Flinch Factor, The (23 page)

Chapter Forty-eight

There were three television cameras in the crowded courtroom—one against the back wall and one along each side wall. I was at the counsel table to the left of the judicial bench with Jacki seated on my right, Benny on my left. At the other counsel table sat Rob Crane, Ken Rubenstein, and the three attorneys who had been in Judge Flinch's chambers with Crane on Tuesday.

The gallery behind us was almost full, although many of the seats were occupied by reporters or subpoenaed witnesses—mostly city officials, mostly accompanied by attorneys, which suggested this would be a big day for the Fifth Amendment. The entire Cloverdale neighborhood steering committee sat in the first row on our side of the center aisle, along with Nick's sister Susannah. The rows behind them on both sides of the aisle included a scattering of spectators mixed in with the press, witnesses, and lawyers.

Indeed, the only missing player in the courtroom was the judge himself. His order scheduling the hearing had stated “10 a.m.
sharp,
” and thus we'd all been in our seats and ready to begin at ten that morning. At 10:10, I'd checked with his docket clerk, who assured me that there was nothing else on his docket. Nevertheless, it was now 10:20 and still no sign of the Honorable Howard Flinch.

We'd gotten to the courthouse around eight that morning to set up our equipment, which was all in place by the time Crane and his entourage arrived at quarter to ten. Our equipment included a large flat-screen LCD monitor on a stand against the wall above the empty jury box, which was to my right and the judge's left. The monitor was hooked up to a laptop computer on the table in front of Jacki.

I glanced over at the other table. Crane was jotting notes on his yellow legal pad. Ken Rubenstein was hunched over a crossword puzzle. The other three attorneys were seated motionless, each with a stack of papers in front of him on the table.

I studied Crane. Despite his macho façade, he had the slightly frayed look of someone who understands that he and his client were, in Benny's words, strapped inside the Flinch Flyer. His emergency appeal had failed, and now he was back in the clutches of Missouri's kookiest judge. Worse yet for Crane, the Court of Appeals' denial of his emergency petition had surely emboldened a judge who didn't need further emboldening.

As predicted, Crane had called me late yesterday afternoon to tell me that he'd done some investigation and had learned that Nick Moran died of a heroin overdose. I told him that anyone doing a name search on Google could have come up with the same answer. I wanted the
real
story.

“The
real
story,” he'd repeated, exasperated. “That's not just what some newspaper said. It's what the police said.”

“I told you my terms, Rob. The
real
story.”

He didn't call back that day, and we hadn't spoken this morning.

I took out the typed list of names I'd prepared late last night. I showed it to Jacki and gestured toward Crane's table. She nodded. I walked over to Crane. He look up from his notes. Rubenstein was still hard at work next to him, a stopwatch resting on the table near the half-completed puzzle.

I said, “Here's a list of the witnesses we may call. We aren't required to provide it to you, but I'm doing it as a professional courtesy.”

Crane frowned as he took the document from me. Rubenstein clicked the stopwatch and peered over Crane's shoulder at the list.

I watched, trying to read Crane's reaction as he skimmed down the list. Most of the names should not have surprised him. They were the witnesses he would have expected I might call. He'd probably heard from all of their lawyers already.

One name on the list might have been unfamiliar to him; however, if he called around during a break he would discover that Robert Early was a frequent expert witness in lawsuits over construction costs.

But the last name on the list—placed last for a reason—was Abraham Lincoln Johnson. It was a name that would have special meaning to Crane. It was a name that should send a wave of unease down his spine.

He glanced up at me and then turned around to survey the gallery. I guessed—hoped—he was looking for Abraham Lincoln Johnson. He wouldn't find him. I'd told Abe not to come to Court until I telephoned.

“Do you have your witness list for me?” I asked, knowing Crane didn't and not really caring, since I assumed his sole witness was the man seated next to him.

Crane turned back from the crowd and looked down the table at the other three attorneys, who were looking back at him uncertainly.

“No,” he said. “I don't anticipate calling many witnesses. This is your ridiculous motion, not mine. You're the one with the burden of proof.”

Rubenstein stared up at me, anger his eyes.

I returned to our table. Benny stood and leaned in close.

“You're right about Rubenstein. I've seen him before, too.”

“Where?” I whispered.

“Not sure.” He leaned around me to have another look. “It'll come to me.”

Just as we were taking our seats, the buzzer sounded and the bailiff announced, “All rise.”

The side door opened and Judge Howard Flinch entered with a flourish and charged up the three stairs to his bench.

“What the fuck?” Benny whispered. “Is this Halloween?”

Instead of the standard black judicial robe, Judge Flinch was wearing a scarlet one with five gold-braided stripes on each sleeve. In his right hand he was holding a large silver gavel. I looked at him closer. He appeared to have used extra wax on the ends of his mustache, which were formed into large curlicues.

Flinch gave the courtroom audience a big smile, pausing to nod at each of the cameras along the side walls. With the scarlet robe and flamboyant mustachio, the effect was almost surreal, as if we were attending an avant-garde staging of a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta—a crack cocaine version of
Iolanthe
. I half expected him to burst into song. Instead, he plopped down behind the bench.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “please be seated.”

As the crowd took its seats, he rapped the gavel three times. It sounded like three rifle shots.

“This Court will now come to order.”

He turned to me with a big smile. “Ah, Miss Gold. How are we today?”

I stood. “Thank you, Your Honor. With me are my co-counsel, Jacki Brand and Professor Benjamin Goldberg.”

“Professor, eh?” Flinch said, his eyebrows shooting up. “No pop quizzes today, sir.”

The judge chuckled in appreciation of his remark. Benny forced a smile.

“And Mr. Crane,” Flinch said, turning toward that table. “Here with your wolf pack, eh? Is that other gentlemen Mr. Rubenstein?”

Crane stood. “Yes, Your Honor. This is Kenneth Rubenstein, Chairman and CEO of Ruby Productions.”

“No bike shorts today, eh, Mr. R?”

The judge chuckled again, clearly enjoying himself.

“Okay, Counsel, it's show time. Miss Gold, can you explain to the Court and to our viewers at home why we are gathered here today?”

That was the cue for Rob Crane to stand and again repeat his objection to the hearing, to repeat his contention that there was no issue in dispute because his client had never filed any court paper alleging a breach of the settlement agreement.

Judge Flinch rolled his eyes, mugging for the camera. “You need to get yourself some new material, Counsel. You made that same objection on Tuesday and I overruled it. Then you ran up to the Court of Appeals like a hysterical schoolgirl crying and wringing your hands and whimpering about that same objection and what did they do? Overruled it, too. I go turkey hunting each Spring down in the Bootheel, Mr. Crane. Over near Caruthersville. They got themselves a saying down there that fits your objection: That dog won't hunt. Overruled. Miss Gold, you may continue. And be sure to give us a little background on your lawsuit for our viewers at home.”

I walked up to the podium and started by explaining the origins of the lawsuit, specifically, my clients' objections to the use of public financing and the powers of eminent domain for the benefit of private developers through TIFs in general—and in particular to the loss of their homes and neighborhood for a fancy new gated community. I explained that while I was aware that Ruby Productions had been the beneficiary of this sort of public financing in other communities, neither my clients nor I had any interest in challenging those other developments.

“The lawsuit that I filed, Your Honor, was all about, and
only
about, my clients' homes and my clients' neighborhood. Period.”

I glanced back at Jacki, who nodded and pressed a button on the computer. The huge flat-screen monitor above the jury box flickered once and then displayed a black-and-white photo portrait of Nick Moran.

“As Mr. Crane can confirm,” I said, “we lawyers represent more than one client at the same time. The gentlemen displayed on the screen is the late Nick Moran. Mr. Moran was a talented carpenter and craftsman whose business was home renovations. I knew him. He rehabbed my kitchen and did some beautiful renovations on the coach house behind my house where my mother lives. He was a true artist and a wonderful man. He died earlier this year. According to the police report” —and here the image switched to a display of the newspaper article on his death— “he died of a heroin overdose in his pickup truck, which was parked along a lane in Forest Park that is well known to the police as an after-hours meeting place for gay men seeking anonymous sex. Mr. Moran was partially undressed, which suggested to the police that he died of the overdose while attempting to engage in a sexual act.”

I paused. The screen image switched back to the photograph of Nick Moran.

“A week or so after Nick's death, his sister Susannah came to visit me. Susannah Beale is here today, Your Honor. She is seated in the first row behind me.”

I turned toward the gallery and nodded toward Susannah. She smiled and blushed slightly. I turned back to the judge.

“Susannah did not believe the police version of her brother's death. She didn't believe that her brother was a drug user. She didn't believe that he was the type who sought out anonymous sexual encounters with other men in a park. She asked me to look into his death. I was reluctant to get involved. Nick was her big brother. She loved him. She looked up to him. She believed he could do no wrong. Frankly, that was my biggest concern. I did not want to break Susannah's heart. How often these days have we learned dark and surprising secrets about people we know—especially, famous men, television preachers, U.S. Senators, governors—people who rail against homosexuality or adultery or prostitution but who turn out to be homosexuals or adulterers and johns themselves? Nevertheless, I agreed to investigate her brother's death—to determine whether he had died of an accidental drug overdose or whether he had been murdered.”

The screen went blank.

“To borrow a line from the Grateful Dead, Your Honor, that investigation has been a long strange trip. As you will hear from the witnesses and see in the evidence, this long strange trip has taken me from that dark lane in Forest Park to what appears to be a massive criminal conspiracy involving the corruption of public officials throughout St. Louis County.”

There was a low hum of surprised voices behind me.

“Your Honor,” Crane demanded, getting to his feet, “I object. This is nothing but rank speculation and malicious character assassination.”

“Those are strong words, Mr. Crane,” the judge said. “But let's give Miss Gold a little more rope. She'll either hang herself or your client. Overruled. You may proceed, Miss Gold.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.”

The judge said, “I do hope we will soon be hearing from the lovely Miss Jacki.”

He turned toward Jacki and gave her big smile. She smiled back at him.

“We will, Your Honor.”

“Excellent.” He twisted on one end of his mustache and turned back to me. “Proceed, Miss Gold.”

I explained the initial stages of my investigation—of my source who witnessed the mysterious second pickup truck along Gay Way that night in Forest Park, of how I traced the license plate to the even more mysterious Corundum Construction Company, which appeared to exist nowhere outside the corporate records of the Missouri Secretary of State.

“But it
was
a construction company,” I emphasized, “and that meant that if it actually constructed something it would leave a fingerprint in the form of a building permit. So I started searching through the building permit records in the city halls of every town and city in St. Louis County. And guess what? I started to find building permits. Like this one.”

The monitor displayed a blow-up of one of the Asbury Groves permits, with the name Corundum Construction highlighted in yellow.

“And this one.”

A blow-up of another permit.

“And this one.”

Another one.

“I started dropping by these houses,” I said, “hoping to find the pickup truck with that license plate number. Whoever was driving that pickup on the night Nick Moran died was probably the last person to see him alive. If I could just find that truck and talk to the driver, I might be able to tell my client how her brother died. So I kept looking and looking, and eventually—”

The monitor displayed the photograph I'd taken of the rear of the black Dodge Ram pickup parked in the driveway of 359 Dorantes Way in the town of Amity. The license plate was clearly visible.

“—I found it.”

I paused. Judge Flinch was leaning forward, staring intently at the image. I could hear whispering in the gallery behind me.

I said, “But something interesting happened along the way.”

A new image: a map of St. Louis County with five cities—Amity, Asbury Groves, Brookfield, Edgewood and Glenview Heights—highlighted in blue. Each of those towns had little yellow flags with the addresses of the homes with Corundum building permits.