The Mourning Sexton (10 page)

CHAPTER 14

S
he shook her head. “I never made the connection.”

“Why would you?” he said.

“Same last name.”

“Lots of same last names. I went to high school with a guy named Lorenz. Ted Lorenz. Any relation?”

She put her hand over her heart in mock surprise. “You knew Great-grandpa Ted?”

He smiled and lifted his pint of beer toward her in appreciation. She touched her martini glass in acknowledgment and gave him back a smile. It was a lovely smile.

Back at the clinic, Dulcie broke the silence by suggesting they go have a drink. She phrased it diplomatically, mentioning that this terrific jazz trio played down the block at the Delmar Lounge every Thursday during Happy Hour and wouldn't it be nice to catch a session or two before going home.

The trio was playing when they arrived. The two of them nursed their first drink without a word, listening to the remainder of the session, or at least pretending to. By the time the piano player announced a break, Hirsch had regained control of his emotions.

But just barely.

He hadn't seen either of his daughters in a decade. He missed them both keenly, but his estrangement from Lauren was the most painful. At the time of his arrest, Melissa had been a seventeen-year-old princess immersed in her own world. Lauren had been the baby sister in every respect. The softer one. The vulnerable one. Daddy's little girl, worshipping a daddy who was seldom at home and who rarely had time for her. When he left for prison, Lauren had been an awkward, plump eighth grader with braces and pimples and none of the charm and self-assurance and good looks of her older sister, now an account executive in a Seattle ad agency.

Dulcie asked him about his daughters. He gave her the abridged version. Liza divorced him during his first year in prison and moved back home to Chicago with the girls. Two years later she became Mrs. Ronald Greenbaum, complete with a Gold Coast condominium featuring a breathtaking view of Lake Michigan. Liza made sure he knew that Lauren had gone into therapy shortly after his imprisonment and continued twice a week until she went off to college. She also made sure he understood he was to have no contact with his daughters during his incarceration, claiming it would scar them, driving the point home with a hammer letter from her lawyer.

When he finished, Dulcie said, “Divorce can be cruel.”

“I put them through more than a divorce.”

He took a sip of beer. They were silent for a while.

He finally said, “I need you to solve a personal mystery.”

She gave him a bemused look. “Okay.”

“Let me start by narrowing the possibilities. Can I assume that I've never slept with you?”

She laughed. “That's a safe assumption.”

He nodded. “Even as boozed up as I occasionally got, I would have remembered someone as remarkable as you.”

“That's quite an unusual compliment. Thank you. I think.”

He studied her. “If sex wasn't the reason, it must have been an old lawsuit.”

“What must have been a lawsuit?”

“The reason you hate me.”

She gazed at him. “I don't hate you.”

“But once upon a time?”

She thought about it. “Maybe.”

“Even so, I'm surprised I don't remember you.”

“We never met. We talked on the phone once, but mostly I dealt with your henchmen.”

“Which ones?”

“Brian Morgan and Gino Vitale.”

“So it was an employment case.”

She nodded.

Back then, Brian Morgan had been a junior partner and Gino Vitale an associate at the firm. The two specialized in defending companies sued for employment discrimination. They handled all of the discrimination cases for Hirsch's clients, who loved them. They were a pair of bullies who relished the mismatch of such cases—the big corporation with its litigation war chest versus the lone wage-earner plaintiff and his contingent-fee attorney.

“Who were the parties?” he asked.

“My client was Willie Freeman. Yours was Arch Shipping.”

The case didn't ring a bell.

She shook her head in wonder. “You have no idea, do you?”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Not for Willie.”

He could hear the anger in her voice.

“Refresh my recollection,” he said.

“My client almost died in your conference room.”

“Oh, that one.”

“Yes, that one.”

“You were there?”

“I was the one giving him CPR when the paramedics arrived.”

He nodded, trying to find the appropriate words. “You saved his life.”

“But not his lawsuit.”

“His life is more important.”

“His job was his life.”

Willie Freeman had been a fifty-four-year-old black man who'd sued Hirsch's client for age and race discrimination when his position as loading dock foreman was eliminated and his duties transferred to the warehouse foreman, a thirty-eight-year-old white male. Hirsch's litigation platoon waged a war of attrition that ended when Willie suffered a massive heart attack seven hours into the fourth straight day of his videotaped deposition.

Hirsch later viewed the moment on videotape. Brian Morgan had just asked him a question about a negative statement by one of Freeman's co-workers. The court reporter was waiting for his answer, fingers poised above the keyboard. Freeman scowled, his breathing shallow. The silence lengthened. Off-screen, the sound of Morgan leafing through his notes stopped. The court reporter leaned toward the witness.

“Sir,” she asked, “are you feeling—”

Suddenly, Freeman grimaced and lurched backward. He grabbed his chest as he fell sideways off his chair and disappeared from the screen. The court reporter cried, “Oh, my God!”

Hirsch had been across town at a board meeting when his secretary called to tell him what had happened. He hurried back in time to see them loading the black man into the ambulance parked in front of the building.

Ten days later, while still in the intensive care unit of Barnes Hospital, Willie dropped his lawsuit. Or rather, Dulcie filed the necessary court papers for him.

After their initial shock, Morgan and Vitale milked the victory, entertaining others in the firm with the play-by-play of what came to be known as the Demolition Depo. Hirsch's client had been quite pleased with the result, especially, according to the company's general counsel, with the “deterrence value” of the finale.

Looking back now, of course, he felt sympathy for Dulcie. It was hard to imagine a more crushing defeat. But as he sat there in the bar, the details of the case gradually coming back, he remembered how thin her client's case had been. The court would likely have thrown it out before trial anyway. She would have lost.

Which proved what?

That there were two sides to the story?

There were always two sides.

She had good reason to be angry with him. He'd been lead counsel on the case, the first name on all the pleadings, and thus the person ultimately responsible for everything his firm did in that case, including the implementation of a macho litigation strategy that nearly killed her client and did kill his case.

“If it makes you feel any better,” he finally said, “the wheel has turned.”

“What's that mean?”

“Judith's case. I'm on the receiving end this time around.”

She took a sip of her martini. They were on their second round.

She asked, “How many defendants?”

“Three.”

“Represented by big firms?”

“Of course. My old law firm represents Ford. Emerson, Burke represents Peterson Tire.”

“Who at Emerson, Burke?”

“Lead counsel is Marvin Guttner.”

“He's a creep.”

“But a prince compared to Jack Bellows. He's lead counsel for Ford.”

“I wouldn't call Bellows a creep,” she said. “I'd call him a miserable prick.”

“I wouldn't disagree.”

“Who's the third defendant?”

“The air-bag manufacturer. They're represented by two lawyers at Egger and Thomas. They've been fairly low key so far.”

“Even so, that's three law firms plus one creep and one prick. Do you have any backup?”

“I have an excellent paralegal. She's been helping me with some of the factual research. Once we get into discovery, I'll have her help with the documents.”

“One paralegal? That's it?”

“Not quite,” he said, smiling. “I have this brilliant law school professor. She's been helping me identify some of Judith's former classmates.”

That drew a grudging smile. “Brilliant, yes. But that still doesn't even the odds.”

“It gets me closer.”

“Speaking of those names, I don't want you to get your hopes up. I don't remember Judith talking to me about any of them. I doubt whether any will have been close enough to qualify.”

“Qualify for what?”

“For a loss of companionship claim.”

“I'm not looking for that.”

She gave him a puzzled look. “Then what are you looking for?”

He chose his words carefully. “I am looking for someone that Judith confided in.”

“About what?”

“About her judge.”

“What about her judge?”

“I'm not sure. You told me her attitude toward her judge changed that last year.”

She nodded. “It did.”

He took a sip of beer. “From what I've learned so far, she seemed to have some concerns about the Peterson Tire case.”

“What kind of concerns?”

“I don't know, yet. But maybe they included the judge.”

“Why would that matter?”

“That's what I'm trying to find out.”

Dulcie leaned back in her chair and shook her head. “I'm lost.”

The jazz trio was back from break. They opened the set with “Giant Steps,” an old John Coltrane number.

He listened to the music, trying to decide how far to bring her inside. In the process, he tried to decipher his motives for doing so.

Dulcie leaned forward so he could hear her over the music. “I'm not following you, David. You've got a wrongful death case on behalf of Judith. I understand that Peterson Tire is a defendant in your case and it's also a defendant in the case before Judge McCormick. So what? Where's the connection between your case and that case?”

“Possibly the judge.”

“Which judge?”

“McCormick.”

She stared at him. “What does that mean?”

“Abe Shifrin got a copy of the medical examiner's file on Judith. I showed it to a retired pathologist. I was hoping that he could determine whether she'd been conscious after the crash. I was looking for pain and suffering.”

She nodded. “Good way to increase the damages.”

“There was no autopsy, so I knew there'd be some uncertainty. Still, I thought it was worth a shot.”

“And?”

He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “He was fairly sure she was dead before the crash.”

She frowned. “What does that mean?”

Leaning even closer, he explained.

When he finished, she leaned back in her chair.

He took a sip of his beer.

She crossed her arms over her chest and stared down at her empty martini glass.

He waited.

She looked up, eyes wide.

“My God, David.”

He nodded.

CHAPTER 15

I
f this had been the deposition of a hostile witness, he would have stopped the line of questioning right there and moved on. He already had the witness staked out, each limb securely fastened down. All of which meant he could save that final killer question for trial. Hit him with it on cross-examination and let the jury look on as he gave you one of those startled-deer-in-a-headlight stares.

But this wasn't a deposition, and Brendan McCormick wasn't a hostile witness. Or at least not for sure.

As he reminded himself yet again, McCormick might be a friendly witness. Judith could have been driving that car that night. She could have lost control on the ice and died in a genuine accident. That's certainly what the police at the scene concluded. And the medical examiner had confirmed. And Henry Granger had emphasized that he couldn't be certain of the cause of death without an autopsy.

But hostile or friendly, Brendan McCormick had locked himself into a timeline that began at 6:00
P
.
M
. and ended at 8:43
P
.
M
., which is when the emergency operator logged in the 911 call from Charlie Peckham, the high school kid who found the Explorer half in the woods jammed against that tree.

And in the process, McCormick had locked himself into a timeline that included a critical gap of more than an hour.

6:00
P
.
M
.
: That's when McCormick and Judith left the Christmas party at the courthouse downtown. It's what McCormick told the police on the night of the accident, and it's what he'd just confirmed during their witness interview.

7:00
P
.
M
.
: That's the latest they would have arrived at McCormick's house. McCormick said that the drive to his house at that time of night took twenty minutes, thirty tops. Hirsch agreed. He'd done that drive himself at six o'clock to be sure—the last four nights in a row, in fact. Nineteen minutes the first time, twenty-five the second, twenty-three the third, twenty the fourth. Toss in an extra ten minutes on the night in question. And then add another fifteen for wintry conditions. But even with all that padding, they would have reached his house no later than seven o'clock.

7:15
P
.
M
.
: That's when they supposedly departed from his house with the gifts. McCormick said they loaded the gifts into the back of the Explorer, and then Judith asked if she could drive to the restaurant.

How long to load the gifts?

Ten minutes, McCormick estimated.

“You're sure?”

McCormick had leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin, mildly amused by Hirsch's question.

They were in McCormick's chambers. Just the two of them.

McCormick had pushed their meeting back from two to five-thrity, and now it was after six. Everyone else in his chambers had gone home for the day, and for the week.

It was Friday night. At least thirty minutes past sundown.

Shabbas,
Hirsch thought ruefully.

He should be home lighting the Sabbath candles and saying the blessings. He should have said no when McCormick moved the meeting to five-thirty. An observant Jew—a good Jew—would have said no.
Remember the Sabbath and keep it holy.
Couldn't get much clearer than that. But he hadn't said no. He couldn't. He needed this meeting, and the thought of postponing it even a day had been unbearable. Now was the time.

“Fifteen minutes tops,” McCormick finally said, “but I'd say ten. There were only a half dozen gifts. It took us each only one trip from the house to the car.”

Hirsch nodded and jotted it down on his legal pad:

No more than 15 minutes to load gifts Latest departure time: 7: 15 p.m.

He stared at the departure time, face deadpan.

Almost ninety minutes after they supposedly left the house.

Hirsch ran through that final scene in his imagination, stretching it out to be sure—Peckham staring at the accident, getting out of the car, tentatively approaching the SUV, peering through the windows, first on the driver's side, then on the passenger's side. Seeing McCormick move, hearing the moan. Peckham reaching for his cell phone, punching in the numbers. How long from the moment he stopped his car until he dialed 911? Ten minutes? Slow it down by five to be safe. Fifteen minutes. That meant he'd arrived at the scene of the accident no later than eight-thirty.

McCormick told the police that he remembered nothing after the crash until the sound of knocking on the window. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious, and he was still groggy when the paramedics lifted him out of the Explorer.

Left the house at seven-fifteen, discovered by Peckham one hour and fifteen minutes later.

Locked in.

Actually, and fortunately, locked in since the moment he gave his original witness statement to the police more than three years ago.

Hirsch pretended to study his notes, flipping back a page to study something written there.

He looked up with a frown. “So you stopped at your house, got the gifts, and left.”

“That's what happened.”

“You're sure you didn't hang around the house for a while, maybe have a drink, or perhaps a bite to eat?”

McCormick chuckled. “I hardly think so, David. The holiday dinner at Cardwell's was scheduled for seven-thirty. I was the host. That meant I had to be there at the start, greet my guests. That's why we left the courthouse party early. Had to haul ass out to my house, pick up the gifts, and haul ass over to the restaurant. No time to dawdle over drinks.”

Nice,
Hirsch thought, jotting down a quick note to make sure he remembered McCormick's words.

“Well,” he said, feigning uncertainty, “okay.”

“Well? Well what?”

Hirsch shrugged. “Probably nothing.”

“Don't pull that shit with me. What's bothering you?”

“Judith's wristwatch was shattered. Presumably in the accident.”

“Makes sense.”

“But the time doesn't.”

“What do you mean?”

“Her watched stopped at eight-fourteen.”

“So?”

“So the accident occurred less than half a mile from your house. According to the timeline we just went over, the two of you left your house no later than seven-fifteen.”

McCormick pursed his lips and squinted. “I'm not following you.”

“Based on the time on her wristwatch, the accident occurred almost an hour after you left the house. That means either the timeline is off or her wristwatch is off.”

“Maybe the damn thing kept ticking after the accident.”

“Maybe,” Hirsch said, pretending to consider the suggestion.

He'd actually seen the watch. It was among the personal effects the hospital gave to Abe Shifrin in the large sealed plastic bag, which also included her wallet and jewelry and purse. The watch had been smashed—the crystal shattered, the face pushed in. He'd shown it to a jeweler, and the jeweler confirmed that the watch would have stopped functioning immediately upon impact. That was because some of the inner workings were crushed as well.

Hirsch wasn't going to tell that to McCormick. His goal wasn't to cross-examine him. That would come later. The goal today was to rattle McCormick's cage a bit. Observe how he handled it.

“Hell, maybe I was drunker than I realized.”

“How so?”

“Maybe it took a lot longer at the house than I thought.”

“Maybe.”

“Even so, what's it matter when we got back in the Explorer? The key is what happened
after
we got in it.”

“Your housekeeper had the night off.”

McCormick gave him a baffled look. “Huh?”

“Your housekeeper. You gave her the night off.”

“Did I?”

Hirsch nodded. “My investigator interviewed her.”

“Interviewed her? You're kidding? My housekeeper? Which one?”

“Judy Gonzalez. She was your housekeeper back then.”

“Why did you have someone talk to her?”

“I was hoping she could help us fill that time gap, tell us how long the two of you were in the house. She couldn't, though. She wasn't there. She said her normal nights off were Sunday and Monday, but that week you gave her Thursday night off as well.”

McCormick shook his head, amused. “David, I'm not here to tell you how to prepare your case, but I doubt whether the jury will give two shits whether we left the house at seven-fifteen or seven-thirty. This lawsuit is all about what happened after we got back in the vehicle.”

“You might be right.”

“Trust me on this one. The timeline doesn't matter. Maybe I went back in the house to take a leak. Maybe she had to make a phone call. It must not have seemed important at the time, because I honestly don't remember. All I know is that Judith asked to drive, I let her have the keys, we got back in the vehicle, and a minute later we crashed head-on into that goddamn tree. The only part that counts is that last part, the damn crash.”

“Then let's talk about the crash.”

“Finally,” McCormick said.

Hirsch expected nothing new, and that's exactly what he got. Whether McCormick's narrative was based on actual memory or rehearsed fiction, the sequence of events tracked the account he'd given to the police officer at the hospital the morning following the accident: fiddling with the radio, Judith's surprised gasp, looking up from the dashboard, a small animal scurrying across the road, Judith turning hard to the left, the slight acceleration, the tree suddenly jumping in front, her cry of “No!”

“Do you remember anything after the moment of impact?”

McCormick shook his head. “Not a thing.”

“No memory of Judith?”

“I'm not following you?”

“Any sound from her after the impact? Groans? Moans? Any movement?”

McCormick frowned up at the ceiling and rubbed his chin. Eventually, he looked at Hirsch and shook his head. “Afraid not. I must have blacked out immediately.”

Hirsch smiled. “Nothing's easy.”

McCormick gave him a sympathetic look. “That's why settlement might be the best option.”

“Probably not here.”

“Why?”

“Her father isn't interested.”

“Everyone has a price. Even her father.”

“I don't know. He's looking for things beyond money.”

“Such as?”

“Vindication. A finding of guilt.”

“That's just money, David. Get him enough shekels and it'll translate into vindication and guilt.”

“Jack up the numbers, eh?”

“Sure. That's the key.”

“It's also the problem,” Hirsch said, pleased at how McCormick was wandering into the trap.

“What do you mean?”

“I think the defendants might be willing to talk settlement. At least Marvin Guttner suggested as much. But before I meet with him again, I need to be able to jack the numbers up. The best way to do that is with pain and suffering. But that means I need Judith to be conscious after the accident. Even if it's just for a few seconds.”

“Ah,” McCormick said, grasping the purpose off the prior questions. “Unfortunately, I'm no help there.”

“But there's still hope.”

“How so? Did that boy see her moving?”

“Oh, no. And she had no vital signs when the paramedics arrived.”

“So where's the hope?”

“I just need her to survive for a few seconds. I'll have to find a top medical examiner. I'll have him examine Judith's file—the morgue photos, the X-rays, the medical examiner's report.”

“Was there an autopsy?”

“No, but I've done some calling around on that issue. From what I've been told, a top forensic pathologist can often tell the cause of death even without an autopsy.”

McCormick gazed at him, eyes neutral. “We know the cause of death.”

“Right. But if he can pinpoint the actual medical cause of death, he might be able to determine whether she was conscious after the accident.”

“I'm not following you.”

“Her death certificate's a little ambiguous. It states the cause of her death was ‘blunt force trauma with asphyxia.' Asphyxiation is a nasty way to die. If she was conscious while she was suffocating, there'd be plenty of pain and suffering.”

“You think these defendants will pay you more if you can prove a few seconds of pain and suffering?”

“Absolutely. If Judith was conscious as she choked to death, we're talking much bigger numbers. That's why I need a top pathologist.”

McCormick studied him. “I guess you'll do whatever you feel you need to do.”

Hirsch stood up to go. “That's my job.”