to cleanse your system of all those defense attorney toxins. You're going to need a brand-new mantra.”
“And I suppose you have one for me?”
“This is your lucky day, boychik. Place your hand over your heart and solemnly recite after me. Hey, I'm serious. Hand over your heart.”
“Cut it out, Sancho.”
“Come on. This is important.”
Hirsch sighed and placed his hand over his heart.
“That's better. Now, recite after me. Ready? ‘If you've been hurt in an accident'—go ahead, say it.”
Hirsch gave him a look.
“Come on.”
The Mourning Sexton Page 2
