Flinch Factor, The (26 page)
Read Flinch Factor, The Online
Authors: Michael Kahn
The ensuing media blizzard eclipsed all of the publicity Ken Rubenstein had chased for years through triathlons, crossword puzzle tournaments, and flashy residential real estate developments. Sound bites of his testimony made CNN and Fox News that night. The homicide charges landed the next day. Rubenstein's perp walk was the lead story on all four local TV stations, made the front page of the
Post-Dispatch
, and ran in the hourly news cycle on CNN for twenty-four hours. A week later, the issuance of nineteen federal indictments arising out of the corruption-of-public-officials scheme put him on the front page of the
New York Times
, and got him featured in an interactive chart on the
Wall Street Journal's
' website which, if you clicked on it, generated a graphic showing him as a spider at the center of an elaborate web of venal public officials.
That press eruption had been preceded by a long moment of silence in the courtroom after Rubenstein's answer to my last question. Even Judge Flinch was speechless. I finally turned to the judge and told him that I had no further questions. Flinch twirled his mustache, frowned, and adjourned the hearing.
I had further questions, of course. Plenty. But I didn't want to ask them in front of a TV audience. Barbara Weiss deserved some modicum of privacy. Moreover, I knew that better qualified questioners were seated in the courtroom gallery, including Bertie Tomaso, who ushered Ken Rubenstein out of the courthouse two hours later in handcuffs.
Over a marathon police interview that began that evening and ended just before dawn, Rubenstein admitted what I had assumed, namely, that Nick Moran's death was an accident. According to his statement, the plan had been to incapacitate him, shoot him up with heroin, put him back in his pickup, park it along Gay Way, unzip his fly, pull out his penis, and call the cops. The motive was the oldest and pettiest one of all: jealous rage. Rubenstein's goal had been to humiliate the man who'd had the nerve to romance his wifeâand to teach his wife a lesson, too.
Armed with a packet of Ketamine power, Gene Chase had met Nick for a drink, ostensibly to discuss some kitchen renovation work that Corundum Construction might be able to send his way. Whatever actually went wrongâtoo much Ketamine, too much heroin, or too much in combinationâthe resulting death had repercussions that eventually eliminated the two Rubenstein underlings who had participated in the scheme. Professionals handled their deaths, however. Rubenstein had seen what could go wrong when you relied on amateurs. Of course, so had the professionals, who made sure that all arrangements were conducted through double-blind communications. Thus Bertie was still trying to track down Gene Chase's killers and still trying to confirm that Rudy Hickman was in fact dead, since he had not been heard from since his disappearance.
Although Rob Crane had known nothing about Nick Moran, he knew too much about the rest. Whatever slim chance he had to avoid indictment ended with the performance of Abraham Lincoln Johnson. Honest Abe convened his own press conference on the courthouse steps after court adjourned. Standing before the cameras, he announced exactly what he had been prepared to testify to in court, namely, that Rob Crane had sought him out, arranged a meeting in a private room at his club, and suggested during that meeting that Johnson could parlay a vote in favor of the Brittany Woods TIF into a terrific deal on a backyard swimming pool and deck. Crane had, alas, misread the flamboyant used-car salesman. Honest Abe had been so outraged that he had threatened to go public right then and there. It took days of groveling for Crane to get him to agree to keep quietâbut only after promising that there would be no further tampering with the Cloverdale City Counsel. Johnson's discovery of Crane's breach of that promise made him willingâindeed, eagerâto bear witness.
Crane's legal career was kaput. He'd have plenty of time to evaluate new job options during his years behind bars.
As for me, my job essentially ended with Ken Rubenstein's answer to my final question in court. Susannah was my client. She'd asked me to look into her brother's deathâto see whether he'd died the way the police said he had. I'd proved he hadn't, and thus my representation was concluded.
Susannah invited me to a graveside memorial service for her brother, which was held earlier this Sunday afternoon. It was mostly a family affair. She delivered a short speech through tears, I said a few words, and then we drove back to her house for donuts and lemonade. After hugs all around, I said my good-byes and drove off.
Because the sky was blue and the air was warm and my mom had the kids for the afternoon, I decided to drop by the other cemetery, which is where I was now, seated on the memorial bench facing Jonathan's gravestone.
Some days I come here to talk to Jonathan, to share stories about his children. Some days I come here for adviceânot actual words of wisdom from the great beyond, of course, but more a chance to voice my own fears and hopes. Today, though, I came for serenityâfor a chance to share a few quiet moments away from clients and family and telephones and emails, to just, in my stepdaughter Sarah's words, chill.
But serenity eluded me. I thought of Nick Moran and the future that had been stolen from him. Though I'd helped solve the mystery of his death, I felt no sense of triumph or vengeance. He was, as Raymond Chandler wrote, sleeping the big sleepâand, like Jonathan, decades too soon. Some of the people who deserved to go to jail would go to jail, and in the process they would forfeit their careers and their reputations, but through it all Nick would continue to sleep the big sleep. There was no final retribution, no settling up in this lifetimeâand hope of any such reckoning thereafter, of some final celestial accounting, offered me no comfort.
Thoughts of Nick and Jonathan triggered in my mind that haunting passages from
Ecclesiastes:
For the living know that they will die,
but the dead know nothing;
they have no further reward,
and even the memory of them is forgotten.
“Never again,” wrote the preacher, “will they have a part in anything that happens under the sun.”
Never again.
I sighed.
Although I'd received praise in the aftermath of that televised hearing, my main reaction had been then, and was still, sadness. There was nothing to celebrate. Sometimes I wonder whether Nick's death would have been easier to accept if the original versionâan accidental overdoseâhad turned out to be the correct one.
“Hey.”
I looked up to see Benny standing there.
I forced a smile. “Hi.”
“As the chicken said to the horse, âWhy the long face?'”
“What are you doing here?”
“Talked to your mom. She told me about the memorial service for Nick. I called your house a half hour ago. No one was home. Took a wild guess where you might be. I'm obviously the modern incarnation of Sherlock Holmes.”
“Obviously.”
“Scoot over.”
I did.
He sat down next to me. “So?”
I shrugged.
“I knew it.”
I turned to him. “What?”
“You're bummed.”
“I'm just thinking.”
“Oh, Jesus. Not that goddam Ecclesiastes again.”
“What's wrong with him?”
“âVanity of vanities, all is vanity.' Christ. Don't pay attention to that grim jackass.”
“Oh?” I couldn't help but smile. “You have someone better for me?”
“Hell, yeah. Omar Khayyam. Dude had the right motto: shit happens, so lighten up and crack open another cold one.”
“Was that line in the
Rubaiyat
?”
“Don't joke about my homey Omar. I actually took a course on him in college. Dude had the right philosophy. Take me, for example. I'm dating a waitress from Hooters, for god's sake. You think Ecclesiastes wouldn't be all over my ass? But Omar? He'd give me a high five. To quote the man: âDrink! for you know not whence you came, nor why; Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.'”
He gave me a wink. “And that's why I'm here.”
“Oh?”
“I know why you go, and where.”
“Where?”
He stood and faced me. “Your mom's taking the kids out to dinner, and I'm hauling your gorgeous tush down to the Broadway Oyster Bar. They got the Zydeco Crawdaddies playing there at five-thirty. I called Jacki after I spotted your car in the cemetery parking lot. She's going to meet us down there. We're going to get you some oysters on the half shell and a big plate of jambalaya and a bucket or two of Dixie beer and then we're gonna dance to
Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler
. Let the good times roll, woman.”
He reached out his hand.“Deal?”
My eyes watered. He pulled me to my feet.
I gave him a kiss on his cheek.
“Deal,” I whispered.
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