The Mourning Sexton

by Michael Baron

  “Just the one trip to Knoxville and the two to Chicago.”

  Dulcie signed. “This is maddening. What was she looking for?”

  “And whatever it was, did she find it?”

  CHAPTER 22

  Chapter Thirteen Day, and once again Judge Shea was running late.

  All the usual players were in all the usual positions. Rochelle Krick, the bankruptcy trustee, was alone at counsel's table, seated erect, facing the judge's bench, her color-coded accordion files on the table before her. Hirsch was in the front row, his trial bag on the floor at his feet as he leafed through his notes for today's debtors.

  The gallery behind them hummed with voices. Scattered around the courtroom were lawyers and debtors—the two easy to distinguish. The lawyers were mostly male and mostly white, while the debtors were a motley assortment—black and white, male and female, city and suburb, young and old, waitresses and auto mechanics, riverboat casino pit bosses and department store floor managers, computer technicians and used car salesmen. Many wore the uniforms of their trades, some with their names stitched above the breast pockets.

  Among the lawyers, there were two breeds, debtor lawyers and creditor lawyers, and the keen observer could tell them apart. Most of the debtor lawyers were in sports jackets and slacks, and most were clutching jumbled batches of files. Many stood along the side walls, peering around the crowd as they called out names, trying to locate their clients. By contrast, the creditors' lawyers were the suits. Not a plaid jacket among them. All with meters running, paid by the hour by their corporate and banking and public utility clients. These weren't country club suits, of course. The five-hundred-dollar-an-hour swells worked the big Chapter Elevens, the ones covered by the Wall Street Journal. No, these were the second-tier suits, the Chapter Thirteen boys from the smaller firms, the ones who snagged the work by cutting their hourly rates and then making it back in volume. The suits waited calmly, some chatting together, others seated on the benches, paging through their papers or doing the crossword puzzle in the Post-Dispatch, one or two drifting up to confer with Rochelle Krick, others talking on their cell phones.

  Not a big-firm lawyer in the lot. Hirsch had been handling Chapter Thirteen dockets for nearly a year now and had yet to run into a single lawyer he'd known from before. Parallel universes with little overlap, in or out of court. The Jewish lawyers in the bankruptcy bar tended to be in the Jewish Community Center crowd, while their counterparts in the big law firms tended to be in the country club crowd. In his former life, he'd never run into any of these bankruptcy lawyers in court, at his country club, or at any social function. And now he never saw any of the lawyers from that life, while the bankruptcy faces were getting familiar. Two of his regular handball opponents at the JCC represented secured creditors, and one of the debtor attorneys was often in the JCC weight room on the nights Hirsch did his lifting.

  “Hey, David?”

  Vinny Manoli. He represented GMAC, a creditor in at least a third of Hirsch's Chapter Thirteens. Vinny was in his mid-thirties, a stocky guy with a dark complexion and thick black hair slicked straight back, highlighting a deep widow's peak.

  “Guy out there wants to see you.” He gestured toward the back of the courtroom with his thumb, reminding Hirsch of an umpire signaling an out.

  “Who is he?”

  Vinny shrugged. “Didn't say. Fat guy, expensive threads.”

  A description that fit Vinny, too, although Hirsch knew who it was.

  Marvin Guttner stood by the window facing east toward the Arch and the Mississippi River. His entourage that morning consisted of a junior partner and two associates. They were huddled farther down the hall, just out of earshot. All of their eyes followed Hirsch as he approached Guttner, who turned to greet him.

  “Good morning, David. A happy coincidence, eh?”

  “How so?”

  “I had a hearing upstairs.”

  The district court courtrooms were on the upper floors. This was, Hirsch assumed, the first time Guttner had ever found himself down here with the bankruptcy riffraff.

  Guttner said, “We were before Judge McCormick at nine. A short hearing. In the Peterson Tire case, in fact. I noticed on the schedule in the lobby that Judge Shea had a Chapter Thirteen docket at ten this morning. I took a chance that you might be here, and so you are.”

  Hirsch waited.

  As usual, Guttner was elegantly attired: a gray chalk-striped suit, crisp white shirt, silk tie, gleaming black Guccis. Hirsch marveled at the skills of the tailor who could drape that frame so gracefully, as if Omar the Tentmaker had earned an advanced degree from Saville Row.

  Guttner's smile faded, replaced by a concerned frown. “Jack Bellows is chomping at the bit, David. For that matter, so is my litigation team. I can hold them back only so long. Bellows told me yesterday that if you haven't responded by the close of business today, he's withdrawing from the settlement discussions and serving you with his written discovery.”

  Guttner leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Frankly, David, I get the sense that Bellows has some personal agenda here. Something with you in the past. In any event, time is of the essence. I cannot emphasize that enough. Explain to your client that we need his response as soon as possible. Today, if possible. Talk to him.”

  “I have.”

  “Ah, good. And?”

  “He rejects your offer.”

  “I suppose I am not shocked. I understand that he was a tenacious businessman in his day. Not an easy man to bargain with, they say. I must warn you, however, that I do not have much wiggle room here, David. Nonetheless, you might as well let me hear it.”

  “There's nothing to let you hear.”

  “Surely he has a counteroffer?”

  “He didn't give me one.”

  “How can that be?”

  “He rejected your offer, Marvin. He has not asked me to make a counteroffer.”

  Guttner pursed his lips. “That is unwise.”

  “To you, perhaps.”

  “What about to you?”

  Hirsch shrugged. “I'm just the lawyer. If my client wants to settle, fine. If not, that's his prerogative. He didn't retain me to force him to do something against his will.”

  “But he did retain you to give him legal advice.”

  “Actually, he retained me to sue your client. That's what I've done.”

  Guttner tugged at a loose fold of skin on his massive neck. “This is imprudent. For him and for you.”

  “It is what it is, Marvin. Your clients made an offer. My client turned it down. Away we go.”

  “Yo, David.”

  Hirsch turned.

  Vinny Manoli was leaning out of the courtroom. “He's on the bench.”

  Hirsch nodded at Vinny and turned back. “See you in court, Marvin.”

  Guttner stared at him for a moment and then turned away, shaking his head.

  CHAPTER 23

  When he got back from court, Hirsch found Rosenbloom in the office manager's cubicle. For the umpteenth time, the unflappable Molly Hamilton was listening to her boss grumble about receivables and billable hours and out-of-control overhead and declare, loudly enough for all to hear, that he could earn more and sleep better working the drive-thru window at McDonald's. Acting, in short, as if he were in it only for the money.

  Hirsch knew better. So did Molly.

  They all did—right down to the receptionist and the mailroom clerks. They all knew that Seymour Rosenbloom relished his skirmishes with the banks and finance companies that hounded his clients. They'd all heard him cackling over the way he'd outfoxed yet another smug creditor. They all knew he loved drubbing the law firms that once rejected him.

  GMAC or First National might have a contractual right to repossess that car or foreclose on that mortgage, but Rosenbloom's clients had the next best thing, namely, a lawyer with a Talmudic skill for finding ambiguities and loopholes in the fine print of form contracts drafted by lawyers with a fraction of his brainpower. He r
egularly came up with ways to halt foreclosures and derail repossessions that left his opponents slack-jawed.

  All I do, he liked to say, is try to level the playing field.

  As if it were no big deal to put his forklift driver from Fenton on equal footing with, say, Bank of America.

  “I'm getting too old for this,” he groaned as he wheeled himself down the hallway.

  Hirsch followed him into his office, sneaking a look back at Molly, who stood watching them with her hands on her hips. She smiled and rolled her eyes.

  Rosenbloom moved behind his desk and turned to face Hirsch. “Nu?”

  “I ran into Guttner outside Judge Shea's courtroom today.”

  “Really? Why was Jabba slumming?”

  “Looking for me.”

  “Blimpie is getting a little antsy, eh?”

  “Seems to be.”

  Rosenbloom chuckled. “Can't figure out why you won't take his money.”

  “He does seem perplexed.”

  “Curious, eh? That pompous motherfucker is eager to throw money at you this early in the case? Suggests to me that Jabba's hands may not be lily white.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Trying to settle a case this soon? Before his shock troops get a chance to bill some hours? That greedy bastard would no more pass up a fat fee than pass up a dozen jelly doughnuts.” He paused. “By the way, you ever find that gal? The one who moved to Chicago? What's her name?”

  “Ruth Jones. I'm still looking. If she's in the phone book, she has plenty of company.”

  “Lots of them, eh?”

  “Twelve listings for Ruth Jones and more than a hundred listings for R. Jones. I tried several last night, several more this morning.” He sighed. “Slow process.”

  Twenty minutes later, back in his own office, he stared at the phone and shook his head. He'd just concluded a short conversation with yet another R. Jones from Chicago—this one named Roshanda, who was convinced that he was the same Hirsch who represented her ex-husband Cletis, and who slammed down the phone after suggesting that he perform an unnatural act, first upon her ex-husband, then upon the divorce judge, and finally upon himself.

  He thus eyed the phone warily as it started ringing moments later. Could Roshanda have Caller ID?

  He picked it up after the fourth ring.

  “How's it hanging, Rebbe?”

  Hirsch leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Hey, Jumbo. What's up?”

  “Not me, dude. I'm down here in hillbilly heaven and it feels like the third level of hell.”

  “I thought you loved Nashville.”

  “Hell, man, I ain't calling from Nashville. I'm in friggin' Branson, Missouri.”

  “Branson? Doing what?”

  “Going so stir-crazy I'm contemplating a parole violation. There's this dang industry conference on computer security they put on here every year. My company sent three of us to attend.”

  “Bet you're loving the music.”

  “Oh, man, if I hear one more steel guitar playing twangy chords, I may just go postal.”

  “How much longer does the conference run?”

  “We finish tomorrow at noon.”

  “You flying home?”

  “Nah. I drove my pickup over. I was thinking I might drive back on forty-four, maybe stop by to see you.”

  “Great. I'll buy you dinner.”

  “Been awhile for us, ain't it.”

  “Too long.”

  “I'll second that.”

  Neither said anything for a moment.

  “You still a bankruptcy lawyer, Rebbe?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Mostly, eh? What else you got going on?”

  “Just a wrongful death case.”

  “Big bucks?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “What's wrong?”

  “It's kind of complicated.”

  “That don't sound good.”

  “It's a long story.”

  “So we'll have ourselves a long dinner and talk it out.”

  Hirsch smiled. “That sounds good. Actually, I almost had something up your alley.”

  “Computers or pussy?”

  “The former.”

  “What do you mean by ‘almost'?”

  “We can't find it.”

  “The computer?”

  “Yep.”

  “Whose was it?”

  “The government's, actually. But the dead girl used it at her job.”

  “Why'd you need her computer?”

  “She sent some e-mails that might be relevant. And she may have written some documents as well.”

  “I hear you. Same question.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why do you need her computer?”

  “To review that stuff.”

  “You got her e-mail address?”

  “Yes.”

  “What's the ass end?”

  “What's the what?”

  “The part after the ‘at' symbol.”

  He found his notes. “M-O-E-D,” he read, “dot-U-S-Courts-dot-G-O-V.”

  Jumbo chuckled. “This might be your lucky day, Rebbe.”

  “Why?”

  “Sound to me like that gal's computer was hooked into the courthouse network.”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means you and me gonna have an interesting conversation tomorrow night. What time's dinner?”

  CHAPTER 24

  He crumpled the sheet of stationery and tossed it into the wastebasket with the other five crumpled sheets. He took out a fresh sheet, set it in front of him on the kitchen table, and wrote, Dear Lauren:

  He stared at the page.

  You'll be turning 24 this Sunday, he wrote.

  A few days before his release from prison, his ex-wife's attorney delivered a letter to him warning that neither of his daughters wanted anything to do with him again. Ever. The hammer letter ended with a vague warning about unfortunate consequences if he ignored the express desires of his daughters. Nevertheless, he wrote each of them letters—always on their birthdays and on Rosh Hashanah, and occasionally one or two other times during the year. Lengthy letters. Always upbeat. Always supportive. None were ever answered. That didn't matter. Well, it did, but at least the letters didn't come back stamped “Return to Sender.” He'd wondered whether they read them. According to Dulcie, Lauren said she did.

  He stared at the page, thinking how to phrase it. This time it was different.

  Although every one of your birthdays is special for those who love you, this one is particularly special for me. Until last week at Professor Lorenz's clinic I hadn't seen you since your fourteenth birthday. I've thought about you, of course, and I've dreamed about you and prayed for you. But after all those years, it was difficult to picture you in my mind. I could still see you as you were on your fourteenth birthday, but what did you look like now? How had you grown? What had you become?

  He paused, remembering again their brief encounter at the clinic, seeing again the young woman who'd last been his awkward eighth-grade daughter.

  Now I know, and I am so proud.

  He stared at that sentence, fighting the urge to crumple the sheet.

  As if his being proud meant anything to her.

  But maybe it did. He was still her father.

  Shift the focus. This is her birthday, her special day.

  Professor Lorenz told me about your work at the clinic. She thinks highly of you, Lauren.

  Twenty-four, he thought.

  He tried to remember his own twenty-fourth birthday.

  When I turned 24, I was in law school, too. But I had little interest in helping the types of people you serve at your clinic. That was my failing—just the first of many.

  He stared at that last sentence for a moment and then ran his pen through it:

  That was my failing—just the first of many.

  This was his daughter, and this was her birthday. He was debris from her past. She didn't need to be reminded
of his failings, and he certainly didn't need to wallow in them for sympathy.

  He set down the pen.

  What the hell was the purpose of this letter? All of his prior birthday letters had been chatty and carefully undemanding. No guilt trips, no pleas for forgiveness, no attempts to force himself upon her or her big sister. Just an innocuous I'm-thinking-of-you. For her birthday two years ago he'd congratulated her on her acceptance to Washington University School of Law—a fact he'd learned from his ex-wife's attorneys, who'd sent him a payment schedule for tuition for Lauren's first year. For her last birthday, he'd included a few reminiscences from his first year of law school and offered some advice about things he'd wished someone had told him when he was going into law school. Of course, he wouldn't have paid any attention to such advice, and he assumed she didn't either.

  But now, well, now he'd finally seen her. He'd been close enough to touch her. Everything had changed. The shame, the reticence, the uncertainty—they'd all given way to a simple longing to see her again. To sit with her. To talk with her about her day, about her plans, her hopes, her dreams.

  Just to be with her.

  Powerful feelings.

  And, he reminded himself, feelings she might not share.

  Who could blame her?

  So don't come on strong.

  I've gotten to know Professor Lorenz because she was friendly with another law student who worked at her clinic. That young woman died in an automobile accident a few years after graduation. I've filed a wrongful death action on her behalf. Professor Lorenz has been nice enough to help me with certain aspects of the case. She is an impressive person, and thus the fact she thinks so highly of you should make you proud.

  The letter was getting away from him. They always seemed to.

  I apologize if this seems disjointed, Lauren. I keep thinking how much I miss you and how much I love you and how sorry I am that I was such a lousy dad for you.

  Too intense.

  He glanced at the wastebasket and back at the letter.

  Just bring it to a close, he told himself. He'd spent nearly an hour on a letter that would take her less than a minute to read.