Bearing Witness (4 page)

Kimberly put on a show. She was “incredulous” and “insulted” and “offended” by my accusations. We argued back and forth until Judge Wagner raised her hand for silence.

“Here's what's going to happen,” she announced, turning to me. “You're going to make your client available for one more day of deposition before month end.” She looked at Kimberly. “The Court appreciates the efforts you are making to review your client's documents. However, Ms. Gold has a point: six months is a long time. Perhaps we can prioritize the tasks. It seems that the documents plaintiff needs most urgently are those having to do with the bids. Get those to her by the end of the week.” She looked at me. “That ought to keep you busy for a while.” She turned back to Kimberly. “Get the rest of the documents to her in, let's say, three weeks. By December eighth.” She looked at both of us. “Okay?”

“Your Honor,” I said, “we're talking about hundreds of thousands of documents. It'll take me weeks to review them, and I'll still have an awful lot to squeeze in before trial, especially with the Christmas holidays.” I paused. “Judge, if the current trial schedule stands, Beckman Engineering will have gained an unfair advantage through its tactics. I request that the Court continue the trial to the spring.”

“Oh, no,” said Judge Wagner with a chuckle. “No way.” She shook her head firmly. “I'm getting this case off my docket. Come hell or high water, we're picking that jury on January twenty-third.”

She leaned back in her chair and checked her watch. “That's all for today, ladies. I have a sentencing in ten minutes.”

As I waited for the elevator, my blood pressure gradually returning to normal, I tried to remind myself that there was nothing personal or spiteful in Kimberly's strategy. It was standard operating procedure. Her goal was to use her client's substantial economic resources to grind me into the ground. My goal was to avoid needless skirmishes and somehow survive until trial. As for today's brawl, my plan had been even simpler: survive without heavy casualties. I had.

Barely.

In the courthouse lobby downstairs, one of Kimberly Howard's smarmy underlings came over. “Here,” he said, holding out a slip of paper with dates written on it. “These are the days that we're available to take your client's deposition.”

I studied his smug face. He was a typical product of the big firm litigation department—that macho subculture most closely akin to a street gang, except that this gang carries notebook computers and dictaphones instead of knives and guns. I knew the type. After all, I'd come of age within a big firm litigation department. We were the guerrillas, the SWAT teams of the law. Although there are few battlefields more stylized and bloodless than a courtroom, you'd never know that from the jargon of the big firm litigator. You don't simply “win” a motion to compel, you “blow the other side out of the water.” You don't ask a witness difficult questions at a deposition, you “drill him a new asshole.” You don't reject a low settlement offer, you “piss all over it.” It's a weird warrior cult where men with soft hands and tasseled shoes swagger into court as if they were wearing battle fatigues and ammo belts.

I stared at this Brooks Brothers tough guy with his slip of paper and for a moment I was mightily tempted to suggest a different place for him to stick it. But why play that game again? It was one of the reasons I left Abbott & Windsor in the first place.

I gave him a tolerant smile. “What's your name?”

He seemed taken aback. “Uh, Arthur Brenton.”

I took the slip of paper and dropped it into my briefcase without looking at it. “Thank you, Arthur. I'll call your boss after I check my client's schedule.”

Chapter Three

Jonathan Wolf leaned back in the booth and scratched his beard pensively. “Gloria Muller doesn't match any profile,” he finally said.

“How so?” I asked.

“White, heterosexual, Presbyterian.” He shook his head, frowning. “That is not a typical skinhead target.”

“Are the Hammerskins typical skinheads?”

Jonathan nodded. “Absolutely.”

We were having dinner at Cardwell's in Clayton. That afternoon, after returning to the office from Judge Wagner's chambers, I received a call from one of the Springfield homicide detectives to let me know that they'd arrested two men and charged them with first-degree murder in Gloria Muller's homicide. One was an auto mechanic, the other worked on the loading dock of a Springfield factory. Both had rap sheets more typical of hooligans than gunmen: arrests for peace disturbances, barroom brawls, vandalism, and common assaults. But they shared something else: both were members of a local neo-Nazi group known as the Springfield Aryan Hammerskins. Although the police didn't understand the skinhead connection with the murder, they were positive that they had the right men. In one of the car trunks they'd found a shotgun that matched the one used in the parking lot and a trench coat with powder burns. They also had a witness who'd overheard the two bragging about the shooting at a local bar.

Our dinners arrived—a spicy Thai pasta concoction for me, grilled salmon for Jonathan. Like many who kept kosher in their homes, Jonathan ordered only fish or vegetarian dishes when dining out.

The waitress was all titters and fluttering eyelashes as she asked if she could bring him another Anchor Steam beer. He shook his head distractedly, oblivious to her flirting. With a playful giggle she told him she'd check back in a few minutes to see if he was thirsty. I watched her sashay away, shaking my head. Jonathan tended to have that effect on woman, and on juries. It was part of what made him such an effective trial lawyer. Although one might think that a Brooklyn accent and an embroidered yarmulke would be a drawback in front of a St. Louis jury, he was one of the preeminent criminal defense attorneys in town.

Jonathan Wolf was New York City born and bred. He'd been raised an Orthodox Jew, and as a child attended a Jewish day school steeped in bookish traditions. Nevertheless, he somehow fell in love with boxing, and by the time he was eleven years old he'd demonstrated enough skill and mettle to induce one of the black coaches at the neighborhood gym to work with him. From his bar mitzvah on, he fought in every Golden Gloves competition in the area. At the age of seventeen, he won the Brooklyn title and traveled to Madison Square Garden to compete against the title holders from the other four boroughs. He beat them all, and Jimmy Breslin tagged him “the Talmudic Tornado.”

He started his legal career in the U.S. Attorney's office in St. Louis, his wife's hometown. During his prosecutor days, he'd been a classic intimidator—a righteous crusader whose bond with the victims seemed almost obsessional and who earned the nickname “Lone Wolf” for the long, solitary hours he spent preparing his cases. For nearly ten years, he'd stalked criminal defendants in the courtroom as if they were prey in his lair, boring in on them with rapid-fire questions, his green eyes radiating chilled heat.

Six years ago his wife died of ovarian cancer, leaving behind two little daughters. According to courtroom pundits, the young widower decided it was time to provide for their future. He resigned from the U.S. Attorney's office and hung out a shingle as a criminal defense attorney. It was an astounding career change, and astoundingly successful. The Lone Wolf became the Wolf Man—defender of the accused, tormentor of the accusers. His significant cases since the switch included the acquittal of Frankie “The Stud” Studzani on first-degree murder charges and two hung juries in the tax fraud prosecution of former Missouri congressman Jim Bob Pegram.

Jonathan and I met as litigation adversaries, and I had detested him from the get-go. My mother, of course, decided from the start that he was the perfect man for me. I told her no way—he was far too arrogant. She told me it was pride, not arrogance. I told her if that was pride, he had too much of it. “Sounds like someone else I know,” she answered with a wink, “and on top of that, sweetie, he's such a nice Jewish boy. What could be so bad?”

Well, I wasn't quite ready to concede to my mother, but I was starting to weaken. Jonathan was in his early forties. His close-trimmed black beard was flecked with gray. Standing a trim six feet tall, he still resembled a light heavyweight fighter, right down to the nose that had been broken and never properly reset. Although it scratched him from the pretty boy category, I had to admit that Jonathan Wolf was, as my niece would say, “fine.” I could well imagine the younger women on his juries wondering, during a dull moment of trial, whether that yarmulke stayed on when everything else came off.

I did, too.

Dating an Orthodox Jew was a new experience. In addition to the strict observance of the Sabbath from sundown on Friday to sundown on Saturday—no cars, no telephones, no electrical appliances, no work—there were exacting rules about sex. Although few organized religions celebrate the joys of marital sex more than Orthodox Judaism, the counterweight is a stern prohibition against premarital sex. I suppose it added a touch of nostalgic charm to our relationship, as if we were a pair of high school kids from the 1950s going steady. But it sure added plenty of frustration, too—and for both of us.

“What do the suspects say?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Nothing yet. They're being held without bail. The police are going to let them stew in the county jail over the weekend and try another interrogation on Monday.”

“That might work.”

“Even if Gloria doesn't fit the profile,” I said, “they still may have a possible hate crime motive.”

Jonathan looked up from his meal. “Oh?” he asked skeptically.

I told him what I'd learned from the homicide detective. Gloria Muller had been having an affair with a Jewish gynecologist whose clinic had been the target of a pro-life demonstration three months earlier; moreover, the doctor had received several anonymous death threats over the past years. Skinheads tend to be fiercely anti-abortion, the detective had explained.

Jonathan shook his head in disdain. “Those cops should know better than that. Hate crime motives are never subtle. Hammerskins have been tied to two other Springfield murders. One was a thirty-one-year-old black man. He was stomped to death in an alley behind a bar by two skinheads who claimed he had danced with a white woman. The other was a gay man. Stabbed to death. Forty-two stab wounds.”

“My God,” I murmured.

Jonathan nodded solemnly. “That's not unusual. The killer does it to demonstrate his commitment to the cause. In that one, he sliced off one of the victim's ears, presumably as a souvenir. That's how the police nailed him. They found it in his glove compartment.”

I silently absorbed those appalling details. Jonathan's knowledge didn't surprise me. Six weeks ago, the Missouri Attorney General had appointed him a special assistant attorney general to supervise the investigation and potential criminal prosecution of Bishop Kurt Robb and the other leaders of “Spider,” a white supremacist organization headquartered in St. Louis. Although Jonathan's criminal defense practice was at least a full-time job, he'd been spending long hours poring over state and federal investigative files and talking to various law enforcement officers charged with monitoring hate groups.

I twirled some pasta onto my fork as I thought it over. “Does that Springfield group have ties to Spider?”

“I'm not sure.” He took a sip of wine. “Skinheads tend not to have deep affiliations with any of the established neo-Nazi organizations, but they usually know one another. Spider operates in Illinois, so I'm sure there are connections. I'm thinking of going up there myself. See what those two suspects have to say.”

“Mind if I tag along?” I asked. “I have a few questions for them, too.”

He smiled. “Sure.”

I sighed with disappointment. “She was my only witness, Jonathan.”

“You'll find others.”

“Not after what Judge Wagner did to me today.”

“Maybe you're searching for the wrong ex-employees.”

I gave him a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”

“You've alleged a conspiracy, right? Beckman Engineering may be the only defendant in your case, but it's just one of the conspirators. Beckman has its guard way up, but the same won't be true of all the others.”

“Oh? Look what happened to Gloria Muller.”

He shook his head. “You can't assume that her death is connected to your case.”

“Come on,” I said, frustrated. “I talked to her, Jonathan. She definitely knew something about the conspiracy.”

“Rachel,” he said patiently, “that wasn't a mob hit, and she was hardly a mob witness. Moreover, look at the incongruity. Even assuming that she had damaging information about an alleged civil conspiracy—and that's a big assumption—is that reason enough to kill her?”

I watched glumly as he finished his salmon. Although I was convinced to my bones that Gloria's death was connected in some way to my case, the objective facts didn't offer much support.

He wiped his mouth with his napkin and gave me a smile of encouragement. “Start with the bid documents,” he said. “You're getting them tomorrow, right? They'll include all of the relevant federal government projects. That'll define the bid-rigging universe. Use them to figure out which company won which bid, and see what kind of pattern emerges.”

“Wait,” I said, giving him a time-out signal. “All I'm getting are Beckman's bids. How do I figure out who won each one?”

Jonathan leaned back in the booth, his green eyes twinkling. “Don't tell me you haven't heard of
Commerce Business Daily
?”

I frowned. “Ruth mentioned it. Something about using it to keep track of the bids. What is it?”

Jonathan winked. “The key to the kingdom.”

“Ruth is meeting with me tomorrow. I'll—”

I paused. Coming down the aisle on her way out was none other than Judge Catherine Wagner, accompanied by two other women her age. My surprised look must have caught her eye because she slowed and smiled in recognition. “Why, look who it is. Hello, Rachel.”

I returned the smile. “Hi, Judge.”

She approached the booth and nodded approvingly toward my nearly empty plate. “I'm pleased to see that my rulings haven't ruined your appetite.”

I laughed politely.

She glanced from me toward my dinner companion. Her expression froze for an instant before she regained her composure. “Ah, Mr. Wolf,” she said in a much cooler voice.

“Good evening, Your Honor,” he answered with a courteous nod.

Her gaze shifted from Jonathan to me as she appraised our situation, her brow furrowing ever so slightly. We didn't have that business dinner look about us—no notepads or pens on the table, no briefcases on the floor. Her two companions stood behind her, waiting quietly.

“Well, Counselors,” she said with a perfunctory nod, “good evening.”

I turned to watch her leave and then looked back at Jonathan. “You two have a history.”

Jonathan inhaled deeply. “Unfortunately.”

“Criminal or civil case?”

He gazed at me for a moment. “Neither.”

“Neither?” And then it sank in. “Oh, my God.” I leaned forward and whispered, “Did you and she…?”

He frowned. After a moment, he said, “Not exactly.”

“Not exactly?” I repeated, amused. “What in the world does ‘not exactly' mean?”

He looked into my eyes for a moment and then shook his head self-consciously. “We had a misunderstanding.”

I pried the story out of him as we left the restaurant. It happened seven years ago at the annual Christmas party thrown by the U.S. Attorney's office and attended by several of the judges. When Jonathan went down the hall to his office to get his briefcase and coat, Judge Wagner snuck in behind him. He was at the coatrack in the corner when she closed the office door behind her. She sat against the edge of his desk, facing him with a boozy, carnal smile. He stood there, immobilized.

“It's party time, Counselor,” she told him, her voice somewhere between a purr and a growl. “How 'bout a party favor?” She lifted her right leg and planted her high-heeled foot on the armrest of the chair in front of the desk. As she did so, her skirt slid all the way up her parted thighs. “How 'bout you come over here and fuck me till it hurts.”

I giggled in amazement. It was a scene out of a trashy novel. I couldn't imagine Judge Wagner doing that. I couldn't imagine any woman doing that. “What happened?”

We were standing under a streetlight outside Cardwell's. He shrugged. “I tried to act responsibly. I told her I was married, that she'd had too much to drink, that she was too fine a person to have a one-night stand. I told her I'd be happy to get her a cab or find someone to drive her home.”

I winced. “Oh, Jonathan, she must have been mortified.” I slipped my arm under his as we walked up Maryland toward the parking lot behind the church. “She must have been furious.”

“She was a little upset.” He shook his head ruefully. “Our relationship has been somewhat strained ever since.”

I laughed. “I bet it has. Oy, as if I didn't already have enough problems in that lawsuit.”

“I don't think she'll hold that against you.”

“Oh, come on, Jonathan, she's a woman, too.” I shook my head and groaned. “She's already got an anti-plaintiff reputation, especially where the defendant is a corporation. Now she'll have an added reason—Oh, my God.”

I stopped, dismayed by what I saw. I turned to him. “Is that your car?”