Rabbi Gabrielle's Defiance (42 page)

This was a conversation Chuck didn't want to
enlarge upon, so he backed out of her study, leaving her to pursue
her own thoughts – perhaps to retrace the thinking that had led him
to make his final remark.

That afternoon, she got on the Internet with
her old mentor, rabbinical colleague, and close friend, Rabbi Seth
Greer, who had emigrated to Israel and eventually settled in Haifa.
Seth Goan, as he was known
b'Aretz
, had
established himself as one of Israel's premier standup comedians,
later to branch out from the stage to television and cinema. A
substantial part of his income came from being a highly paid emcee
on the emerging Israeli convention circuit. She asked him for a
list of email addresses for the yeshivas in Jerusalem. In such a
technologically sophisticated society, that was a modest
request.

The next morning, he responded with the names
and email addresses of two associations of yeshivas. Both provide
lists of their members. Gabby put out a carefully worded bulletin
seeking information about a Korean student, then frequented her
email more often than was her habit. Nothing showed up for five
days. Her mood, temporarily lifted, began to slip. Only an
over-scheduled agenda at Ohav Shalom prevented her from boarding a
plane to Tel Aviv's Ben Gurion Airport. Chuck observed that she
looked like a scarecrow, a sign of her mental state. He saw to it
that a blend of yellow, orange and white daffodils and carnations
were always on her desk. Efforts to cheer her up proved fruitless.
When no one was around, he planted his arms around her and hugged
her fast against his chest, where he said close to her ear,
"Nothing is so painful as a broken heart. I know, I've been there
myself."

Chuck possessed an instinct about exploiting the
foibles of others. It took him a dozen calls to actually make
contact with counsel for the Morgenstern family, Marc Sutterfeld.
When he caught him off-guard after-hours in his office at Morrison
and Grand, he feigned a nervous, conspiratorial voice, presenting
himself as a timid whistle-blower from Congregation Ohav Shalom
with significant new information about the Morgenstern situation.
Sutterfeld, cautious but predatory, nibbled at the bait. Knowing
that a court would be skeptical about information purchased from an
employee of the congregation, he careful avoided mention of
compensation.

"I'm interested to see justice done; that's
the sum of it," Chuck asserted, still pretending extreme
nervousness. While most people might feel nervous about making this
type of contact with Marc Sutterfeld, Chuck loved acting, though he
knew he was hamming it up a bit. "There's too much damn bullshit
around this place. Religious institutions are supposed to be the
bastions of morality, but I can tell you, Mr. Sutterfeld, I can
tell you when you work here you see an entirely different picture.
They run this place like a burlesque show. Kinda makes you sick
when you think of it. When I get home at night, I need two double
scotches to purge my conscience."

"Come to my office at second and D streets,
just north of the Federal Court House. Morrison and Grand occupies
the third and fourth floors at 1550 second street," Sutterfeld
said.

"I'm afraid that won't do," Chuck replied,
pretending agitation. "I've got a family to support. They pay me
well at the synagogue and I'd be in trouble without my job. You
must understand that what I'm about to tell you, can't get back to
Ohav Shalom. Can we meet someplace less conspicuous? Since you're
near the Supreme Court, let me suggest we meet on the west steps.
There's a statue of a partially clothed Greek woman on the
southwest corner, quite a beauty I can tell you, since I've admired
her for years. Best for me after work."

Sutterfeld hesitated, mulling over the
possibility of a setup but, given the nature of a synagogue,
dismissed it as unlikely. To Chuck he said, "Does tomorrow work?
Say 6:45 p.m.? How will I know what you look like?"

"Yes, 6:45 is fine with me. I'll wear an
Orioles baseball cap. You know, black with an orange bird on the
front."

"Do you know what I look like?"

"No. Come in a T-shirt and short pants. No
briefcase. I want to be sure you don't come with a recording
device. That's the last thing I want to be saddled with."

"I'm not sure I like this arrangement."

"It's your call, Mr. Sutterfeld. You may not
like the situation, but I assure you you'll like what I have to
say. But then, it's entirely your call."

To avoid parking problems near the Supreme Court,
Gabby took the Red Line Metro to Union Station Exit and walked
south from there. She dressed in navy-blue sweat pants, a white
UCLA sweatshirt with gold and blue lettering and her New Balance
jogging shoes, the signature black Orioles cap pressed firmly over
her skull. A schoolgirl's book bag hung from straps over her
shoulders. It was 6 p.m., providing three-quarters of an hour to
jog before the appointed rendezvous with Marc Sutterfeld. Her plan
was to descend upon him from the top of the Court's alabaster steps
to catch him by surprise. The jog on the Mall produced a film of
perspiration under the book bag and under the arms. It eventually
brought her to the top of the Court steps with a view or the
Capitol, a reminder of her walk with Kye Naah months before. That
she would never work under the majestic dome of Congress filled her
with regret and, for a brief moment, she thought about changing her
mind about the race. But she also understood that the point of no
return had already been crossed. There was no reversing her
commitment to Ohav Shalom.

Gazing down the marble steps, Gabby spied
Marc Sutterfeld arrive at the designated position nine minutes
early. As stipulated he was in a yellow and brown T-shirt and short
khaki cargo shorts, revealing stumpy, hirsute legs. Black leather
street shoes and dark socks were a dead giveaway that he had little
interest in outdoor sports and did not possess sneakers or running
shoes.

She trotted down the stairs, advancing
quickly from his blind side. "Mr. Sutterfeld," she declared before
waiting for him to turn. "You might remember me from Congregation
Ohav Shalom. I met you briefly in the hallway before the deposition
of my colleague, Rabbi Asa Folkman. I'm Rabbi Gabrielle Lewyn."

His eyes widened in disbelief and for an
instant he was nonplussed. "I was expecting to meet someone else,"
he stammered, "a man."

"He's not coming," she replied. "You spoke
with my secretary. I came in his place."

He ascended two steps to be at eye level with
Gabby, but she moved back to maintain the psychological advantage
of height. "This is highly irregular, Rabbi. You're a defendant in
the Morgenstern litigation. Communication between us should go
through your legal counsel. This meeting shouldn't happen."

When he ceased moving, she did. "You're
absolutely right. This meeting shouldn't happen and, in a special
way, I hope it doesn't. You'll know why when you hear what I have
to say. I believe it will have bearing on the resolution of
Morgenstern tragedy. If you don't mind, let's walk around. I think
better when in motion. I know your office is nearby and it would be
better if we're not noticed in each other's company. I've been
around this city long enough for people to recognize me, even, I'm
afraid, in my running clothes."

He had no objection so they began moving
south on First Street, in front of the Library of Congress. From
her book bag she retrieved a file on the Morgenstern case,
extracting the Fire Marshal's Report and displaying it before
Sutterfeld's eyes. "No doubt you have studied this document very
carefully, Mr. Sutterfeld.".

"Of course. I can almost quote it by heart. A
fire report is the bible for people in my line of work."

"Then you can tell me what the Marshal said
about the probable cause of the fire that took Janean's life and
disfigured young Tybee?"

"Candles from a Chanukah menorah."

"And why did the Marshall come to that
conclusion?"

Sutterfeld was uncomfortable answering rather
than asking questions. The role switch stirred his adrenalin, but
the rabbi's question was easy enough and fortied his client's case.
"It was encrusted with melted wax. In the heat of the fire, the
candles melted before they could burn down normally. But a rapid
melt down leaves unburned wax residue."

She sensed the surge of power lawyers speak
about when interrogating a witness. "And in your judgment, could
the Marshal have made an error in this judgment?"

"Yes. But he's a trained professional. He
understands how fires get started."

"Would you maintain the same confidence in
his judgment if you learned that he misunderstood a simple fact
about Chanukah? Suppose he didn't know that on the evening of the
fire, it was the first night of Chanukah when only two candles are
burned, not the eighth night, when we kindle nine candles?"

Sutterfeld's stride slowed for just an
instant, before resuming at the previous pace. "All that surplus
wax didn't come from two candles," he declared. "I've personally
examined it at the laboratory."

"So have I. Do you know whose menorah it was,
Mr. Sutterfeld?"

"Rabbi Folkman's. We've established that fact
in deposition. He said it belonged to him."

From the file, she pulled out the photo of
Asa in his study with his menorah sitting behind him on the
bookshelf. She stopped walking to position it squarely in
Sutterfeld's view. "This snap was taken a full two years
before
my colleague loaned his menorah to
the Morgenstern girls. There's a date on the back stamped by Kodak.
That's the development date, incidentally, not the date for the
manufacture of the photographic paper. You'll note that in the
photo the menorah is also crusted with wax, like that found by the
Fire Marshal. The wax residue that the Marshall discovered did not
come from this year, but was an accumulation from previous years,
God only knows how many, but by the looks of this photo, quite a
few. Obviously, Rabbi Folkman failed to clean it and let the
unburned stuff build up from year to year. He's a wonderful rabbi
but not what you would call a tidy person."

Sutterfeld's heavy breathing turned into a
pant. His eyes glowered behind thick-rimmed glasses. She gave him
time to absorb the implications of this fact.

"Well," he eventually huffed, "the Marshal's
explanation is still the best explanation for the fire. Two candles
on the first night of Chanukah could have started the inferno.
Unless you have a better cause."

"I do," she was blunt, almost condescending.
From the folder came her Polaroid pictures of the Sabbath
candlesticks taken at the Forensic Laboratory. "You might not
recognize this, but it was among the artifacts removed from the
fire site by the Marshal. The first night of Chanukah happened to
fall on a Friday night, when Jews first light two larger candles
not to honor the Maccabees but the Sabbath. I examined this Sabbath
candlestick, which belonged to the Morgensterns and not Rabbi
Folkman. Look at it carefully because you'll note that the silver
lip is bent upward. In a typical Jewish home, silver candlesticks
are not only ceremonial, but also decorative and are often
prominently displayed. In all my years in the rabbinate I've never
seen a Jewish family display a defective candlestick, such as this.
Any silversmith could have easily repaired the dent by tapping the
lip back into place. So I reckon it must have fallen and gotten
smashed on the kitchen floor."

"Of course. Lots of things fall during
fires," he trumpeted, looking for an edge.

"But this candlestick must have fallen
before
the fire blazed. What you can't see
in the picture is what you can observe in the Lab. There's no
carbon dust in the crease where the lip was bent. I'm no forensic
expert, Mr. Sutterfeld, but that tells me it fell
before
the fire not
after
it.
And since a tall silver candelabra is more unstable than Rabbi
Folkman's stout menorah which has a much lower center of gravity,
I'd say this candle's a better candidate for starting the fire than
the menorah."

"That's mere speculation, now isn't it?"

She wrinkled her forehead and curled her
lips, almost pouting. "Of course, this isn't
absolute
proof. But it is a plausible explanation for
what happened. It's at least as plausible as the hypothesis that
the fire was caused by the menorah. But what's central here is, if
true, it exonerates Rabbi Folkman."

"Now there's a grand leap of faith if I ever
heard one!"

"I beg your pardon, it does!" she was equally
sharp. "Rabbi Folkman never trained the Morgenstern girls about
lighting Sabbath candles. Never. We don't know who instructed the
girls about them. Possibly a teacher in the Religious School. Maybe
their parents. We just don't know. What is clear is that Rabbi
Folkman only instructed the girls with regard to the menorah. And
the menorah most likely didn't cause the fire."

Sutterfeld remained silent, turning over
Gabby's observations in his mind. When she turned back in the
direction of the Supreme Court, he failed to raise further
objections. His hands remained firmly embedded in the pockets of
his shorts and she could see his eyes darting about, but the
rebuttal she expected did not come.

Near the Court steps, he halted. "Who have
you shared your observations with?"

On this matter, she knew to be in dangerous
territory. "Nobody, at this moment," she told a small fib, thinking
of Chuck Browner. "I'm perfectly willing to speak with the Fire
Marshall and Dominion Mutual, but that might not be necessary –
depending upon what your clients wishes to do. If the insurance
company will meet Tybee's long-term medical and educational needs
why drag this matter into court? After all, my observations are
mere
speculation
, isn't that right?"