Darkness had fallen. It took a moment to identify the bulky, pallid man in the ill-fitting gray suit standing under the porch light. Herman Borghoff, first assistant to the St. Louis redevelopment commissioner, Nate the Great. Borghoff faced the door, expressionless, his thick horn-rimmed glasses slightly askew. I studied him, torn between my curiosity about his visit and my desire to get back to work. Pretending I wasn’t here wouldn’t work, since he’d no doubt seen my lights on from outside.
I unlocked the door and opened it.
“Hello, Herman.”
“Miss Gold.”
“What’s up?”
“May I come in?”
“Just for a moment. I’m real busy tonight.”
“This will not take a long time.”
I hesitated before giving in. “Okay, follow me.”
I led him to my office and cleared the pile of trial papers from one of the chairs facing my desk. I went around behind my desk and took a seat facing him. He stared at me with those zombie eyes. Borghoff definitely gave me the creeps.
“Well,” I finally said, “what’s up?”
“Commissioner Turner is anxious to resolve the Oasis Shelter matter.”
“So are we. We’re working on it.”
“Is your client prepared to do the property swap?”
“We received your proposed swap properties. Someone is looking them over. The board plans to take the issue up at the next meeting.”
“When will that be?”
“I’m not sure. I think they have a lunch meeting on the third Thursday of the month.” I glanced at my calendar. “That would be two weeks from tomorrow. I’ll call you afterward, okay?”
“Will the board approve a property swap at that meeting?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” I checked my watch. “Look, I’ll call you after the board meeting, okay?”
He stared at me, his expression blank. “The commissioner is concerned that you may not bargain in good faith.”
I could feel a spike of anger. “Given your office’s actions, Herman, I should think that my client is the only one entitled to be concerned about people bargaining in good faith.”
“The proposed swap properties are outside the redevelopment area. That was the key term of the deal.”
“I know that. So?”
He gazed at me. “Why are you searching for properties within the redevelopment area?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You have been making inquiries concerning certain properties located within the boundaries of the redevelopment area.”
“Oh, I have, have I?” I gave him an incredulous look. “When was this?”
“Your assistant was down at the recorder of deeds earlier this week. I assume that she—or he, or it—was acting under your direction and control.”
I opened my mouth and closed it, my mind racing. How did Herman Borghoff know that Jacki had been doing title searches?
“She was,” I said evenly.
“Was she searching for alternative swap properties?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business, Herman.”
“The commissioner is concerned about your client’s good faith.”
“Tell him not to worry.”
“I can only give him that level of assurance after I have received an adequate explanation from you as to why your assistant was making inquiries regarding those properties.”
“Then you’re going to have to make do without an explanation, Herman. Those properties are none of his business.”
“Actually, they are, Miss Gold. All residential properties in which the city holds title are the business of the commissioner.”
“Good for him. I’m going to have to ask you to leave now, Herman.”
“You still have not given me an explanation.”
“And I’m not going to, even if I had the time, which I don’t. I have to get to a meeting in Clayton in ten minutes.” I gathered my things and stood up, trying to stay calm. Borghoff’s creepiness had edged closer to menace. I couldn’t wait to get him out of my office. “I’ll let you out the front door. I’m parked in back.”
He walked silently down the hall in front of me. Stepping out onto the porch, he turned to face me. “The commissioner is going to be disappointed.”
“Then the commissioner is going to need to ease up. Tell him my client is considering his proposal and hopes to make a decision by the end of the month.”
Borghoff studied me for a moment with those deadpan eyes. Then he shook his head and turned away. I watched him lumber down the front walk, through the gate, and down the street. I watched until he was out of sight.
I kept watching, staring into the night. Finally, I locked the front door and turned off the light.
It was a warm night but I was shivering in the dark.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Second day of trial.
Mack put on only one more witness—an escapee from the junk-science holding pen named Martina Kirkman, a purported animal psychoanalyst that the judge allowed to testify as an expert witness over my objection. The good doctor opined that Big Red appeared to be a manic-depressive suffering from a bipolar disorder likely arising from unresolved hostility toward females caused by a focal confusion over apposite gender roles—or something like that. The jury seemed to be having as much trouble as me following her testimony. Mack’s direct examination lasted fifteen minutes, and my cross just five—long enough to establish that she’d been a panelist on a Jerry Springer show where the topic was “Women Who Sleep with Their Dogs.”
“Call your first witness, Miss Gold.”
I stood and took a deep breath. I’d been up until four in the morning preparing for this next encounter, trying to anticipate every possible scenario. Armour was the wild card, of course. I glanced over at him. He leaned back, his arms folded over his chest, smirking at me.
It’s show time, Rachel.
I turned toward the back of the courtroom and nodded to the bailiff, who opened the courtroom door.
I announced, “Defendants call Milly Eversole.”
Armour jumped to his feet. “What the—Objection!”
Millie entered the courtroom, escorted by Benny Goldberg. Coming in behind them was Martha Hogan, looking determined as usual. Her black hair was cut in short layers with wispy bangs. Our eyes met as she came up the aisle. She snuck me a wink. I could have kissed her.
“This is outrageous,” Armour grumbled. “May I approach, Your Honor?”
I joined him for the sidebar.
“What kind of carnival stunt is this?” Armour demanded. He turned to glare at Milly as she filed past, eyes averted, toward the witness stand.
I said, “Miss Eversole worked in the nursery at Blackwell Breeders from the time this ostrich hatched until my clients bought him. Based on my cross-examination of Mr. Blackwell yesterday, I believe her testimony is highly relevant.”
“You’re out of luck, lady,” Armour said.
“Oh?”
“There’s not going to be any testimony. That girl signed a confidentiality agreement. Her lips are sealed.”
“Not according to her attorney,” I said.
“Her attorney?” Armour turned to me, his eyes ablaze. “Who’s that?”
I pointed. “There.”
Armour turned toward Benny, who’d taken a seat in the front row. Benny winked at him and gave a thumbs-up. Armour glowered at him for a moment, and then glanced at Martha, who’d taken a seat alongside Benny in the front row, her hands clasped on her lap, her beautiful Irish Claddagh ring showing. Armour knew who she was. We all did. Once upon a time, she’d been little Martha from St. Bernadette grade school in Rockford, Illinois. But for the last twenty years, she’d been a prosecutor in the sex crimes division of St. Louis County
. Shrewd and relentless, she had the highest conviction rate in the office.
“What the hell is she doing here?” Armour demanded, gesturing toward Martha. You could almost see the steam coming off his bald head.
Ignoring his question, I turned to the judge. “Your Honor, may I proceed with the witness?”
“Hold it, lady,” Armour said. “Can we get the jury out of here and sort this out?”
Judge Parker nodded wanly and looked over at the jury. “Uh, the court will be in recess for ten minutes, ladies and gentlemen.”
I turned toward Martha as the jury filed out. She and Benny and I had gone over this very possibility last night in her office. I was ready for him and hoped those two were as well. I gave Milly Eversole a reassuring smile. She was wringing her hands together in her lap, her eyes darting anxiously from lawyer to lawyer.
As the door closed behind the final juror, Armour spun toward the judge. “That girl,” he said, pointing at Milly, who flinched in the witness box, “is getting dragged down the primrose path by Miss Gold. Milly had an employment dispute with my client. My client settled with her. A very generous settlement, Judge. He gave her a significant severance payment with one condition: if she ever disclosed the terms of the settlement agreement to anyone, she’d have to refund the full amount and pay my client an additional five grand. Miss Gold’s little grandstand play here is going to cost that girl a pretty penny.”
“Hey, curly,” Benny interrupted, “Rachel isn’t her lawyer. I am.”
Armour spun toward him. “Really? Do you have any grasp of the financial impact of this on your client?”
Benny nodded thoughtfully. “I have a pretty good idea what it would take to settle it right now.”
“Oh, is that so?” Armour said with disdain. “And what is it?”
“About a million from that redneck cretin you represent, another quarter of a mill from you. That ought to do it.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Armour asked.
“No,” Benny answered, “but you may lose your license.”
“Hey,” Armour said, taking a threatening step toward Benny, “watch your mouth, buster, ’cause I got chunks of guys like you in my stool.”
Benny glanced at me, a twinkle in his eye, and then turned to Armour. “Chunks of what in your stool?” he asked, feigning confusion.
Armour thrust his chin forward. “Guys like you.”
Benny gave him a sympathetic look. “Don’t lose hope, pal. They may yet find a cure.”
“For what?” Armour asked.
“For your eating disorder, you poor bastard.”
“Hold on, gentlemen,” Judge Parker said, trying to recapture control of his courtroom. He turned toward Martha. “First things first. Ms. Hogan, are you here on a matter?”
She stood. “I am.”
“Let’s take care of you first, then. Which matter?”
“This one.”
“This case?” Judge Parker looked puzzled. “Why?”
“At Mr. Goldberg’s request, I interviewed Miss Eversole yesterday.” She nodded toward Milly. “Based on that interview, I’ve determined that there’s probable cause for the perpetration of at least four felonies.”
“Aw, shit,” Charlie Blackwell groaned in the background.
“I don’t understand,” Judge Parker said.
Martha started ticking them off on her fingers. “One count of forcible rape and one count of forcible sodomy. Both criminal acts perpetrated by Mr. Blackwell during working hours inside the nursery barn at Blackwell Breeders. Miss Eversole was the victim both times.”
There was a long pause as Martha stood there with two fingers raised.
“Uh, you mentioned four,” Judge Parker finally said.
“Two counts of concealing an offense,” Martha answered.
Judge Parker frowned. “Pardon?”
“Section 575.020 of the Missouri criminal code makes it a felony to agree to confer a financial benefit on any person in consideration for that person’s agreement to conceal a crime or to refrain from initiating the prosecution of a crime.”
“Mr. Blackwell did that?” Judge Parker asked.
“Actually,” Martha said, turning toward Armour, “this man did. He not only worked out the financial details, prepared the papers, and had the victim sign them, but he also issued his own threat.”
In the hushed courtroom, Martha stared up at Armour like a butcher eyeing a steer.
***
That’s why I ought to be a judge,” Benny said.
The two of us were at a bar on Laclede’s Landing. Through the window you could see the Arch in the distance, its silvery skin gleaming in the late afternoon sun.
As so often happens, the threat of criminal prosecution forced a quick resolution of the civil case. Charlie Blackwell had surrendered by noon in the judge’s chambers. With Martha glaring down at Blackwell, the judge wrote out the terms of the agreed settlement order: my clients would receive a full refund of their money (with interest), an additional $25,000 in compensation for injuries to their other ostriches, and payment of all of their legal expenses. Once the agreement was signed, Martha asked—or, rather, instructed—the judge to excuse Mack Armour. After he stepped out, Martha informed Charlie Blackwell that he would have until Monday to find a criminal lawyer prepared to discuss a plea bargain. The terms of the deal would have to include a significant restitution payment to Milly Eversole and an agreement to cooperate in the prosecution of Mack the Knife.
“You should be a judge?” I said to Benny, bemused. “Why?”
“Creative sentencing. Make the punishment fit the crime. That’d be my mantra.”
“Enlighten me, O learned adjudicator. Assuming that Martha gets a jury to convict Mack the Knife, what sort of punishment would fit his crime?”
“That’s easy. Book the weekend special at the Honeymoon Hotel. Strip him naked, spray him with ostrich musk, and lock him inside with Big Red. Talk about your rehabilitation—by the time you open that door on Monday morning you’ll have either a compassionate, New Age attorney ready to champion the rights of women or—”
“Or what?”
Benny winked. “—or Big Red’s favorite boy toy.”
He took a sip of beer and eyed the remaining two toasted raviolis on the platter. He grabbed one, dunked it in the red sauce, and popped it in his mouth whole. I contemplated the last one as I felt my mind starting to slip its gears. It had been a long, exhausting week, and it was only half gone, and there was so much left to do. I speared the ravioli with my fork, dipped it in the red sauce, and took a bite. I stared through the window at the Arch as I chewed.
“Learning to Fly” by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers came over the sound system. The song immediately transported me back in time to law school and an October weekend in a New Hampshire farmhouse with my then boyfriend, a Tufts medical student. He’d been a Tom Petty fan and played his greatest hits tape on the drive up from Boston. Near the farmhouse was a small untended apple orchard probably dating back a hundred years, the limbs gnarled but heavy with fruit. We’d picked apples on a cool morning, filling two bushel baskets, the burgundy skins of the apples glowing in the New England sunshine. They’d been crunchy and tart and delicious. Other memories from that weekend floated by—snuggling on the couch in front of the fire, reading Robert Frost poems on the porch swing in the late afternoon sun, slow-dancing under the moonlight to the sound of Tom Petty’s “Into the Great Wide Open” on the portable tape player, sipping hot tea from a heavy mug on the back porch while gazing at the mountains shrouded in early morning mist, skipping stones on a still pond at the edge of the forest, eating a picnic lunch of crusty French bread, sharp Vermont cheddar, Greek olives, and icy white wine, walking hand in hand through a pasture late at night beneath a canopy of a million stars, making love under a quilted comforter in a chilly
bedroom. Life had seemed so beautiful that weekend. And so simple. And so far from where I was today.
Benny said something.
After a moment, I turned to him. “Pardon?”
He gave me a curious look. “I said I’m glad Milly didn’t have to testify.”
I nodded. “Poor thing was scared to death. Martha is the perfect guardian angel for her. She’ll make sure we get Millie a big restitution payment from Blackwell.”
“And something from Mack, too.”
I smiled. “I’ll make sure of that. He won’t get off cheap.” I leaned across the table and patted his hand. “Thank you, Benny. You did a good deed today.”
He reddened. “Me? Come on. You were the one who found her. You were the one who brought her up here. I was just your stand-in.”
“You were a wonderful stand-in.”
“Your clients sure seemed pleased.”
“Oh, they were. They’re going to throw a big victory party out at the ranch.”
“Awesome. When?”
“They wanted to do it this weekend but I asked them to hold off one week.”
He gave me a sympathetic look. “More Angela stuff?”
I gave him a weary nod. “My dance card is full through Sunday.”
“When’s Jonathan coming back?”
“Hopefully by the end of the month. Hopefully I’ll have my confession ready by then.”
“What confession?”
“Well, either a confession or an ultimatum—I’m not sure which.” I sighed. “I love him, Benny, and adore his daughters. That’s why I’ve been trying so hard, but this Orthodox Judaism just isn’t going to work for me. Maybe someday, but not now. Funny thing is that these sessions with the rabbi have convinced me how much I love Reform Judaism.” I leaned back and looked down at the table. “I’ve got another meeting with the rabbi tonight. It’s not his fault. He’s been a doll. Tonight we’re going over the laws of kasruth. That part’s okay. I’m willing to be a trouper. I’m prepared to keep a kosher home and I’m happy to observe shabbas every week, but the rest just isn’t going to fly.”
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