Shifrin moved closer to the photograph of Judith. He leaned forward and squinted at it for a moment. He turned to Hirsch, baffled.
“What are you trying to tell me? She's dead? When did this happen?”
CHAPTER 20
Hirsch stood at the picture window of Rosenbloom's high-rise condo and stared into the night sky over Forest Park. In the distance, silhouetted atop Art Hill, were the outlines of the Art Museum and the statue of the city's namesake, King Louis IX astride his horse. Directly over the museum hung a crescent moon.
The living room was dark. A light in the hall cast just enough illumination for him to see the reflection of Rosenbloom in his wheelchair, staring at Hirsch's back.
Hirsch had phoned from his car after leaving Shifrin's house. “Sancho, we need to talk.”
“Then get your ass over here.”
Rosenbloom's condo, with its parquet floors and graceful fixtures and elegant lines, reminded Hirsch of the Park Avenue and Upper East Side apartments of the New York City lawyers he'd worked with back in his glory days. It was the last place you'd expect to find Seymour Rosenbloom, who seemed far better suited for a two-flat in a middle-class neighborhood. Two years ago, after his M.S. reached the stage where life in a two-story house was no longer an option, he sold the beloved family home in University City, where he and Sarah had raised Nathan and a menagerie of pets, and moved into West Park Towers, with its all-important elevator running from the underground garage to his condo on the sixteenth floor.
Hirsch had helped him pack his personal belongings over two weekends back then. That had been a difficult journey into the past for Sancho—made especially so by his disease, which seemed to have stripped the protective layer between his memories and his emotions. Plenty of tears those two weekends.
“I have an idea.”
Hirsch turned from the window. “Pardon?”
Rosenbloom rolled himself into the living room. “Let's play a game of pretend. Indulge me.”
“Go ahead.”
“Let's pretend that she really died in the crash. No foul play. No loose ends. Let's pretend it happened exactly the way McCormick and the cops and the medical examiner said it did. You with me so far?”
“So far.”
“And let's also pretend that she died instantly. No pain, no suffering. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“That's our scenario. Now, let's pretend that the other side offers seventy-five grand. What do you do?”
“I talk to my client.”
“What do you tell him?”
“I tell him the offer is too low, but it's a good start.”
“What's your counter?”
Hirsch shrugged. “Two fifty, maybe three.”
“What's your bottom line?”
“One fifty.”
“Maybe less?”
“Maybe.”
“What about your client's desire for retribution?”
“You mean the admission of guilt?”
“Think any of the defendants will give you that?”
“No.”
“So how do you deal with that?”
“I try for an expression of sorrow, assuming it was really just an accident. I'd let them deny liability but include a paragraph in the settlement agreement stating their deep sadness over what happened to his daughter.”
“I like it.” Rosenbloom nodded. “They might go for it. You'll be a hero.”
“Maybe in your game of pretend. I'm stuck with reality.”
“Wait. I'm not done with our game. Let's compare fantasies. If we make mine real, you settle the case, and probably for a nice pile of money. Don't knock that part, my friend. Between the restitution order in your criminal case and child support for Lauren, you're barely one rung above our Chapter Thirteen clients. Be glad your older daughter's out of school. And don't forget old Jack the Ripper, who is about to cry havoc and let slip his dogs of war. There's a pleasant thought, eh? Two years of trench warfare with that cretin. But a settlement, well, a settlement solves everything. It eliminates the litigation death march, earns you a big payday, and maybe even gets you a little positive spin in the press, which wouldn't be such a bad thing. Let's face it, Samson, your media profile could use a little buffing.”
Hirsch smiled. “It's tempting.”
“Tempting? That's an understatement. Especially if we compare my fantasy to yours, also known as Samson's Last Stand. Our first problem with your fantasy is that this ain't Hollywood and you ain't Luke Skywalker. Our second problem is that before you can catch a killer you need a murder. But let's set those pesky little problems to one side, okay? What if McCormick actually killed her? And let's not forget how big of an ‘if' that if is. But let's assume he did. What's that mean for you? It means you're going to be trying to build a circumstantial case for murder against a federal district judge. Even worse, you're going to be trying to build it in the face of a determination by the medical examiner on duty that night that the cause of death was the accident. And just to add one other tiny hitch, she died more than three years ago and wasn't embalmed. That means that key physical evidence—probably the only physical evidence—has decomposed.”
Rosenbloom shook his head.
“In the face of all that, Samson, you want to try to gather enough evidence to convince a prosecutor to charge a federal district judge with first-degree murder? That's the equivalent of hunting a Bengal tiger with a BB gun. The only thing worse than missing him is hitting him.”
“I know all that, Sancho. So what? That doesn't mean we just walk away.”
“Wait.” Rosenbloom was staring at him. A grin spread over his face and he shook his head in amusement.
“What?”
“You slick bastard.”
“Huh?”
Rosenbloom chuckled. “I just realized what's going on.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It's Dulcie, right?”
“Pardon?”
“You're trying to impress that foxy professor.”
Hirsch gave him a weary smile. “There are far easier ways to do that than rejecting a settlement offer in this case.”
“Ah, but none so noble. Especially for her. Hell, it's what she does for a living. Look at her clinic. Defender of abused and exploited women. Champion of the underdog. And along comes Mr. Former Male Chauvinist Pig Felon Seeking Redemption. You're a goddamn chick flick come to life.”
Hirsch shook his head. “To quote a wise man, this isn't Hollywood and I'm no Luke Skywalker. Moreover, she's been through her own version of hell with an ex-husband. Her clinic is a lot more grit than glory. I wouldn't call her a romantic.”
“Call her whatever you want, but you have to agree she's a total babe.”
“No dispute there. But that's no reason to turn down that settlement.”
“And this fantasy of yours is?” Rosenbloom gave him a sad smile. “Oy, Samson, look at us. We're not the Hardy Boys. Be sensible. Judith Shifrin is dead. She's going to stay dead no matter what you do. If you can squeeze a six-figure settlement out of those bastards, you're going to be a genuine American hero.”
“This isn't about us, Sancho. You know that. Her father didn't hire me to broker a deal. The least I can do is to try to find out the truth about his daughter's death. I owe it to him—and to her, too.”
“Why?”
“You know the answer as well as I do. I'm a lawyer and he's the client. I'm doing what he hired me to do.”
Rosenbloom rolled his wheelchair across the floor to the other picture window. He stared out at Forest Park.
After a moment, he turned to Hirsch. “Speaking of lawyers, you do recall that I am actually the lead lawyer on this case, don't you?”
“I do.”
Rosenbloom rolled his eyes. “If I had any sense, I'd yank your ass off this case and settle it myself.”
He leaned back in his wheelchair and sighed. He smiled at Hirsch.
“You're crazy, Samson. You understand
that, right? Fucking nuts.”
Hirsch was smiling. “I hope not.”
“Oh, trust me on this one, Samson. You're completely irrational. Off your rocker. But guess what? If you're crazy enough to take on a goddamn federal district judge, I can't let you do that on your own.”
“Of course you can. This is my client. This is none of your business.”
“Hey, you're my business, boychik. And I'm yours.” He patted the side of his wheelchair. “She ain't much of a donkey, but she'll do.”
CHAPTER 21
“Russ Jefferson called me this morning.”
Dulcie put down her fork. “About her computer?”
He waited until the waitress refilled their iced teas and left.
“They can't find it,” he said.
“How can that be?”
“The court administrator has no record of her computer after her death.”
They were having lunch at the Chez Leon bistro in the Central West End. Dulcie had called that morning to say she'd been able to reach a few more of the people whose Knoxville phone numbers were on Judith's phone bills. Hirsch had been thinking about her at the time she called—as he had been, off and on, for most of the morning. He'd suggested they talk about it at lunch, and she agreed.
On the way to the restaurant he tried to temper his anticipation, reminding himself that Dulcie's involvement in the case was due to her relationship with Judith and not him.
She'd been seated alone in a booth along the side wall with a legal pad on the table in front of her. Reading glasses were perched on the end of her nose and the top of her pen was pressed against her lower lip as she studied her notes. She was wearing a black wool vest over a white cotton turtleneck, a tartan plaid skirt, and high leather boots. She'd looked up as he scooted into the booth across from her. When she smiled, he felt like he was back in junior high sitting next to the cutest girl in the class.
But she was frowning now. “It wasn't a laptop computer, was it?”
“Nope. Just a standard desktop model.”
“Then what about the law clerk who replaced her? Why didn't he receive her computer?”
“Good question. Lousy answer. There was a six-month gap between Judith's death and the arrival of McCormick's new clerk, a guy named Hernandez. His computer had a different serial number than Judith's.”
“They're sure?”
“That's what Russ told me. He even had the court administrator send someone over to McCormick's chambers yesterday afternoon to physically check the serial number on the current law clerk's computer.”
“Is the clerk in her old office?”
“Yes.”
“So where did her computer go?”
Hirsch shrugged. “All the court administrator could say was that it was probably a clerical error.”
“No pun intended.”
It took Hirsch a moment. “Right.”
“You think McCormick knew what she had on her computer?”
“Who knows? Remember, we don't even know if she had anything incriminating on her computer. And if she did”—he shook his head in frustration—“we have no idea what it could be. We're assuming that if he killed her, he had a dark motive. But maybe they were having an affair. Maybe it was just a crime of passion, assuming there was any crime at all. If so, there wouldn't be much on her computer besides maybe a few romantic e-mails.”
Dulcie leaned back in her chair. “Shit.”
Hirsch took a sip of iced tea and then another forkful of his grilled salmon. He watched Dulcie eat her pesto pasta. She looked up and met his gaze.
She gave him a curious look. “What?”
“Have you talked with Lauren?”
He'd been thinking about his daughter constantly since their encounter at Dulcie's clinic last week.
She nodded. “This morning. She wanted to know how I knew you. I told her. We talked some about your case.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Don't worry, David. I told her nothing beyond the facts of the wrongful death claim you filed. Nothing beyond the public documents in the court file. She knows nothing about your suspicions.”
“How's she doing?” he asked.
“She's dealing with it. She told me you send her a letter every year on her birthday. And another one on the High Holidays.”
“Does she read them?” Hirsch asked.
“Yes.” Dulcie smiled. “And she's saved them all.”
Hirsch nodded, momentarily unable to speak.
Dulcie said, “She was pleased to hear about the lawsuit. Maybe even a little proud of her father.”
Hirsch shook his head. “She's still young.”
Dulcie gave him a sympathetic look. “It'll take time.”
He wasn't there for therapy. “Tell me about your Knoxville calls.”
“I reached six more people. One still works at Peterson. Guy named Finch. He's in risk management. Spends most of his time on workmen's comp claims. The other five,” she paused to check her notes, “two are retired and three work for other companies. Most of them barely even remembered her phone call. But one of the five, a woman named Carmen Moldano, actually met Judith.”
“In person?”
Dulcie nodded. “She came to Knoxville.”
“In September, right?”
Dulcie looked surprised. “How did you know?”
“Judith's credit card records. They included one roundtrip airline ticket in September. I checked with the airline for the flight information. She flew into Knoxville on the afternoon of September eleventh. That was a Friday. She flew home two days later.”
“She saw Carmen that weekend. Carmen remembers that she was planning to meet with two others the same weekend.”
“Did she know who?”
Dulcie shook her head. “Judith wouldn't tell her.”
“Why not?”
“She told Carmen that all of the meetings were strictly confidential.”
“Did she tell her why?”
“Something vague about investigating something related to the lawsuit in St. Louis.”
“How did she set up the meeting?”
“She talked to Carmen on the phone a couple times. The first time was pretty general, but she second time she explained that she was real interested in the names of people at the company involved with the tire case. Carmen was a file clerk in the legal department back then, so she knew a lot of names. About two weeks after their second telephone conversation, Judith sent her an e-mail telling her she was coming to Knoxville and wanted to meet with her. They e-mailed back and forth to set up the meeting. By the way, Judith didn't use her own name.”
“Esther Summerson?”
“Yep. She must have set up another e-mail account for that name.”
“So what happened when they met?”
“It was basically a more detailed version of their second telephone call. Judith had Carmen walk her through all of the legal department personnel, from the general counsel down to the guy who worked in the copy center. She took careful notes, asking her about each of the people and what they did.”
“You said Carmen was a file clerk?”
“Right.”
“Did she work on the tire case?”
“No. She worked mainly with the environmental lawyers. She was aware of the tire case. Everyone in the legal department was. But she had no involvement in it.”
“She's no longer with Peterson Tire?”
“Right. She's a paralegal with a Knoxville law firm.”
Hirsch leaned back in his seat, pondering the information. “Did she think it was unusual to get a visit like that from the law clerk for the judge in that tire case?”
“Judith didn't tell her she was a law clerk. She told her she was a lawyer—a lawyer representing a third party who was interested in certain aspects of the case.”
“Interested in what way?”
“Judith never told her.”
“So what did Carmen think?”
/> “She thought it was a little odd. But she told me that Judith's, or rather Esther's, visit wasn't the only odd thing about the case.”
“How so?”
“She said that there was a lot of top secret stuff with the case, which seemed strange to her because so much of what was happening in the case was public knowledge. But the lawyers and staff on the case never talked about any aspect of it with anyone in the department. Never. The files were kept in a separate locked room. Everything was highly confidential.”
“Anything else about the visit?”
“She said Judith asked her about Ruth Jones.”
“That was the CFO's secretary?”
“How'd you know?”
Hirsch said, “One of the Knoxville people I talked to was a retired sales manager named Kindle. He told Judith that his secretary had a friend in the executive suite named Ruth. He couldn't remember her last name, but he said she was the CFO's secretary.”
“According to Carmen,” Dulcie said, “Judith was very interested in finding out more about Ruth.”
“What did Carmen know about Ruth?”
“She knew that Ruth had left the company earlier the summer Judith visited. Judith told Carmen that she'd been trying to locate Ruth but couldn't find her. Carmen agreed to look for her new address. She assumed that Personnel would have it, and they did. About a week after their meeting in Knoxville, she sent Judith an e-mail with the new address.”
“Does she remember it?”
Dulcie shook her head. “All she remembered was that Ruth lived somewhere in Chicago.”
“Chicago.” Hirsch nodded. “Judith must have gone to visit her. Maybe twice.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Credit card bills. She paid for gas in Chicago once in late September and again in mid-October. There's also a motel bill from up there as well. The Hyatt Lincolnwood. That's from the October visit.”
“Did she travel anywhere else that last year?”
The Mourning Sexton Page 14
