Flinch Factor, The (25 page)

Chapter Fifty-two

Jacki put on the next three witnesses—all city officials. Given that we knew all three witnesses would refuse to answer the key questions on Fifth Amendment grounds, her challenge was twofold: to elicit certain basic admissions from each witness and then to use their Fifth Amendment refusals-to-answer as a way to “testify” through her questions. She achieved both objectives with each witness. Specifically:

From Elizabeth O'Shea, a member of the Glenview City Counsel, we learned that she paid only four thousand dollars for the opulent build-out of her basement, which included a movie theater, a rec room, an exercise room, a wet bar, sauna, and two bathrooms.

From Brett Annis, a member of the Edgewood City Counsel and a certified public accountant, we learned that he paid only six thousand dollars for a home addition that included a family room and new deck.

From Dr. Barry Haven, a Brookfield alderman, we learned that he paid the bargain price of two thousand dollars for an elaborate two-level cedar deck that included a hot tub and wet bar.

In each case, our own expert witness, Robert Early, would soon be testifying that these city officials—and the others on the witness list—had paid less than ten percent of the going rate for their home improvements.

And from each of her three witnesses Jacki elicited a Fifth Amendment non-answer to a series of the most incriminating possible questions, such as: “Did you enter into an agreement with your co-conspirator to sell your vote on the TIF in exchange for a cut-rate price on your home improvement?”

Rob Crane had no cross-examination for any of them.

As I hoped, after the third witness the judge announced that the court would take the afternoon recess.

Crane came over. “Can we talk?”

I scanned the gallery.

“Let me go out in the hall a moment,” I said. “I want to see if my next witness is here.”

“I'll be in the attorneys' break room. We need to talk.”

“I'll be back in a few minutes.”

I congratulated Jacki on her performance, and we walked out to the hall to see if we could find Abraham Lincoln Johnson. I couldn't be sure how Rob Crane would react to my “suggestion,” and thus needed to be sure that Johnson was prepared to take the witness stand after the recess and deliver the knockout punch.

Although the hallway was crowded, Johnson was easy to spot. He was the only three-hundred-pound coal-black African-American man with wraparound sunglasses, a neatly trimmed goatee, and an outfit familiar to anyone who had watched one of his late-night TV commercials for Honest Abe's Pre-Owned Paradise, namely, an iridescent green sports jacket over a pale pastel silk shirt, red double-knit slacks, and a pair of shiny black alligator boots. He was surrounded by people, some of whom were asking for autographs. I assumed the autograph seekers were motivated more by his TV commercials than by his tenure as a member of the Cloverdale City Council, where he had voted against the Brittany Woods TIF.

“What's this week's Emancipation Proclamation?” an elderly man asked.

Johnson's TV spots—all shot with him standing on his used-car lot—included the Emancipation Proclamation of the Week, which was a special car deal that would “emancipate” his customers from their current plight.

Johnson looked up from the sheet of notebook paper he was signing for a young black courtroom bailiff and grinned.

“Oh, my friend,” he said in his Sunday-morning-Baptist-preacher baritone, “this week is truly an Honest Abe week, praise God. Our emancipation proclamation covers none other than Honest Abe's namesake, the Lincoln. Yes, the noble Lincoln. We got ourselves vintage Lincolns, classic Lincolns and even a few barely-driven Lincolns, and all at prices that would make Mary Todd Lincoln herself drop to her knees and praise Jesus. So come on down, my friend, and Honest Abe will set your free.”

“Mr. Johnson?” I said.

He turned toward me and smiled. “Yes, young lady. What can I do for you?”

“I'm Rachel Gold.”

“Ah, the lovely lady lawyer.” He bowed. “A pleasure, my dear.”

“This is Jacki Brand. She's my co-counsel.”

His eyes widened as he gazed up at her. “Greetings, Miss Brand. My, oh my, you are a fine specimen of a woman.”

I said, “The Court is in recess for twenty minutes, sir. Perhaps you and Ms. Brand could talk in the witness room.”

“Lead the way, Miss Brand.”

I left Jacki with Abe Johnson and went across the hall to the attorneys' break room, pausing to peer through the glass panel in the door. Crane was inside, alone, pacing. I opened the door.

“Okay,” I said. “What is it?”

“Are you telling the truth?”

“About what?”

“About this hearing? About your investigation?”

“What are you talking about, Rob?”

“This whole thing. Is this only about that Nick Moran?”

“Only? The man is dead, Rob. He was a good man. I'm convinced he was murdered. That's more than enough reason for me.”

“But all the rest.” He waved his hand. “Corundum, the kickbacks—that's not what this is about?”

“Not if I get my questions about Nick answered.”

“Then why focus on this other stuff?”

“Because from what I've seen so far, his death is connected to that other stuff. So that's where I'm looking for my answer.”

Crane stared at me. I stared back, trying to get a read.

Now or never
, I told myself.

“I've been thinking, Rob.”

“About what?”

“Changing the order of the witnesses.”

“What do you mean?”

“The judge is getting sick of the Fifth Amendment. We're putting on our expert witness next. Benny will handle him. But after our expert I was planning to call Abe Johnson. Abe won't be taking the Fifth. He's prepared to testify. To tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

I watched Crane struggle to hide his emotions.

“But I've been thinking about calling another witness before Abe.”

“Who?”

“Your client.”

Crane frowned. “Ken?”

“Yes, Ken.”

“Why?”

“I know for sure that Abe has valuable information about Corundum, but I'm thinking Ken might have more valuable information about Nick Moran's death. If he does, I may not ever need to call Abe. But you know what my problem is?”

“What?”

“The Fifth Amendment. As I said, the judge is getting sick of it.”

Crane said nothing.

I said, “I had assumed Nick's death had something to do with Corundum, but now I'm thinking it might be more personal than that. If so, and if I can make that connection through Ken, I won't need Abe. I can rest after Ken testifies.”

I checked my watch and started for the door. As I turned the knob, I looked back toward Crane, who was staring down at the floor.

“Of course,” I said, waiting until he looked up, “that assumes that Ken doesn't start taking the Fifth Amendment when my questions get personal. I'll let you know when I'm about to get personal. We'll see what happens. Either he'll answer those questions or, well, I'll move on to Abe.”

I walked into the courtroom. Benny was up at counsel's table. Rubenstein was working on a crossword puzzle. Crane's entourage was seated and looking back toward the courtroom door, where Crane had just entered.

I leaned in close to Benny.“We're changing the order.”

“How?”

“Your guy Early is ready to go, right?”

He nodded.

“Put him on next. When Jacki gets back, tell her we may need to move Abe to the morning. I'll be back.”

“Where are you going?”

“Just out in the hall.”

“Why?”

“I need to get my thoughts organized.”

“Whose your next witness?”

I gestured toward the other table.

Benny raised his eyes, frowned, and then nodded.

“Go get ready, girl. We'll take care of things here.”

“Thanks.”

I started to leave but he grabbed my arm.

“What?” I whispered.

He gave me a wink. “Good luck.”

Chapter Fifty-three

“Next witness.”

I stood. “Your Honor, we call Kenneth Rubenstein.”

There was a murmur in the crowd. Rubenstein gave his attorney a baffled look and stood. He glanced at me, eyes wary, as he walked to the witness box.

The clerk swore him in and he took his seat and gazed at me.

“Mr. Rubenstein, you are the owner and president of Ruby Productions, correct?”

He gave me a sardonic smile. “I am indeed, Miss Gold.”

“You've heard testimony today regarding Corundum Construction Company, correct?”

“I have.”

“Ruby is Corundum, correct?”

He tried to chuckle. “Ruby is Ruby. Corundum is Corundum.”

“What is corundum?”

“You mean the company or the mineral?”

“Start with the mineral.”

“A form of aluminum oxide.”

“You never took a course in geology, correct?”

“Correct.”

“You know what corundum is because you are a crossword puzzle fan, correct?”

“I know what corundum is, and I am a crossword puzzle fan. I don't know that the two are connected.”

“Actually, you are more than just a fan. You compete in national crossword puzzle tournaments, correct?”

“Correct.”

“You have actually won a tournament or two, haven't you?”

“Four to be precise.”

“At your deposition, when I mentioned corundum, you told me about a sapphire, correct?”

“I did. Sapphire is a corundum.”

“But you only mentioned sapphire.”

“I believe so.”

“Back to my earlier question. Ruby is corundum, correct?”

“Back to my earlier answer. Ruby is ruby, corundum is corundum.”

“Let's go back to crosswords. Please look over at the monitor, sir.”

He did.

“You are looking at Plaintiffs' Exhibit Twenty-One. It is the upper left quadrant of the
New York Times
crossword puzzle from three years ago on Friday, April seventeen.”

He studied the monitor. “If you say so.”

“I understand that the Friday puzzles in the
Times
are some of the hardest to solve.”

“That they are.”

“Can you solve them?”

He smiled. “Absolutely.”

“Every time?”

“Every time.”

“Even in a crowded courtroom?”

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Try me.”

“I have the clues here, sir. My co-counsel has the answers. Let's see if you are good as you claim.”

He gave me an amused look. “Fire away.”

“Can I play, too?” the judge asked.

There was laughter in the gallery.

I smiled at the judge. “Certainly, Your Honor. But I warn you: Mr. Rubenstein claims to be quite good. Let's start with one across, gentlemen. Eight letters. The clue is: Painter of
The Snake Charmer
.”

“Rousseau,” Rubenstein said.

“Whoa.” The judge stared at the puzzle on the screen. “Is that right?”

I turned. “Jacki?”

She pushed a key on the computer and up on the monitor screen the letters R-O-U-S-S-E-A-U filled up the top row.

“Well done,” I said. “Directly below that word is number four across. This one is also eight letters. The clue is: Sunblock.”

“Coppertone,” Judge Flinch called out.

“Too many letters,” I said.

“Banana Boat,” Judge Flinch said.

“Still too many letters, Your Honor. Mr. Rubenstein?”

He gave me a cocky grin. “Umbrella.”

“Umbrella?” Judge Flinch said.

Rubenstein pantomimed opening an umbrella. “It blocks out the sun.”

The impatience in his voice was evident.

“Jacki?” I said.

The second row filled up with the letters U-M-B-R-E-L-L-A.

“Below that is ten across,” I said. “The clue is: Director abode.”

“Boardroom,” Rubenstein snapped.

Jackie pressed the key and the letters B-O-A-R-D-R-O-O-M filled the row.

“And below that. Fourteen across. Eight letters. The clue is: Tishri holy day.”

“Whose holy day?” Judge Flinch asked.

“Tishri,” I said, and then spelled it.

I turned to Rubenstein, who'd figured out what I was doing.

“The answer?” I asked.

He gazed at the screen and finally shrugged. “Yom Kippur.”

Jacki hit the key and the letters filled the screen.

“Let's double-check our answers,” I said. “One down is just four letters, and we already have all four filled in: R-U-B-Y. Guess what the clue is, Mr. Rubenstein?”

“I have no idea.”

“The clue,” I said, “is: Corundum. The answer is Ruby.”

A murmur in the gallery.

“At least in the world of crossword puzzles, Mr. Rubenstein, can we agree that ruby is corundum.”

Another shrug. “In the world of crossword puzzles, yes.”

“As a champion crossword puzzle solver, you already knew that ruby is corundum.”

“I knew sapphire and ruby are both corundum. Sapphire is the more common form.”

“Can we also agree that the lawyer for Ruby Productions is the lawyer for Corundum Construction Company?”

His smile disappeared. “I'm not following you.”

I turned to the court reporter. “Would you please read back the question to the witness.

She did.

“Which lawyer are you talking about?” he said.

“I ask the questions, sir. Let's make this easier. Take a look at the document on the monitor. That is Plaintiffs' Exhibit Thirty. It's a copy of a release agreement prepared by an attorney for Corundum Construction Company.”

“Never seen that document before.”

“We're going to zoom in on that little number in the lower left corner. That's a document identification number. Law firms use them.”

“I'm supposed to know what that number means?”

“Let's look at Plaintiffs'' Exhibit Thirty-One. That's a demand letter from your attorney, Mr. Crane, to me. Correct?”

“Appears to be.”

“Let's zoom in on that document ID number. You see it?”

“Yes.”

“Do you see it's in the same format?”

“But a different number.”

“That's correct, Mr. Rubenstein. But the same format and typeface. And if we need to, we will put on the witness stand someone from Mr. Crane's law firm who can show us how to identify the attorney who created those two documents. But perhaps you can save us that trouble, Mr. Rubenstein. Did Mr. Crane create the release agreement for Corundum Construction Company marked as Exhibit Thirty?”

“I was not at that law firm at the time the document was created, so I do not have personal knowledge of who created it. I assume you don't want me to speculate, right?”

“That is correct, Mr. Rubenstein. So let's just cut to the chase. Did you instruct Mr. Crane to prepare the Corundum release agreement?”

“Objection,” Crane said. “Attorney-client privilege. I instruct the witness not to answer.”

“Hate to do it,” the judge said to me, “but I got to sustain that one. Let's move on.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

I turned toward Rubenstein, who had crossed his arms over his chest and was staring at me guardedly.

Here we go
, I said to myself.

I looked back at Crane. Our eyes met. After a moment, he lowered his.

I turned back to the judge. “Your Honor, may I approach the witness?”

“You certainly may.”

I moved from the podium toward Rubenstein, stopping when we were separated by just an arm's length. I needed our interaction to seem as intimate as possible. We studied one another.

In a softer voice, I said, “You knew Nick Moran, correct?”

“Not personally.”

“Earlier this year he renovated the kitchen in your home?”

“He did.”

“And the guest bathroom.”

“Yes.”

“That was his line of work. He did home renovations.”

“So he claimed.”

“The same line of work as Corundum Construction?”

“Seems similar, at least from what other witnesses have said about Corundum. I don't think he built pools, though.”

“You've heard the testimony about Corundum Construction today.”

“I certainly have.”

“Have you heard any testimony that would link Corundum to Mr. Moran's death.”

He smiled. “I certainly have not.”

“Based on what you've heard today, Mr. Rubenstein, did Mr. Moran die because of what he knew about Corundum Construction?”

“Based on what I've heard, the answer to that is no.”

“Leaving aside that testimony, Mr. Rubenstein, based on what you personally know, do you believe that Mr. Moran died because of what he knew about Corundum Construction?”

“Nope.”

“What do you understand to be the cause of his death?”

“A drug overdose in Forest Park.”

“What do you base that on?”

“That's what it said in the newspaper.” He gave me a smug grin. “Sounded to me like he was a closet fag who got his rocks off with strange men in the park.”

“Is that based on what you read in the newspaper?”

“I can put two and two together.”

“Explain.”

He chuckled. “Not rocket science, Counsel. The man is found in his pickup truck on that infamous lane in the park.”

“You referred to him as a ‘closet fag.' Did you base the closet part on what you read in the newspaper?”

“Again, I put two and two together.”

“Explain.”

“The man worked on my house. I didn't meet him personally, but I understand that he didn't seem like a queer. Thus, a closet fag.”

“He actually seemed more like a ladies man, didn't he?”

He shrugged. “Just goes to show, eh?”

“To show what?”

“You never know.”

“I was at his funeral,” I said. “A lot of the women there were surprised.”

He forced a laugh. “Like I said, it just goes to show.”

There was a manic edge in his voice.

“Were you mad at him?” I asked.

“Was I what?”

“Were you mad at him?”

He stared at me, the vein in his temple pulsing. “Why would I be mad at him?”

“Were you?”

He seemed to think it over.

“I was not crazy about him.”

“Were you jealous?”

He forced a laugh. “Jealous? Of what?”

I paused, letting his response hang out there. “You are many things, sir. Correct?”

He frowned. “Pardon?”

“You are a successful real estate developer, correct?”

“I am.”

“And you are also an accomplished triathlete, correct?”

He smiled. “I am.”

“And a crossword puzzle champ, and a father, and a husband, correct?”

He was staring at me. “I am.”

“You are many things, sir, but you are not a cold-blooded murderer, correct?”

“Pardon?”

“You are not a cold-blooded murderer, correct?”

“Correct.”

I paused again.

“In your business, sir,” I said, “would it be fair to say that you set high standards for yourself?”

He leaned back, puzzled. “Could you repeat that?”

“Do you set high standards for yourself?”

“Yes.”

“In everything you do, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“What about the people who work for you? Do you set high standards for them, too?”

“You better believe it.”

“I do believe it, sir.” I gave him what I hoped would seem an admiring smile. “Do the people who work for you always live up to your standards?”

He shook his head. “Nope.”

“Do they sometimes bungle your instructions, fail to properly execute the tasks you've given them?”

“That happens.”

“That's what happened that night, didn't it.”

“What night?”

“The night Nick Moran died.”

“What are trying to say?”

I moved one step closer and lowered my voice. “He wasn't supposed to die, was he?”

“Supposed to die? You think I know the answer to that?”

“I do. He wasn't supposed to die, was he?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“They screwed up, didn't they?”

“Why would you ask me that?”

In a softer voice, I said, “You know why I'm asking.”

His eyes darted around the courtroom. Eventually, they returned to mine, and then he looked down.

“I am asking you on behalf of his sister Susannah. I'm asking you on behalf of the others who knew him. And I'm asking because I don't think you're a murderer, Mr. Rubenstein.”

I gazed at him, waiting until he raised his eyes to mine.

“Mr. Rubenstein, let me ask you again. Nick Moran wasn't supposed to die that night, was he? There was no intent to kill the man. This wasn't a premeditated murder. Your people failed you.”

He was staring at me, a pained look in his eyes.

I said, “This is your chance to make that clear.”

We stared into one another's eyes for what seemed an eternity.

“It's all going to come out anyway,” I said. “Why wait? This is your moment. Tell me. More important, tell his sister. Help her understand her loss. Please.”

He bowed his head and exhaled slowly.

In a quite voice, barely above a whisper, he said, “He wasn't supposed to die.”