The Mourning Sexton

by Michael Baron

  He was struck by how much Miller had aged during the past decade. The goatee had once been dark and sharply trimmed, adding a European intellectual flair to Miller's features. Now those same features had faded and sunk, as if from erosion, and the goatee, gray and bushy, seemed little more than a vain old man's ploy to hide a receding chin line.

  Hirsch shifted in his seat, trying to focus on the dean's opening remarks. He was introducing someone.

  “—one of our own esteemed alumni,” the dean said, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.

  The bigwigs down below included three middle-aged white guys in suits and Dulcie, who looked stunning in her simple black matte jersey dress and gold necklace, her curly hair cascading to her shoulders. The tableau could have been the stage set for the beautiful young queen and her senior advisers. Treacherous advisers, though. To her right sat Marvin Guttner, his girth spilling over the sides of the chair. He resembled a cross between a corporate lawyer and a sumo wrestler. To his right sat a short balding man in his late fifties with droopy eyes and a droopier gray mustache. He was, according to the program, Donald Foster, chief financial officer of Peterson Tire Company. To Dulcie's left was the dean's empty seat, and to the left of that sat the featured speaker, Judge Brendan McCormick, nattily attired in a dark suit, white shirt, and striped tie.

  “A gentleman,” the dean continued, “who is now a senior partner in a prominent law firm with headquarters in this fine city. He has represented the Peterson Tire Company for years, and through his good services has been instrumental in making the arrangements for today's most generous gift.”

  Guttner, Foster, and McCormick—quite a rogues' gallery, Hirsch thought. All gathered on stage to bask in the glory of a donation that represented, at best, a fraction of the revenues that Peterson Tire would earn during the length of this ceremony.

  “Without further ado, it is my great pleasure to present a distinguished attorney and graduate of our law school, Mr. Marvin Guttner.”

  As the applause began, the dean turned to Guttner with a smile. The fat man heaved his bulk out of the chair, adjusted his suit jacket, and stepped to the podium, pausing to shake the dean's hand.

  To his credit, Guttner kept the proceeding moving. At ease in the role of master of ceremonies, his voice in full mellifluous mode, he gave the audience a brief summary of Judith Shifrin's life and her “tragic and untimely death.” With an acknowledgment to Dulcie, he spoke of Judith's involvement in the legal clinic and Peterson Tire's desire to pay tribute to that commitment. That was the segue to Donald Foster, who Guttner motioned to join him at the podium. He also summoned Dulcie and the dean to the podium.

  “We are honored today,” Guttner continued, “by the presence of a top officer of Peterson Tire Corporation, who has traveled to St. Louis for this special ceremony. What makes his appearance here especially noteworthy is that thirty-nine years ago, he earned his bachelor's degree from this university. So without further ado, I am pleased to introduce a fellow alumnus of Washington University and the chief financial officer of Peterson Tire Corporation, Mr. Donald Foster.”

  Foster acknowledged the applause with an awkward wave as he removed an envelope and a folded sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. He put on his reading glasses, unfolded the sheet on the podium, and cleared his throat.

  “Thank you, Mr. Guttner.” He had a high-pitched twang. He glanced up briefly and then returned to the written text. He acknowledged the dignitaries and greeted the audience—eyes focused on the text, voice close to a monotone.

  “On behalf of the Peterson Tire Corporation,” he read, “I am pleased to present to the law school this check”—and here he held up the envelope stiffly—“in the amount of fifty thousand dollars, to be used for establishment of the Judith Shifrin Memorial Internship at the law school's Family Justice Legal Clinic.”

  He looked up from the text with a squint and turned toward the others gathered around the podium, still holding the envelope at an odd angle. The dean stepped forward to take it from him, placed a hand on his shoulder, and gently turned him in the direction of the photographers. The two men posed side by side, the dean smiling and holding the envelope in front of them waist high, Foster looking down at the envelope, his bald head shining in the glare of the overhead lights.

  Once the others had returned to their seats, Guttner placed a hand on either side of the podium and waited until there was total silence.

  “For the final two years of her life,” Guttner began, “Judith Shifrin served as a law clerk to the Honorable Brendan McCormick of the United States District Court for the Eastern District of Missouri. They shared a special professional relationship, this tall federal judge and his diminutive law clerk. For those of us who appeared in Judge McCormick's courtroom, it was clear that the Judge and his Judith were the dynamic duo. The mutual respect was obvious. Alas, Judge McCormick was the last person to see Judith alive. We are honored today that this busy jurist has made time in his schedule to help us mark this special occasion with some of his memories of Judith Shifrin. Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in giving a warm welcome to the Honorable Brendan McCormick.”

  Hirsch leaned forward as the judge stepped to the podium. McCormick looked vigorous and imposing in his dark suit and deep tan. Hands holding the edges of the podium, he gazed around the crowd, pausing for a nanosecond as he made eye contact with Hirsch, acknowledging him with a tiny nod.

  “I miss Judith,” McCormick said.

  He paused. The room was silent.

  “I miss her energy. Her insights. Her commitment.” He smiled. “I even miss her stubbornness. There was nothing halfway or halfhearted about Judith Shifrin. She was a believer, and she acted on her beliefs. I saw it every day in my chambers and in my courtroom. If she disagreed with a decision of mine, she'd let me know it. Politely, of course. But persistently, too. She was walking determination. What did she do for a living? She made things better. That was her job in life. From what I've heard today from those involved with the Family Justice Law Clinic, she made that a better place, too.”

  Another pause, a sadder smile. “And she made me a better judge. Unfortunately, I still had a long way to go when she left us. But Judith never gave up. She kept working on me up until the very end. The very end.”

  He looked down, apparently overcome. Hirsch watched, fascinated. He'd forgotten what a consummate showman McCormick had been back in his prosecutor days. The courtroom audience for his closing arguments invariably included a handful of prosecutors and defense lawyers who just happened to drop by for the show. Although Assistant U.S. Attorney Brendan McCormick rarely had a good grasp on the law or the facts, he always had a total grasp on the jury.

  And like those juries back then, today's audience was rapt. The only noise was the occasional click of a camera shutter.

  McCormick resumed, his voice filled with emotion. “This is a wonderful tribute to a wonderful person. To those of you who made this possible, including those too humble to allow their names to be mentioned here today, I thank you on Judith's behalf. Those of you who knew Judith know that she was far too modest in life to have been anything but embarrassed by all this attention. I'd like to think, though, that she's smiling down at us from somewhere up above. Maybe blushing, too. But smiling nonetheless.”

  He glanced heavenward and then nodded. “We salute you, Judith Shifrin.”

  He stepped away from the podium.

  The audience remained silent for another two beats and then erupted into applause.

  CHAPTER 40

  “David!”

  Hirsch had reached his car in the parking lot. He turned to see McCormick striding toward him.

  “Not staying for refreshments?”

  Hirsch shook his head. “I have another appointment.”

  “I thought it was a nice ceremony.”

  Even in the parking lot, he could smell McCormick's cologne.

  Hirsch said, “The audience liked your s
peech.”

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “What did you think of my speech?”

  “I thought it was effective.”

  “Effective, eh?” McCormick grinned. “I suppose that qualifies as a compliment. Especially from you, David.” He bowed. “I thank you.”

  “You're welcome.”

  McCormick's smile faded. “I think her father would be pleased.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I didn't see him there.”

  “He wasn't.”

  “Nursing home?”

  Hirsch nodded. “But the press was at the ceremony. I'll bring her father a copy of the article when it's published.”

  “I bet he'll like that.”

  “What do you want, Brendan?”

  McCormick held up his hands. “No hidden agendas here, David. Just wanted to tell you how much I appreciate what you've done for Judith. I still remember when you and I had our first meeting about the lawsuit. Back in January. We both knew back then it was going to be a tough case, and that was before we even knew who your opponents were. Marvin Guttner is no teddy bear, and Jack Bellows is a genuine son of a bitch. But you took 'em on, all of them, and look what you accomplished. And in just a few months. You did a helluva job, David.”

  Hirsch waited.

  “So how's it feel?” McCormick asked.

  “How's what feel?”

  “To be done with the case. To finally be able to move on to something else.”

  If McCormick was fishing, he wasn't going to get a nibble.

  Hirsch checked his watch. “I need to go, Brendan.”

  “Sure. I do, too.”

  “Court?” Hirsch asked, trying to end the conversation on a neutral note.

  “Well, in a way. Tennis court. And golf. I've had a crazy couple of months. I've decided to take a few days of R and R.”

  “Bermuda?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  “You have a place there?”

  “A little cottage. Up on a hill overlooking the ocean. You ever been to Bermuda?”

  “No.”

  “Beautiful island. First time I saw it was on my honeymoon.” He chuckled. “That was about my last good memory from that marriage, and just about the only thing she didn't take in the divorce. That bitch got everything but the place in Bermuda. Oh, brother.” He shook his head at the memory.

  Hirsch took out his car keys. “Have a good time, Brendan.”

  “Thanks. And thanks again for your work on the case. Judith deserved the best, and you gave it to her.”

  They shook hands again.

  He watched as McCormick headed down the row of parked cars toward his black Mercedes. He waited until McCormick had pulled out of the parking lot, and then he dialed the office on his cell phone.

  “This is David. Is Cheryl there?”

  “I'll ring her office, Mr. Hirsch.”

  She answered on the second ring. Cheryl Jaspers was one of the firm's paralegals who'd been helping him on the Judith Shifrin case.

  “I'm not having much luck on that Swift code,” she told him.

  “I have a different idea,” he said. “Can you get me a list of the banks in Bermuda?”

  “I can try. Why?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  “Shouldn't take too long. Do you need it today?”

  It was Friday afternoon. He checked his watch. Too late to drive back downtown and get anything done before sunset.

  “No. I'll be in the office Sunday. If you find anything, just leave it on my desk.”

  “Sure thing.”

  CHAPTER 41

  Sunday morning.

  Hirsch was seated at the conference table in his office, a legal pad on his lap, court papers spread across the table. For the last hour or so he'd been reviewing the file in one of his contested bankruptcy matters. It was set for a confirmation hearing Monday morning.

  He stifled a yawn and tossed the pad onto the table. He stood and stretched his back, hands on his hips as he twisted his upper torso first to the left and then to the right. As he did, he glanced over at his desk and saw a stack of papers in his in-box. The papers reminded him of his conversation on Friday afternoon with his paralegal. He went over to his desk. Sure enough, the top document in the in-box was a two-page memo from Cheryl Jaspers. He picked it up and carried it over to the window:

  Per your request, I was able to find five banks in Bermuda, all listed on the next page. As you will see, I even found the Swift codes for two of them! Please let me know what else you need me to do. Hope you have a nice weekend!

  He turned to the listings on the second page:

  Bank of Bermuda Limited

  6 Front Street

  Hamilton, Bermuda

  Bank of N.T. Butterfield & Son Ltd. (Swift Code BNTBBMHM)

  65 Front Street

  Hamilton, Bermuda

  Bermuda Commercial Bank Ltd. (Swift Code BPBKBMHM)

  43 Victoria Street

  Hamilton, Bermuda

  Capital G Bank Limited

  21–25 Reid Street

  Hamilton, Bermuda

  Hamilton Bank & Trust Limited

  32 Victoria Street

  Hamilton, Bermuda

  He went over to the desk and flipped through his Shifrin folders until he found the printout of Judith's computer note with the Swift code: HBTLBMHM.

  He compared it to the two codes on Cheryl's list.

  No match.

  Of course.

  His eyes moved down the list to the last bank. Hamilton Bank and Trust Limited. One of the two banks on Victoria Street. The other one, Bermuda Commercial Bank Ltd., had a nonmatching Swift code.

  He repeated the bank's address aloud as he found his printout of the Outlooks Note that Judith had created on November 9, just a little over a month before her death. That was the one that quoted some banter between “G” and “J” after a prehearing conference in “J's chambers.” The men joking about a controversial Victoria's Secret show on television the prior night. The Note ended with the “aside” by J to G:

  “We've got our own Victoria's

  Secret”—Both laughed.

  Victoria's Secret.

  Victoria Secret.

  They would have sounded the same to someone overhearing the conversation.

  His eyes drifted back to his in-box. There were several documents in there—office memos, court filings, unopened envelopes. He sorted through the items and came to a five-by-seven manila envelope with his name and address printed in ink. No return address. A Chicago postmark over the two stamps.

  He cut through the flap with a letter opener. Inside was a green envelope about the size of the ones sold with greeting cards. The envelope was addressed to Ruth Ruggeri at her Evanston address. The words and numbers were written in dark blue ink, as was the return address centered on the flap on back:

  J. Shifrin

  256 Lincolnshire, Apt. 5E

  St. Louis, MO 63105

  The green envelope had been sliced open neatly, probably with a letter opener. Inside was a Christmas card with an old-fashioned winter-in-New-England illustration of a horse-drawn sleigh carrying two laughing, rosy-cheeked woman, each bundled in a sweater, scarf, and gloves. They were emerging from a red covered bridge capped with snow.

  He opened the card. The preprinted message inside offered “Warm Wishes for a Happy Holiday Season and a Joyful New Year.” Below that, Judith had added her own message:

  Dear Ruth:

  Thank you so much. I know how difficult it was for you. I pray I can make it worth your effort. Tonight is the night! Cross your fingers. If anything goes wrong, be sure to tell Pat Markman that his Pulitzer is chilly but safe with Sadie the G.

  Your friend (and ally),

  Judith

  He reread her message.

  Tonight is the night.

  He looked at the front of the red envelope, at the canceled stamp. It was postmarked on December 18 three
years ago.

  Judith Shifrin died on December 18 three years ago.

  CHAPTER 42

  Logistics were an issue. He needed to show the Christmas card to Carrie Markman, but not at her house. If he had really been followed the last time—and he still didn't know—he'd be putting her at even greater danger by going back. Carrie Markman was the quintessential innocent bystander, the sister of someone who may have learned something nasty about someone who may have killed someone else whose death was now being investigated by yet another someone who had dropped into her life unexpected and uninvited.

  But perhaps not unobserved.

  As for the challenge of arranging a safe rendezvous, well, he had never faced that problem before. Eventually, he turned to vaguely recalled scenarios from movies he'd seen, hoping he could cobble together a Hollywood scene that would hold together in the real world.

  And thus at three forty-five in the afternoon of that same Sunday, barely four hours after he'd read Judith's Christmas card message to Ruth, he pulled his car into a space in the underground garage of the Plaza Frontenac shopping mall in suburban St. Louis. Four others boarded the garage elevator with him. Two were middle-aged women who'd apparently arrived together, since they were talking about someone named Nancy. The other two were men—one slender and tall in his fifties, the other burly and average height in his thirties. Neither acknowledged the other or Hirsch as the elevator doors slid closed. The taller man had gray hair and angular features. He was dressed country club casual in a red blazer, white shirt, yellow slacks, and penny loafers without socks. The younger one had a broad nose and curly brown hair and wore khakis, running shoes, and a light blue windbreaker zipped over a white turtleneck.

  The elevator doors slid open on the first floor. All got off.

  Hirsch wandered through the mall, working his way north toward Saks Fifth Avenue, which he entered at a few minutes after four. Along the way, he'd passed both men from the elevator. Once inside Saks, he meandered toward the main entrance at the north end of the mall. At four-fifteen P.M., he pushed through the front doors of Saks just as the Yellow Cab he'd ordered pulled up in front. He got in the cab, told the driver the destination, and turned to watch the Saks doors as the cab pulled away.