Trophy Widow

by Michael A. Kahn

  Instead, Maria played the “battered wife” card, calling to the stand a parade of Angela’s friends to testify to the emotional abuse Michael had subjected her client to over the years—the withering sarcasm, the nasty put-downs, the racist jabs. After Angela gained twenty-five pounds during the final years of their marriage, one friend testified that Michael took to calling her “Aunt Jemima.” In public. Although Michael junior refused to testify, Sonya did, and she recounted to a hushed courtroom the time that her father had reduced her mother to tears at his own birthday party because she’d undercooked the cake.

  Angela’s psychiatrist spent a full day on the stand testifying about the mental anguish inflicted by her sadistic husband, about how Michael played upon Angela’s lifelong fear of abandonment and her deep insecurities, about how Angela’s inability to fight back only accelerated the downward spiral of their corrosive relationship. Throughout it all, her psychiatrist explained, Angela struggled to be the good wife, to keep up the façade, to try to placate her demanding husband in the hope that the bad Michael would somehow give way to the good Michael. In the end, when Michael finally walked out on her, she was besieged by feelings of failure. If indeed she’d been driven to kill him, the shrink opined, it would have been in a fit of madness—and the fact that she could remember none of it only proved the magnitude of her remorse.

  The national interest in the trial seemed to double each day. Dominick Dunne sniffed around for a week or so and filed an elegant little chatter piece for The New Yorker. Even the New York Post got into the act, running the headline AVENGING ANGELA on the morning of closing arguments. Geraldo himself appeared on a split screen during the closing arguments. That way, he explained, he could watch Maria Fallaci on the studio monitor as his television audience could watch him watch. Geraldo put on a good show. Overcome by Fallaci’s fiery coda, he actually raised his fist toward the camera in a Black Panther salute and shouted, “Right on!”

  The analysts from Court TV, CNBC, and CNN agreed that Maria Fallaci’s closing was breathtaking. But of course the analysts from Court TV, CNBC, and CNN hadn’t been sitting on that white, suburban jury for the past five weeks, and those jurors just plain weren’t buying any “battered wife” defense. It took them less than six hours to return a verdict of guilty on one count of murder in the second degree.

  “What else bothered you about the file?” Maria asked.

  “The gaps.”

  She shrugged. “There always are gaps. It’s the nature of the beast. Which gap bothered you the most?”

  “John.”

  “Her alibi witness?” She shook her head. “A dead end.”

  “I didn’t see anything one way or the other in the file.”

  “Maybe in the police file. I had one of my investigators try to find him.”

  “And?”

  “No such person.” She returned to her desk and took a seat. “My investigator started with the hospital’s records. He turned up three female patients who’d been in the hospital during the relevant period and had adult sons named John. Two of those Johns lived out of town, and only one of the two had come to St. Louis to visit his mother in the hospital. He’d come only once, and in no way resembled Angela’s John. She agreed he wasn’t the one.”

  “What about the third?”

  “He lived in St. Louis, but it definitely wasn’t him.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s black, he’s extremely obese, and he had an airtight alibi for the night of the murder.”

  I let it sink in. “So no John.”

  “No John.”

  “So no alibi.”

  “No alibi.”

  I leaned back in my chair and frowned. “I don’t get it.”

  “Neither did I. So I ignored it.”

  ***

  There were twelve of us seated around the enormous conference table. We were on the sixty-third floor of River’s Edge Tower, a curved-front steel-and-glass office building along Wacker Drive, high above the Chicago River. Only the caption was missing from our tableau.

  Perhaps Powwow of the Pomposities.

  Or Assemblage of the Arrogant.

  Or maybe Synod of the Self-Important.

  Here on behalf of Angela Green’s publisher were three lawyers from the 275-lawyer Park Avenue firm of Braun, Proctor & Silverberg, led today by none other than the 275-pound Harvey Silverberg, self-styled First Amendment “freedom fighter”—fighting the good fight today at $600 an hour. But as Hefty Harvey was quick to point out, the price of liberty is not cheap. Nor were Harvey’s bespoke London suit and platinum Rolex watch.

  A team of four attorneys from the Century City firm of Corcoran Fox was here on behalf of the motion picture studio. At their helm was sixty-eight-year-old Nelson Liberman, tagged “the Silver Fox of Corcoran Fox” by The American Lawyer. Reputed to have graduated from Harvard Law School with the fourth highest grade-point average in the school’s history, Liberman had represented everyone from Sam Goldwyn and Swifty Lazar to Steven Spielberg and Michael Ovitz. The tinted glasses and raspy voice only added to his Hollywood mystique.

  Our hosts today were the Chicago attorneys of McCambridge and Faber, retained by Maria Fallaci’s publisher. Lead counsel for that crew was Hank Brunanski, who’d earned the moniker “Hammerin’ Hank” during his tenure as U.S. attorney. Although Hank loved “dah Bears” and was proud of his “Sout’ side” roots, his accent was deceiving. He’d graduated number one in his class at the University of Chicago, clerked for Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart, and was blessed with a photographic memory. Hammerin’ Hank regularly astonished courtroom observers while cross-examining witnesses by quoting verbatim from their depositions, and all without notes—Do you recall, Mr. Aronson, that I took your deposition two years ago on March third? At page 112 of that deposition, I asked you, and I quote, “When you dictated your letter of April 17, 1997…”

  An even dozen attorneys around the table—three from Braun, Proctor & Silverberg, four from Corcoran Fox, four from McCambridge and Faber, and—ta-da!—one from the Law Offices of Rachel Gold, all of us gathered together today by a clever lawsuit starring Trent Cummings, son of Samantha Cummings. The lawsuit contended that the eleven-year-old Trent was an heir of Michael Green by virtue of the doctrine of “equitable adoption.” As Michael Green’s alleged de facto stepson, Trent was suing for his inheritance. Ordinarily, this would have been the most pointless of lawsuits, the litigation equivalent of trying to squeeze blood out of a turnip, since the estate of Michael Green was insolvent. Green had gone to his grave at a particularly inopportune time financially, leaving an estate with more debts than assets. But Trent’s lawyer was no ordinary plaintiff’s shark, and there was nothing in the least bit ordinary about his lawsuit. He’d done something never before attempted in Missouri. He’d filed a Son of Sam claim.

  As the name suggests, a Son of Sam claim is based on a law enacted in the aftermath of the serial killer who terrorized New York City during the summer of 1977 under the pseudonym Son of Sam. By the time the police identified David Berkowitz as Son of Sam and apprehended him, the rights to his story were worth millions. The New York legislature—outraged at the prospect of a mass murderer profiting from his notoriety while the families of his victims remained uncompensated—enacted the first Son of Sam law. It provided that all income otherwise payable to a convicted or admitted criminal from any book, motion picture, or other work depicting the crime must instead be paid to the New York crime victims board for use in compensating victims of the crime and their families. Ironically, the law captured millions of dollars from the perpetrators of several highly publicized homicides but not a penny from the original target, since it applied only to people actually convicted of a capital crime. David Berkowitz was found mentally incompetent to stand trial and thus was never convicted of anything.

  The U.S. Supreme Court eventually declared N
ew York’s Son of Sam law unconstitutional, but other states enacted their own versions, each with its own twist. Missouri’s covered not merely royalties payable to the criminal but also half of the revenues payable to anyone else involved in the creation of a book or dramatic work about either the criminal or the trial. Little Trent Cummings, as an alleged heir of the victim, was seeking all royalties payable to Angela and half of the money to be earned by Maria Fallaci, by the respective publishers of her book and Angela’s, and by the producers of any movies based on those books. Trent, as the child of Samantha Cummings, was, quite literally, a son of Sam, and thus his lawsuit was truly a first: a real Son of Sam asserting a Son of Sam claim. The media tagged it “Sam Squared.”

  Although the other firms had each retained a St. Louis attorney to serve as local counsel, that role in this case would be only one small step up the evolutionary ladder from a mail drop. Indeed, none of those St. Louis attorneys was present today. By contrast, I was the local yokel who’d somehow, some way, ended up as the sole attorney for the central defendant in Sam Squared. To say the least, that made me a disconcerting presence at the table. I was a solo practitioner from the boonies who, God forbid, was answerable to no higher authority in a different time zone. While I assumed that one of the flunkeys on each team of lawyers had done a background check on my credentials, they would no doubt assume that the benefits of a Harvard Law School education had long since been squandered during my sojourn in the fly-over land. Their unease made me smile.

  We had plenty of important issues to cover that morning—strategy questions ranging from a challenge to the constitutionality of Missouri’s Son of Sam law to the various possible defenses to the “equitable adoption” theory. Instead, I spent two hours watching the alpha dogs take turns marking their territory as their entourages looked on approvingly. Harvey Silverberg staked out the First Amendment high ground, subjecting us to an eye-glazing summary of the three “seminal decisions” in the field, all of which, coincidentally enough, featured Hefty Harvey as lead counsel for the victors. Next came Nelson Liberman, who lifted his hind leg and sprayed us with a discourse on the importance of burying the other side in a blizzard of motions and discovery requests. Then it was Hammerin’ Hank’s turn. He sniffed around the perimeter and spouted a lengthy reenactment of his cross-examination in a bribery case from the 1980s, the relevance of which completely eluded me but apparently galvanized the others into a decision to focus their efforts on a constitutional challenge to the Son of Sam law. I didn’t even bother to dissent, having already concluded that this high-priced wrecking crew was as likely to demolish its own clients as the other side. Instead, I would chart my own course and keep a lookout in the courtroom for errant spurts from the big dogs.

  As the meeting drew to a close, Hammerin’ Hank’s first lieutenant, a severe junior partner named Catherine Hart, turned to me with a rigid smile. “Rachel, can you give us some local flavor?”

  “Local flavor?” I asked sweetly, ignoring the condescension in her tone.

  “A feel for the things down there. For example, have you had any experience before Judge Byrne?”

  “Actually, I have.”

  “Oh, really? And what kind would that be?”

  “A trial and two preliminary injunction hearings.”

  Catherine Hart drew back.

  I couldn’t resist. “First chair,” I added.

  As a junior partner in the litigation department of a large Chicago law firm, Catherine Hart probably had yet to first-chair a single trial.

  “I see,” she said, quickly regaining her patronizing air. “Would you have any helpful suggestions for our constitutional challenge?”

  I shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter how you pitch it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he’s going to deny it anyway.”

  She gave me a perplexed look. “Why would you say that?”

  “Judge Byrne ducks tough decisions. That’s his style. If there’s a way he can pass the buck to the jury, he’ll do it. If not, he’ll sidestep it and let the court of appeals decide. You should raise the constitutional issue—if for no other reason than to preserve it for appeal. But don’t view it as a substitute for trial preparations, because”—I paused to look around the table—“sooner than you realize we’re going to be sitting together at counsel’s table picking a St. Louis jury.”

  ***

  “Have you met her?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet.”

  “You’re going to be surprised.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The press demonized her. They completely missed the mark. She’s, well”—his eyes seemed to go out of focus—“she’s lovely.” He took a sip of his martini and stared down at the green olive. “My father would have been a very lucky man.”

  Michael Green Jr. and I were in a hotel bar along Michigan Avenue. He’d initially refused to meet, but after three phone calls from St. Louis he agreed to give me a few minutes between the end of my defense counsel meeting and my ride to O’Hare.

  Unlike his sister, who’d inherited the worst of each of her parents’ features, Michael junior was, in the words of my niece, a “hotty.” He had chiseled good looks, light brown skin, clear green eyes, and the lean build of a professional tennis player. As he had strolled through the bar area to my booth in his investment banker pinstripes, I’d noticed several female heads turning to follow him. The waitress giggled and flirted when she took his order, but he hadn’t responded.

  “How did you get to know her?” I asked.

  “I met her when they got engaged. The three of us—Sam, my father, and I—used to go out to dinner whenever I came to town.”

  “Did you ever see your father around her son?”

  “Once or twice. He was good with Trent. Very affectionate. He told me he was looking forward to raising another son.”

  “What about after your father died?”

  His green eyes narrowed. “What about what?”

  “Did you still see her?”

  He took a sip of his martini and watched the olive shift in the clear liquid. “The rest of her so-called friends abandoned her. The media camped outside her apartment. It was a bad time for her. She was very much in love with my father, and suddenly she was all alone—just her and her son.” He paused. “I tried to be helpful.”

  “What about now? Are you still in touch?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “She’s suing your father’s estate. If she wins, you lose.”

  He shrugged. “So? She could use the money. I don’t need it. Neither does my sister.”

  “What about your mother?”

  He chuckled. “My mother? Are you kidding? She’ll have Oprah and the rest of those ridiculous women fawning over her the rest of her life. People used to insult Sam by saying she’d be nothing more than a trophy wife for my father, but look at what’s happened to my mother. My God, the woman has become everyone’s trophy widow.”

  “Maybe now,” I said, “but that won’t last. Nothing changes faster than a celebrity’s favorite cause or the media’s latest darling. Five years from now her fans will have a new pet.”

  “So? Forgive me here, Miss Gold, but I’m having trouble working up a lot of sympathy for the person that killed my father.”

  “Let’s get back to Sam.”

  “What about her?”

  “Are you still in touch?”

  He frowned. “Haven’t you already asked me that?”

  “I did. You didn’t answer.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I’m defending your mother, Michael. Sam’s on the other side. I’m trying to learn about her.”

  “That’s between you and her, then. I’m neutral.”

  “Are you?”

  He stared at me,
a vein pulsing at his temple. “Yes,” he finally said. He checked his watch. “I’m also late.” He removed a money clip from his pocket, peeled off a twenty-dollar bill, dropped it on the table, and stood up. “Goodbye, Miss Gold.”

  Chapter Eight

  I didn’t expect much help from Beverly Toft, and I didn’t get it. Not because she didn’t want to help. Far from it. She kept apologizing. It was just that Michael Green had drawn a shroud over his personal life when he started his affair with Samantha Cummings, having correctly assumed that Beverly Toft would side with Angela. Although Beverly had been his secretary for more than a decade, she’d also grown close to Angela. In addition, she had her own reason for empathizing with Angela’s situation. Beverly’s marriage had ended a few years before Angela’s did, and under similar circumstances. Her husband Earl left her for a thirty-three-year-old waitress named Tammy who worked at the Denny’s restaurant where Earl and Beverly had been having Sunday dinner for years. Tammy had often been their waitress—a fact that irked and mortified Beverly to this day, especially when she thought back to the huge tips that her tightwad husband used to leave that chippie, who’d wiggled her tight little heinie at him from that very first dinner.

  I’d met Beverly for lunch at Café Napoli’s in suburban Clayton, where she now worked for a small accounting firm. Although she was about my mother’s age, she seemed a full decade older in her 1950s hairdo and bifocals.

  “Oh, I knew Mr. Green was up to some hanky-panky,” Beverly told me, her penciled eyebrows arching disapprovingly. “A wife might miss it—I certainly did with Earl, that creep. But believe you me, honey, a secretary knows the moment her boss becomes a tomcat. We’re talking about long lunches that weren’t on his appointment calendar, the bottle of men’s cologne that suddenly appeared in his office, those sneaky phone calls, the bills from the florist and the jewelry store and the motels. I kept hoping for poor Angela’s sake that it was just a fling, one of those midlife-male-crisis things that fizzle out.” She shook her head, her lips pursed with censure.