A teacher ushered a class of elementary school children past them toward the polar bear pit. “This way, children. Over here. No pushing, Kevin. Hurry up, Lisa.”
The kids chattered and laughed as she directed them toward the viewing area.
The zoo was a good choice for a Friday morning in late April. As he'd hoped, it was mostly empty. Other than a few groups of schoolchildren on field trips and a smattering of mothers and nannies pushing strollers, the usual zoo crowds, the ones that packed the place on spring weekends, were in school or at work or out running errands.
He turned to Guttner. “I'll need to see your affidavit before I give you the documents.”
“Right here? In the open?”
Hirsch reached into his front pocket and pulled out two tickets. “On the train.”
He gestured toward the main train station, which was beyond the bear pits near the entrance.
Guttner looked incredulous. “You actually want to accomplish this exchange on the zoo train?”
“We'll have plenty of privacy. No one rides it weekday mornings. We can exchange affidavits as the train passes through the woods beyond the children's zoo. If the affidavits are acceptable, we can trade the materials when we pass through the long tunnel after Big Cat Country. Let's go. I want to get this over with.”
Waiting in the station was a zoo train, a miniature steam locomotive and three passenger cars. Each car consisted of several rows of bench seats beneath a canopy roof. Hirsch and Guttner climbed aboard and sat along one of the middle benches in the second car. Despite Guttner's bulk, the bench was wide enough for them both plus room in the middle for their briefcases.
Although Guttner seemed displeased by the prospect of a train exchange, he didn't seem suspicious. That's what Hirsch had hoped for. Among several possible exchange sites, he'd selected the zoo train on the assumption that Guttner was not a regular. He'd confirmed that the man's two children were teenagers and that he was not a member of any zoo board or committee. That meant it was unlikely that Guttner would know that the principal reason the zoo train was empty that morning was because it didn't run at that time of day during that time of the year. Nor was he likely to know that the man seated at the controls of the miniature locomotive was at least three decades younger than the usual zoo train engineers. Nor was he likely to know that the engineer himself normally took the passenger's tickets, and not the athletic young man in the conductor outfit.
The engineer blew the whistle twice, and the train pulled out of the station.
They sat in silence as the train clattered past the bear pits at maybe fifteen miles an hour. Several of the schoolchildren turned to watch. A few waved. Behind the children, one of the polar bears jumped into the water with a loud splash.
The train pulled into the little station near the children's zoo area. No one got off. No one got on. Two whistle blasts, and the train pulled out of the station.
The tracks curved around the children's zoo on trestles over the water and then entered the woods.
Hirsch said, “Let me have your affidavit.”
Guttner gave him two stapled sheets of bond paper. “Let me see yours.”
Hirsch unsnapped his briefcase and handed Guttner his six-page affidavit. He'd been careful to make sure that the description of the documents in his affidavit was detailed enough to eliminate any doubt as to Guttner's state of mind at the time he would receive the documents themselves. Moreover, he'd made sure that the description would leave Guttner with no doubt that Hirsch had figured out the entire scheme. Among other things, his affidavit stated that the materials he'd found in the safe atop the Civil Courts Building consisted of (a) monthly status reports from Guttner's law firm to the chief financial officer of Peterson Tire Corporation summarizing for each resolved case the plaintiff's demand and the actual amount awarded, and (b) corresponding wire transfer records in which Peterson Tire instructed its bank to transfer specified sums of money to an account for Felis Tigris LVII at the Hamilton Bank & Trust Limited in Bermuda. (His bank had matched the Swift number with the Hamilton Bank & Trust, which was the one on Victoria Street.) His affidavit further stated that each wire transfer equaled fifteen percent of the difference between the amount actually awarded and ninety percent of the plaintiff's demand.
He watched Guttner as he read that page of the affidavit. No change of expression.
Guttner's affidavit was much shorter. Just three one-sentence paragraphs that identified the videotape and the two affidavits plus a final paragraph stating that Guttner was turning over the originals of each and had “personally destroyed all extant copies of same to the best of his information and belief.”
Hirsch's affidavit was somewhat vague on the subject of copies. The final paragraph stated only that “I will turn over the originals of the documents to Mr. Guttner and will not retain a copy of them.” Nevertheless, that appeared to be sufficient to Guttner, who nodded and dropped Hirsch's affidavit into his briefcase.
The train had now entered the River's Edge section of the zoo. The still air was punctuated by an exotic bird call, followed by a monkey's shriek. Hirsch looked up from his briefcase. A pair of black rhinos stood motionless in front of a waterfall. Two hippos paddled across a small river.
The train slowed as it arrived at the station near the south entrance to the zoo. Up ahead was a waterfall and pool of water. Hirsch had memorized the railroad map. He knew the tracks looped behind the waterfall and into the first tunnel.
“Not this one,” he told Guttner as the locomotive entered the tunnel. “Too short. The third tunnel is the longest one. That's the one we'll use.”
They emerged from the tunnel. The tracks curved to the right along the pool of water and then looped into the woods behind the reptile and monkey houses. New leaves were on all the trees. A cardinal zipped by overhead and landed on a branch to the right. Hirsch looked back at the bird surrounded by green leaves. He stared at that red focal point, which grew smaller by the second, as he tried to maintain control of his emotions, of his anxiety.
He glanced over at Guttner, whose expression mainly evinced irritation and impatience. The man was oblivious to what lay just ahead.
“Not this one,” Hirsch said as the train entered the tunnel behind the monkey house.
The train began to slow as it came to the end of the short tunnel and emerged into the light at the next train station. They were in the Big Cat Country now. In the grassy enclosure to their right, a large Bengal tiger was walking directly toward them. Somewhere beyond the tiger, a lion roared. The tiger turned as it reached the fence and strolled on past, ignoring them.
Felis tigris, Hirsch thought.
Four passengers boarded the train—three men and a woman. Two of the men took seats in the forward car. The other man and the woman took seats in the rear car. Guttner had his briefcase on his lap now. He was drumming the fingers of his right hand on the leather of his briefcase.
Two whistle blasts from the locomotive.
Guttner looked at Hirsch.
Hirsch nodded and unsnapped his briefcase.
“Get ready,” he said. “We'll do the exchange as soon we enter the tunnel.”
Guttner unclasped his briefcase.
The train started forward. As they entered the darkness of the third tunnel, Hirsch handed his package to Guttner, and Guttner handed his package to Hirsch. Each man closed his briefcase and straightened in his seat.
The tunnel was several hundred feet long. Hirsch peered into the darkness, watching, waiting. They passed a closed door on the right, then one on the left. The two men in the front car were looking back now. Hirsch glanced back, too. The tunnel entrance was no longer visible behind them.
The train began to slow down.
“What the hell?” Guttner muttered.
Hirsch turned forward. A man was standing in the middle of the tracks up ahead. He waved a powerful flashlight back and forth.
The train came to a stop, the engine rumbling.
The man with the flashlight started toward them. The beam illuminated a narrow pathway along the side of the track. As he drew near, three other men stepped out from the wall of the tunnel behind him and fell into line. Hirsch could hear the two passengers in the rear car getting off the train.
As the four got closer, details began emerging from the dark.
The man in front was wearing a suit. The three men behind him were in dark windbreakers.
The man in front was black. The three behind him were white.
The man in front was the United States Attorney for the Eastern District of Missouri. The three men behind him had yellow FBI logos on the fronts of their windbreakers.
Russell Jefferson stopped on Guttner's side of the car. The three FBI agents arrayed themselves behind him, joined now by the two men from the first car. The man and woman from the rear car took up positions on the other side of the car.
“What is the meaning of this?” Guttner said.
“Mr. Guttner, my name is Russell Jefferson and I work for the United States government. I have a warrant here for your arrest. These gentlemen and this lady are special agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. They are here with me this morning to take you into custody, sir.”
“On what grounds?” Guttner demanded.
“On myriad grounds, sir.” Jefferson enunciated each word clearly.
Hirsch climbed down from the train as Jefferson continued.
“My office has filed a criminal complaint against you, sir, and it sets forth more than one hundred counts. Those counts include bribery of a public official, obstruction of justice, conspiracy, mail fraud, wire fraud, bank fraud, and violation of the Racketeer-Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. The list goes on and on, sir. Now would you please step down from the train?”
One of the FBI agents stepped forward and grasped Guttner by the arm. “Let's go.”
Guttner pulled back. “Wait a minute. You have made a terri—”
“Move it,” the agent commanded and pulled him forward.
As Guttner lumbered down off the train, two agents stepped forward, pulled his arms together in back, and snapped a pair of handcuffs around his wrists.
Guttner was furious. “This is an outrage. Do you have any idea who you—”
Jefferson held up his hand. “I realize you are an attorney, Mr. Guttner, but I must remind you that you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have—”
Guttner spun toward Hirsch, his face contorted by hatred and panic. “You miserable prick.”
Hirsch gazed at him calmly. “Some free advice, Marvin. If you end up there, watch out for the second showerhead on the left. The hot water cuts out.”
Guttner stared at him. “What? End up where?”
“Allenwood.”
Guttner tried to reclaim his arrogance, and he almost succeeded. But not quite. And the collapse was fast and it was ugly.
Russ Jefferson had paused to allow Guttner to go ahead of him into the long passageway through the wall of the zoo railroad tunnel. Without even acknowledging Jefferson's presence, Guttner stepped through the entrance as haughty as a Roman emperor. With his entourage of federal law enforcement agents—half ahead of him, the other half behind—the only missing props were the toga, sandals, and garland of myrtle.
But the facade began splintering as they moved farther down the passageway. The first sign was the cursing. Under his breath, barely audible.
“Son of a bitch . . . double-crossing prick . . . bankruptcy scumbag.”
The rage and the volume kept building.
“Fucking bastard . . . Going to set me up, huh? . . . Protect that cripple and try to screw me? In your dreams, asshole . . . I'll nail your fucking kike ass to the fucking wall you fucking motherfucker.”
He spun around, craning his head, trying the find Hirsch in the crowded passage, his face flushed and beaded with sweat.
“You hear me, you slimy Jew bastard?! You want me—”
One of the federal agents yanked him around and shoved him forward. “Shut up and keep moving.”
By the time they reached the end off the passageway, Guttner was moaning.
“Oh, my God . . . oh, my God . . . oh, my God.”
Hirsch's last view of Marvin Guttner was just after two agents pushed him up into the back of the government van. He'd collapsed into the seat and slumped forward, head down. Someone slammed the door shut. As the metallic reverberation faded, and just before the driver started the engine, he could hear the sounds of weeping.
CHAPTER 49
It was Tuesday. Four days later.
Hirsch was seated in the office of the United States Attorney for the Eastern District of Missouri. He leaned back in his chair and watched as the FBI agent ushered Jack Bellows out of the office and closed the door behind them. He turned back to Russ Jefferson.
Jefferson shook his head. “Not much help there.”
Hirsch sighed. “Nope.”
Even so, it had been a remarkable four days.
Guttner had vanished from public view late Friday morning when the unmarked van pulled out of the zoo's service entrance. The feds moved him to an undisclosed location, where he'd been ever since. The only people who'd seen him were his criminal defense attorney, three FBI special agents, Russ Jefferson, two of Jefferson's assistants, and a court stenographer.
They allowed Guttner a telephone call to his wife Friday night to tell her that he'd been called out of town on an emergency and would be gone several days. The agent listening in said she hadn't seemed concerned. Hadn't even asked where he was calling from, or where he was going to, or when he'd return. He called her again on Saturday around dinnertime to say that he was still out of town and might not be home for a few more days. All business. No hint of intimacy between husband and wife.
Later that Saturday night, sometime between seven-thirty, when Jefferson left Guttner and his lawyer alone in the room, and eleven twenty, when Guttner's attorney stepped out in the hall to ask the FBI agent to summon Jefferson, Guttner finally acknowledged the gravity of his predicament. Each of the seven hundred secret payments to McCormick was clearly and incriminatingly documented on the papers that Judith had hidden in the safe. Each of those payments constituted no less than three and possibly as many as five separate federal crimes. A sentence of just one year per felony would yield a prison term spanning two millennia—and that didn't include the sentence-enhancing consequences of a finding that the bribery scheme constituted an “enterprise” under the Racketeer-Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act.
All of which must have suggested to Guttner the prudence of exploring a plea bargain. The main obstacle was the person who'd be seated across the bargaining table. Even in a typical case, Russ Jefferson was no Monty Hall, and here he saw even less reason to deal. He already had enough evidence to render Guttner's pension plan irrelevant. Nevertheless, as Guttner's attorney finally got him to concede, in criminal conspiracy prosecutions the inventory-accounting rule known as FIFO—first in, first out—seemed to resonate with the judge at sentencing time. True, Jefferson responded, but the degree of resonance depended upon the quality and quantity of the goodies that the first one brought to the bargaining table. Guttner's attorney assured him that his client could deliver quality and quantity.
The court stenographer joined them at noon on Sunday. She stayed until six that night and returned the following morning. By the time she'd packed her equipment Monday afternoon, Guttner had given Russ Jefferson enough evidence to convict McCormick and the inner circle of executives at Peterson Tire and two other members of Guttner's law firm of enough crimes to ensure that the only way most of them would leave prison was at room temperature in the back of a hearse.
But Guttner's knowledge of criminal activities did not include the circumstances surrounding the death of Ju
dith Shifrin. He readily conceded that he'd suspected from the outset that Judith's death was not an accident. Those suspicions had been heightened by McCormick's reaction to Hirsch's lawsuit. From the moment McCormick had learned of the case, he started pressuring Guttner to get it settled. He'd call Guttner several times a week for status reports, warning that an investigation of Judith's death could endanger them all. In short, Guttner believed that chance had nothing to do with Judith Shifrin's death. Unfortunately, he had no admissible evidence to back that up.
Nor had Guttner been involved in the hiring of whoever it was who tried to kill Hirsch atop the Civil Courts Building. His best guess was that McCormick handled that part on his own. Which was not to suggest that Guttner and his client were innocent bystanders, as Guttner conceded. Peterson Tire had arranged for the surveillance of Hirsch, which resulted in the report to Guttner on Hirsch's back-to-back visits to the bank. And Guttner himself had hired the investigator who'd turned up the chaser materials on Rosenbloom. But he swore, literally, that he had nothing on Judith Shifrin's death—or Markman's death.
That was Sunday and Monday. At Hirsch's urging, Jefferson turned up the heat on Jack Bellows on Tuesday morning. Two U.S. marshals accosted him in the parking garage of his office building as he arrived for work. Flashing their badges and escorting him to the back of a dark blue Ford with tinted windows, they whisked him out of the garage. By the time they opened the rear door of the Ford in the basement of the United States Courthouse, Jack the Ripper had become Jack the Pisser. The marshals tried to keep a straight face as they rode up the elevator with him, pretending not to notice the sharp odor or the dark stain in the crotch of his two-thousand-dollar suit.
Bellows had no knowledge, or even any suspicions, concerning any aspect of any of the crimes at issue. Hirsch wasn't surprised. He'd assumed that Bellows and his client had been completely out of the loop from the start. His hope was that Bellows had followed up on his boasts about retaining a top pathologist.
The Mourning Sexton Page 30
