The Advocate's Devil (7 page)

Abe had been one of Haskel’s first students in trial practice, and a close relationship had developed between them.

Haskel’s method of teaching confused many of the students, who were looking for answers, especially in a course as practical
as trial strategy. But Haskel didn’t give answers, only more questions. “I don’t answer questions,” he would gently advise
his students. “I question answers.

“My job,” he said, “is to deepen the level of your confusion. Your job is to find answers that work for you. Only you can
do that. I can help by questioning your answers.”

Abe had a natural affinity both toward Haskel’s method of teaching and toward Haskel as a person. Both were old-fashioned
men, though very different in their attitudes toward spirituality and religion. While Haskel had initially abandoned his faith
in God after learning of his family’s fate, he had gradually returned to it. Now, facing death, Haskel was more spiritual
than ever. Abe was a skeptic. “How can you still believe,” he had once asked Haskel, “after what God allowed to happen to
your family?”

“My dear friend Abraham,” a much younger and more impish Haskel had replied, “I must respond to your probing question with
a question of my own: After surviving an event as cataclysmic as the Holocaust, how can one not believe?”

“Believe in what? A God who punishes the virtuous and rewards the evil? That’s what happened during and after the Holocaust.
Innocent Jews died, and guilty Germans lived a good life.”

“Let me tell you a story about the Holocaust that my friend Elie Wiesel once told me,” Haskel had responded. “It took place
during the darkest days at Auschwitz, when all was hopeless. A great Hasidic rabbi summoned God to a
din Torah
—a lawsuit. The rabbi accused God of abandoning his people in their time of greatest need. Witnesses were summoned, evidence
was taken, and the jury voted. Elie told me that God was unanimously convicted by the jury—and then everyone prayed.”

“But then after they prayed, they were gassed,” Abe had replied in a tone of anger. “Wouldn’t they have been better off trying
to resist than relying on a God who doesn’t keep his promises?”

“Is it so much better to rely on human beings who fail to keep their promises to God?”

It was typical Haskel—always answering hard questions with harder questions and with stories—filled with rabbis, talmudic
scholars, and, of course, lawyers. Haskel’s stories reflected the dual worlds that his mind and soul would always inhabit:
the rational world of secular law and the mystical world of religion.

Abe had never been religiously observant, but he identified strongly with Jewish ethics and the historical experience of Jewish
persecution. He was also a respectful skeptic—about everything. He had once bought a T-shirt for Haskel that read “Question
authority—but raise your hand first.” It perfectly captured the attitude of respectful skepticism by which both Abe and Haskel
lived their lives. Haskel treasured the T-shirt, though he never wore it. “I am not the T-shirt type,” he’d explained apologetically.

Though Abe was skeptical about nearly everything, he believed in rules. Even during the freewheeling sixties and seventies,
he had never smoked pot, engaged in civil disobedience, or flouted the law. He was, he acknowledged with a mixture of pride
and embarrassment, something of a square. Never do anything in private you wouldn’t be proud to defend in public, he would
tell Emma. Abe had broken that rule once, and it still haunted him.

Now he tried to draw Haskel back to the present. It wasn’t clear how much Haskel understood as Abe recounted Nancy Rosen’s
call. When Abe explained that Nancy knew who the real killer was, Haskel responded by reminiscing about Nancy, to whom he
had taught trial strategy at Harvard Law School.

“She was a dedicated soul,” he recalled, “always calling into question the conventional wisdom.” Haskel asked one of his traditional
questions, but this time Abe’s mind was wandering and he did not immediately grasp its relevance: “Can a lawyer who defends
civil disobedience by others refuse to engage in it herself?”

Haskel wanted to keep talking, ostensibly about the Odell case, but really about his own situation. Or maybe it was about
the Odell case. “Is a man himself,” Haskel asked, “when he takes medicine that makes him so different? Is Charlie alive on
those drugs? Or is he already dead?”

Abe pleaded with him to take his medicine, then noticed that Haskel had drifted away. Gently he kissed his mentor on the head
and thanked him for his advice.

Haskel suddenly awoke. “What advice? Why thanks? For asking a few questions and complaining about my medicine? It’s you I
must thank, for listening and for trusting me, even now.”

Abe walked down Brattle Street, passing the pre-Revolutionary wooden homes and the nineteenth-century brick mansions. He began
to wonder what would happen when Haskel died. Would he become one of those blubbering fools who visit their parents’ graves
and “talk” to them? Abe understood that strange phenomenon a bit better now that he would sit with Haskel and “talk” to his
nearly unconscious body.

While Abe contemplated life without Haskel’s physical presence, an idea popped into his head about how to win the battle for
time in the Odell case. Had Haskel knowingly put it there? It was impossible to tell, since by this time their two minds were
as one.

It didn’t really matter whose idea it was. It was a doozy.

Abe glanced at his watch: 5:45. He stopped on the sidewalk and pulled his cellular phone from his briefcase.

“Justin? It’s me. Can you hear me all right?… Good, listen. Haskel just gave me a way to buy some time for Charlie. It’s chancy,
but…”

It was hot that night at the old Boston Garden. Maybe it was one of Red Auerbach’s fabled tricks for putting his opponent
at a disadvantage—like not repairing parts of the famed parquet floor so that only the home team would know where the dead
spots were. Abe had managed to reach Emma at school and talk her into leaving her feminist group a bit early in order to meet
him in front of the “will call” window, where two loge tickets were waiting in Abe’s name.

Abe loved these opportunities to be alone with Emma at a sports event. He found it easier to talk to her when they were both
looking at something else rather than at each other. And sports—especially basketball—were a shared passion. Abe enjoyed the
periodic father-daughter, one-on-one games in their backyard court, most of which Emma won.

The evening news had carried the story that Abe was representing Campbell, and several fans congratulated Abe on his new client.
When the opposing players were introduced, the fans gave the usual friendly boos to Ewing and Oakley, but when Campbell’s
name was called, there was a smattering of cheers. One fan yelled out, “She asked for it,” and another screamed, “Now that
you’re through with her, I want her!”

Emma turned to her father in disgust. “These guys have already tried and convicted the woman. It’s revolting, but typical.
Now do you understand why so few rape victims complain?”

“C’mon,” Abe replied, “lighten up. These are sports fans. What do you expect? They’ve obviously had a few brews.”

Joe was right about his game not being up to par. His performance during most of the first half was well below his usual aggressive
style of play. He seemed lethargic, uninvolved. But near the end of the second quarter, he hit two quick jump shots, one of
them from three-point land. He seemed to smile at Abe as the official put his arms in the air to signify the three. The half
ended with the Knicks ahead by four points.

During the half-time break, Abe phoned the office and reached Justin. “I’m glad you called. I found something unbelievable.”

“What?”

“I plugged the name
Jennifer Dowling
into Nexus to see if she was ever involved in another case. And bingo! Last year she accused her boss of sexually harassing
her. And that’s not all. The case was dismissed—as unfounded. I don’t know why yet, because the papers seem to be sealed.
The bottom line is she lost.”

“That is great,” Abe shouted into the pay phone. “Find out whatever we can about the case. If she falsely accused someone
else of sexual misconduct, her credibility will be shot.”

“Can we get a false accusation of sexual misconduct into evidence under the rape shield laws?”

“Probably. It’s not about her sexual history. It’s about her history of lying.”

“Great. Should you tell Campbell?”

“Sure, after the game. I’ll go into the locker room, while my lovely daughter waits outside. Why don’t you meet us at the
Harvest for a late dinner and we can discuss the good news.”

“Right, I’ll see you there—what—ten-thirty?”

“Sounds good.”

They hung up and Abe rejoined Emma, who was munching popcorn and was by now lost in the game. “You missed a great shot by
your new client, Dad.”

The game ended with a blowout by the Knicks, 124–103. Campbell finished with fourteen points and three steals.

The Knicks’ media relations man, Todd Curtis, was standing guard in front of the visitors dressing room, checking the press
credentials of those reporters he didn’t recognize. When Abe identified himself as Campbell’s lawyer, Curtis immediately waved
him in, cautioning him that “nothing is off the record in a locker room swarming with press people.”

Emma waited outside with a pouting look on her face. She was used to being sent away when her father discussed confidential
information, and usually she didn’t mind. This time she had really wanted to accompany her father. What a story that would
have made for tomorrow’s lunchroom.

Abe had never been in a professional sports locker room before. It was a strange sight. Naked men were talking unselfconsciously
to women reporters as the reporters tried hard to avoid looking at their private parts. Some of the ballplayers were stark
naked, some wore towels, others were in underwear or fully dressed. An air of teasing macho sexuality pervaded the scene.
Emma wasn’t coming near this place, ever, Abe thought.

The sights and sounds of victory were all around. There was a lot of loud laughter, friendly cursing, sports lingo, and back
slapping. Abe made his way through the mélange of tall bodies, finally spotting Campbell, fully dressed and surrounded by
TV and print journalists. A woman from WBZ asked him about the rape charge, and he replied, “I’m here to talk about the game.
I have no comment on anything else. Lawyer’s instructions.” A male reporter from
Newsday
asked him whether he thought his game was affected by the rape accusation, and Joe acknowledged candidly that during the
beginning of the first half, his concentration had been off. “They don’t teach you how to deal with this sort of thing in
training camp.” He quickly added that once he had made those two jump shots near the end of the second quarter, his concentration
had returned.

Then he spotted Abe and, without missing a beat, politely introduced him to the press. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is my lawyer,
Abraham Ringel. From now on, he will be speaking for me in all matters regarding the case.”

The TV cameras turned immediately to Abe as a barrage of questions were directed at him simultaneously.

“Did he do it?”

“What’s your defense gonna be?”

“Has the NBA front office been in touch?”

“How much are you charging him?”

Abe waited for the shouts to subside, then in a firm voice said: “I have a brief statement at this time. Joe Campbell asserts
his complete innocence and is looking forward to proving that at trial. Mr. Campbell is cooperating totally with the police
and has already turned over to them several leads and items of exculpatory evidence. Beyond that I have no further comment
at this time. I’m sure you understand why.”

The questions continued, but Abe ignored them as he whispered in Joe’s ear. “Something important has come up. Something very
good. We have to talk to you about it. Can you meet us at the Harvest restaurant in Harvard Square in about half an hour?”

Joe said he would have to check with one of the coaches to see if it was okay to miss the team flight back to New York. After
a brief conversation with a short, graying man, he returned and said, “Okay.”

Abe made his way through the crowd and rejoined Emma, standing among the several Knicks fans and groupies hoping to catch
a glimpse of their heroes.

“Did you get to see him?” Emma inquired.

“Yes, he’s meeting us at the Harvest.”

“What did he look like naked?” Emma asked with a teasing smile.

“I didn’t see him naked, and neither will you. Most of them were dressed. The others had towels around them,” Abe fibbed.
“Let’s get off that subject. Justin and I have to meet with Campbell, and you have to go home.”

“Can’t I meet him? I’d love to just say hello. Jon would die if he knew I met him.”

“You know you can’t come to a lawyer-client meeting, Emma. You know the rules of confidentiality.”

“How about if I stay just to meet him, and then I’ll go home like a good little girl.” She flashed him her most irresistible
smile.

“All right, but just for five minutes. We have a lot to discuss, and Campbell didn’t miss his team flight to talk to
you
, my dear daughter. So after a polite introduction, off you go into a cab and home to bed.”

“Deal. Thanks, Dad.”

The Harvest was a trendy restaurant, housed in a building designed by noted architect Ben Thompson and patronized mostly by
academics. Although famous for its nouvelle cuisine as well as its discretion and privacy, it could sometimes be a bit too
politically correct. A few days earlier a woman had stormed out of the restaurant as soon as she’d recognized Abe at the next
table, muttering loudly about how she didn’t want to sit next to a sexist who always defended rapists on TV.

Abe had called ahead for his favorite corner table and had alerted the maître d’ that a tall man would soon be joining them.
Now he also looked around to make sure the woman who had walked out was not there tonight. The last thing he needed was a
scene in front of his new client. When Joe Campbell arrived, he was shown immediately to Abe’s table. Almost no one stared
at him as he made his way through the dining room. Among the academic crowd, Campbell went almost unrecognized.