Bearing Witness (12 page)

Beckman crossed his arms over his chest. “I have no present recollection of where I was or who I saw on March 25, 1975.”

I turned over the next calendar page and asked the same question for September 12, 1975, and received the same answer. All the while Kimberly remained standing, unsure of her next move but unwilling to concede a thing by sitting down.

Ignoring her, I turned over the next calendar page. “What about October 8, 1987, Mr. Beckman? That was a meeting in St. Louis with those gentlemen. Over at the Missouri Athletic Club. Do you remember that meeting, sir?”

“No,” he said forcefully.

I nodded. “Tell you what,” I said. “Let's leave aside the particular dates, sir, and even the particular years, okay? Instead, let me ask it this way: at any time during the last thirty years, have you met with representatives of Eagle Engineering, Koll Limited, Muller Construction, Beek Contracting, and Eicken Industrial for the purpose of discussing pending federal IFBs?”

Again the stare. “I should think not, Miss Gold.”

I smiled. “Is that a no, Mr. Beckman?”

He leaned forward, his face dark. “That's a ‘Hell no,' Miss Gold.”

He had his story, and he was sticking with it. It was up to me to prove it false—a task better left for trial. As for now, I'd been able to fire an important warning shot across the bow. Although Conrad Beckman had far too much self-control to reveal any reaction, Kimberly was clearly rattled. So much so that she took a seat without another word.

I put the photocopies back in my briefcase, trying to look more confident than I felt. Although I'd had enough ammo for the warning shot, I had nothing else—no kill shots. At least not yet. Barely twenty-four hours had elapsed since we'd found the American Express receipt in the Eagle Engineering warehouse. Now there'd be witnesses to interview and documents to examine and plenty of opposition to battle, especially once Kimberly discovered that I'd outfoxed her in Memphis. She'd never let that happen again.

I shifted tactics and nibbled for a bit around the periphery of his daily obligations and responsibilities. I didn't get much. When I checked my watch, I still had fifty minutes left. That was too much time and not enough, since I still didn't have the types of documentary evidence I needed to put together one of those thorough examinations designed to back the witness into a testimonial corner—assuming a witness as savvy as Beckman could be backed anywhere he didn't want to go.

Which still left me with fifty minutes.

Might as well go fishing
.

“Mr. Beckman,” I said, watching him carefully, “tell me about San Carlos de Bariloche.”

He sat back in surprise. “Pardon?”

“Your company has done work there, correct?”

He paused, frowning. “I believe we may have. It was a long time ago.”

“Where is San Carlos de Bariloche?”

“South America.”

“Where in South America?”

He was glaring at me. “Somewhere in the Andes Mountains, I believe.”

“Your company built a groundwater treatment plant there, correct?”

“Objection,” Kimberly said, more out of bewilderment than anything else. “What does a groundwater treatment plant in South America have to do with this lawsuit?”

I ignored her. “Correct, Mr. Beckman?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Perhaps. It was many years ago, Miss Gold.”

“I believe you did that project as a joint venture with Eagle Engineering, correct?”

Beckman's eyes narrowed slightly.

“Objection,” Kimberly said. “Irrelevant.”

I kept my eyes on the witness. “You may answer the question, sir.”

“Perhaps it was a joint venture,” he said. “I don't recall the details.”

“Mr. Beckman,” I continued, “how did a St. Louis company end up building a wastewater treatment plant in South America?”

“We have occasionally performed work outside of the United States,” he said.

I turned to the court reporter. “Jan, please read the question to the witness.”

She nodded and reached for the roll of shorthand tape. “‘Mr. Beckman,'” she read, “‘how did a St. Louis company end up building a wastewater treatment plant in South America?'”

Beckman stared at me, his jaw clenched. This was obviously a new experience for Mr. Chairman: having to actually answer someone else's question. Finally, he said, “I don't recall.”

“How did your company end up in a joint venture with Eagle Engineering on a project in South America?”

This time the answer came quicker and more forceful. “I don't recall.”

I spent the next thirty minutes moving around the periphery of the case, asking him about bidding procedures, industry meetings, chains of command within each of the divisions.

When there were less than ten minutes left, I reached for the last of the photocopies. This was the carbon copy of one of the letters in Max Kruppa's file. I hadn't yet received the English translation. Jacki had sent a copy to a professor of German when the documents arrived earlier today, but he wouldn't get to it until the weekend. I was hoping that Beckman might be able to do the translation at the deposition. After all, the letter was addressed to him.

“Mr. Beckman, who was Max Kruppa?”

“He was the president of Eagle Engineering.”

“Was?”

“He is no longer alive.”

“Did you know him?”

“Yes.”

“When did you first meet him?”

Beckman paused as he tried to recall, or pretended to. “Many years ago,” he said.

“Did you know him as far back as 1939?”

“Objection,” Kimberly said. “Irrelevant.”

I waited.

Beckman shrugged. “I don't recall.”

“Back in 1939, did you live at 1923 Pond Avenue in St. Louis?”

He rubbed his chin. “I don't recall.”

“Did you ever live at 1923 Pond Avenue?”

A pause. “Yes.”

“You're just not sure whether you lived there in 1939?”

“Correct.”

“You may have, right?”

“Yes,” he said impatiently. “I may have.”

“If independent documentary evidence showed that you lived at that address in 1939, would you dispute it?”

He eyed me warily. “I suppose not.”

“What's the point of this?” Kimberly snapped.

“I'm going to hand you a document, Mr. Beckman,” I said, ignoring her. “A letter. As you will see, it's written in what appears to be German. Please read it and tell me whether it refreshes your recollection as to where you lived in 1939 and whether you knew Mr. Kruppa back then.”

I handed him the photocopy of Kruppa's letter. Kimberly got to her feet to stand behind him to read over his shoulder. Beckman stared at the letter, his brows furrowed.

Although the text of the letter was indecipherable to me, the addressee at the top of the page was quite legible: Conrad Beckman, 1923 Pond Avenue, St. Louis, Missouri. At the bottom it was signed “Max Kruppa.” The letter was dated October 4, 1939.

“Where did you get this document?” Kimberly demanded.

I heard the click of the court reporter's stopwatch. With a sigh, I looked up. “This is a deposition, Kimberly. If you have questions about particular documents, put them in writing and I'll respond in due time.”

“I've never seen this document before,” she said.

“Put it in writing.” I glanced toward to the court reporter and nodded. She started the stopwatch again.

I turned toward Beckman, who was still staring at the document. “Have you had an opportunity to review the document?”

He looked up, his face a blank mask. “Yes,” he said, his voice flat.

“Does it refresh your recollection?”

“No.”

“Do you recognize the language it's written in?”

“It appears to be German.”

“Can you read it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don't understand the language.”

“Were you ever able to read German?”

“When I was much younger.”

“But not anymore?”

“Not anymore.”

I leaned over and took the document back from him. “Did you receive this letter from Mr. Kruppa?”

“I don't recall.”

“Do you have any reason to doubt whether you received it back in 1939?”

He stared at me. The vein in his right temple was pulsing. “I have no reason to believe anything about this document.”

Kimberly interjected, “Where did you get this document?”

I ignored her. “Did Max Kruppa send you other letters in German?”

“I don't recall.”

“Rachel,” Kimberly snapped, “I asked you a question.”

I kept my eyes on him. “Was Max Kruppa born in America?”

“I don't recall.”

“Did he speak with an accent?”

“I don't recall.”

The court reporter cleared her throat. We all looked at her.

“Two hours,” she said.

Kimberly stood up. “This deposition is adjourned.” She pointed at the photocopied letter. “I want a copy of that document.”

Conrad Beckman was studying me.

I glanced up at Kimberly. “Put it in writing.”

“We can make a copy right now,” she said.

I shook my head. “No, we can't, Kimberly. Send me a written request and I'll consider it.”

“That's ridiculous. I'm clearly entitled to the document. It's far more efficient to make a copy now.”

“Kimberly,” I said evenly, “your client has at least seven attorneys and four paralegals on this case. You outnumber me by more than ten to one, yet not once have you made an effort to accommodate me. Not once in this case have you responded to any of my requests in a way that could remotely be described as ‘more efficient.' You've made me jump through every procedural hoop you can dream up. You want this document?” I put it into my briefcase. “Start jumping.”

She stared at me, incredulous. “I cannot believe this.” She spun on her heels and stormed out of the room.

“Harumph,” Laurence Browning added as he got to his feet.

Beckman placed his hands flat on the table and stood up, his eyes on me the whole time. They'd gone from frosty to subzero.

“Well,” Browning tsk-tsked to no one in particular, “this is certainly a lamentable day for professional courtesy, eh?”

Beckman brushed past him without a word and stalked out of the room. Browning and the junior associate exchanged uncertain glances and then filed silently out of the room.

I glanced over at the court reporter. She raised her eyebrows and exhaled slowly.

“Wow,” she said.

Chapter Eleven

I expected repercussions, of course. Conrad Beckman had been one unhappy camper at the end of his deposition, and I could assume he'd demand retribution.

After dinner that night, I'd curled up on the couch in the den with my golden retriever Ozzie snuggled next to me and listened to my favorite Chicago bluesman, Junior Wells, as I imagined the range of possible repercussions. As Junior wailed out a harmonica solo on “Why Are People Like That?” I tried to brace myself for the incoming barrage of motions and discovery requests that would start Monday.

But the one repercussion I hadn't expected was the phone call at noon on Saturday. I'd just returned from a seven-mile jog through Forest Park with Ozzie. The call caught me off guard. It also caught me in the shower. Wrapped in a towel and dripping wet, I grabbed the phone in my bedroom.

“Hello?”

“Rachel?” asked a hearty male voice.

“Yes?” I could feel the water pooling around my bare feet.

“This is Stanley Roth, Rachel. How are you?”

“Uh, fine.”

Rachel? Stanley?
I'd never met the man before in my life.

“Rachel, I am terribly sorry to disturb you at home over the weekend, but I'm off to Washington, D.C., on Monday and won't be back until Thursday. I certainly don't want to let this matter linger that long. I was wondering if you were free tomorrow night for dinner? I could reserve a private room at Briarcliff. That way we could discuss the matter in confidence.”

“Discuss what matter?” I asked, baffled.

He chuckled. “Why, your lawsuit against Beckman Engineering, of course. How does Sunday for dinner sound? Just the two of us.”

I was having trouble processing the conversation. Stanley Roth, the Roth of Roth & Bowles, wanted to meet with me alone at his country club to discuss the Beckman Engineering lawsuit? Roth was Beckman Engineering's principal attorney and had handled their legal matters for more than twenty years. Rumor had it that Beckman Engineering's annual legal fees exceeded $4 million, which made it by far the largest client of Roth & Bowles.

Well
, I said to myself,
what's the harm?

“Sunday night won't work,” I told him, remembering my plans with Jonathan and his girls.

“Then how about Sunday brunch?” he asked cheerfully. “Say, eleven o'clock?”

“Well,” I said uncertainly, “okay.”

“Excellent,” he said. “I shall look forward to it.”

***

I pulled my car into the parking lot at Briarcliff Country Club on a brisk Sunday morning. The bright sun made me squint as I walked toward the imposing portico and entrance to the clubhouse. This was hardly my first visit to Briarcliff. But no matter how often I came here, my feelings remained the same. I detested the place.

Briarcliff is the most exclusive Jewish country club in St. Louis. It is thus a place where my people—victims of prejudice and exclusion since the time of Abraham—can inflict those despicable practices upon their own kind. Indeed, for years, one of the basic prerequisites for membership was the purity of one's Germanic ancestry—a macabre standard for a people nearly exterminated by those of pure Germanic ancestry. Briarcliff is a world of affectation so somber as to be silly—a place where you can stroll through the Great Hall, a kitsch homage to King Arthur, and as you pass beneath the rows of heavy flags emblazoned with English heraldry, you can almost forget (almost) that your family coat of arms is, at best, a gefilte fish rampant on a field of chopped liver.

This was Stanley Roth's world. Indeed, his grandfather, Julius Roth, had been one of the club's founding fathers. But Stanley Roth was far more than just a member of Briarcliff. And he was far more than a typical “leader” of the Jewish community—one of those perpetual student council presidents who spend their lives campaigning like rats in heat for high office in various local and national Jewish organizations while making sure that their smiling faces appear constantly on the front pages of the Jewish weeklies.

No, Stanley had actually crossed the great divide. Now in his early sixties, he was a name partner in a preeminent law firm, had served as trusted counselor to members of the St. Louis business elite for more than four decades, was on the boards of directors of several prominent St. Louis companies, and was one of three non-CEO members of Civic Progress, that shadowy group of St. Louis power brokers who help run the city. Indeed, it was Stanley Roth, an influential member of the Missouri Republican Party, who had lured the politically ambitious Kimberly Howard back to St. Louis, and it was Stanley Roth who would no doubt help launch her career in Missouri politics.

And now this same Stanley Roth was waiting for me.

The white-coated maître d' nodded deferentially as I stepped into the main dining hall. He was a plump, pink-cheeked man in his fifties, with thinning gray hair combed straight back. “Yes, madam.”

I scanned the room, trying to spot a man that I might be able to recognize on reputation alone. I couldn't.

“I'm supposed to meet Stanley Roth,” I told the maître d'.

He smiled respectfully. “Ah, yes. Mr. Roth has arranged for a private dining room.” He turned and gestured for me to follow. “This way, if you please.”

We moved through the dining room and past a groaning buffet table filled with Sunday brunch goodies. Because this was Briarcliff, the table was heaped with bacon, ham, pork sausage, shrimp, and other
traif
. I did notice a platter of lox, although here they called it smoked Norwegian salmon.

Down a short hall off the main dining room we came to a heavy wood door. The maître d' rapped twice and then opened it. Poking his head in, he said, “Mr. Roth, sir, your guest has arrived.”

“Excellent,” I heard from within. “Send her in, Ronald.”

The maître d' turned to me and opened the door with a bow. “Mademoiselle.”

The room overlooked the golf course, which was visible through the lead-glass windows. The walls were paneled with carved wood. The table was large enough to serve eight, although today it was set for just two, facing one another across the center of the table. Stanley Roth was seated on the far side of the table as I walked in. I noticed that his coffee cup was half full. He stood with a friendly smile and came around the table to greet me.

“Hello, Rachel,” he said, taking my right hand in his and covering it with his left. “I'm delighted you could join me.” He gestured toward the table. “Please have a seat. I've asked them to bring you juice and coffee along with a menu.”

By the time I'd taken my seat across from him, a pair of waiters had appeared, one carrying carafes of tomato juice and fresh-squeezed orange juice, the other carrying pots of regular and decaf coffee. I chose orange juice and regular; Stanley opted for tomato and more decaf.

As they poured the beverages and handed out menus, I studied Stanley Roth. He was taller than I had expected—perhaps six foot one—with a slender build and an athletic posture. Bald on top, he had gray, close-cropped hair on the sides. He had the tanned, healthy look of a middle-aged tennis buff, which in fact he was. As I recalled, he had played on Princeton's varsity squad during college. He had bright hazel eyes, good teeth, and a strong nose echoed by a strong Adam's apple. Today, he was wearing a brown Harris tweed jacket over a blue-and-white-striped Oxford cloth button-down shirt and pleated, crisply pressed chinos.

After we placed our orders—an Egg Beaters mushroom omelette and wheat toast for him, a fresh fruit salad with yogurt for me—we exchanged pleasantries. Roth had obviously done his homework on me, or had instructed someone to do it. I didn't delude myself: as a solo practitioner with middle-class roots and Eastern European ancestors, the only function I normally had in Roth's world was, in Hamlet's words, to swell a progress. But like most powerhouse attorneys, Roth viewed information as leverage, and he'd acquired plenty of it on the subject of Rachel Gold. I was hardly flattered. By the time our opening pleasantries were concluded, my internal defense systems were flashing red alert.

“Rachel,” Roth said, setting down his fork, his demeanor downshifting from affable to serious, “I think a little background may help you understand the purpose of this meeting.” He paused to take a sip of coffee. He neatly set the cup back in the saucer and brushed his lips with the napkin. “Twenty-one years ago, Conrad Beckman came to me. He was disgusted with the law firm that was handling his company's litigation. Apparently, they would talk tough up until the time of trial, but then panic on the courthouse steps and force him to settle.” He shook his head in long-suffering amusement at the memory. “Conrad Beckman may have been born and raised in South St. Louis, but he had some Old World notions about the way a lawsuit ought to be handled. ‘A lawsuit is war,' he once told me. He viewed a settlement as a capitulation, and a dishonorable one at that.”

He paused for another sip of coffee and then carefully placed the cup on the saucer. “Conrad Beckman came to me twenty-one years ago because he wanted a firm that wouldn't buckle under pressure, that wouldn't force him to settle a lawsuit. Rachel, I looked him straight in the eye that day and promised that my firm would never try to talk him into settling a lawsuit.” He leaned back with a steadfast expression. “I've kept that promise for twenty-one years.”

I nodded politely. After a moment of silence, I tried to fill the void. “Well, that's really something.” It sounded even lamer than I feared.

“Twenty-one years, Rachel. Until today. I've decided to break that promise.”

“Oh?”

He nodded gravely. “My client has no idea I'm here. In fact, I am quite sure he will be unhappy to learn of this meeting or what I am about to suggest.”

I sipped my coffee and waited, keeping my expression neutral. I'd believe in Santa Claus before I'd believe that his client didn't know about this meeting.

He rubbed his knuckles along his jawline in a contemplative manner. “I would like to try to convince my client to settle your lawsuit. I caution that I have reached that conclusion not based on the merits of our clients' respective positions. Kimberly assures me that Beckman Engineering's defenses are rock solid, and I have no reason to doubt her. Even so, I am well aware of the extent of the pretrial preparations still to come for both sides. I truly believe that this is a case where an early resolution would confer a substantial benefit on both parties by eliminating the additional time, expense, and distraction of litigation. Moreover, we are at a stage where the matter can be resolved quietly. The case is still under seal. I'm sure your client would have no problem agreeing to keep the settlement terms confidential, would she?”

I smiled. “For the right price.”

He chuckled. “But of course.”

“There are some complicating factors,” I cautioned. “This is a
qui tam
case. It can't be settled without the government's approval. Also, keep in mind that my client will only be entitled to twenty-five to thirty percent of that settlement amount.”

But Stanley Roth had already devised a solution to those problems. Beckman Engineering's settlement payment would be deemed attributable only to Ruth's original employment discrimination claim, which meant that she could keep 100 percent of the payment. The
qui tam
claim would be dismissed without any additional settlement payment.

“But we'd still need the government's consent,” I said.

He smiled. “I am confident that we can obtain the government's consent.”

I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms over my chest. “Okay, Stanley, what's your client want to pay?”

He chuckled. “Nothing, of course.” He rubbed his chin pensively. “What I'd like to do is for us to come up with a number that I could recommend to my client. Obviously, it would have to be a number your client would accept, and thus you'd need to talk it over with her first. But if it is a number your client would accept
and
that I can recommend, I will give you my word, Rachel, that I will do my level best to deliver it.”

It was an old negotiating technique: try to get the other side to commit to a number while pretending that you have no authority to negotiate. I'd used the technique myself in other lawsuits. I was willing to bet that Conrad Beckman had already given Stanley Roth the precise dollar amount of his settlement authority. Regardless, if Beckman Engineering was willing to settle the case on reasonable terms, I didn't care what kind of face-saving charade they needed to go through in order to get there.

“Let's cut to the chase, Stanley. Tell me your number.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and nodded. “Your client received a generous early retirement package when she left the company.”

“Except she didn't retire. She was fired.”

“Regardless. I've had someone calculate the difference between the present value of that severance package and the present value of the salary she could have earned through age seventy. I have the actual calculations in my briefcase if you'd care to see them.”

I shook my head. “Not now.”

“Your client's maximum recovery, assuming she could even prove age discrimination, is ninety-eight thousand five hundred dollars.” He leaned forward. “Rachel, I'd be willing to recommend to my client that they round the number up to one hundred thousand and add another fifty thousand dollars to cover attorney's fees and costs.”

“Your offer is one hundred fifty thousand dollars?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral.

“Actually, it isn't an offer yet. If your client is willing to accept that amount in settlement of all claims, I'm prepared to sit down with Conrad Beckman and urge him to do the deal.”

I leaned back in my chair and studied him. “One hundred fifty thousand.”