The Mourning Sexton (25 page)

“That's what I'm trying to find out, Ruth.”

Her expression darkened. She stood up.

“You need to leave now.”

As he gathered his notes, she turned and stepped to the window again.

He closed his briefcase and watched her for a moment as she stared out the window, her back to him.

“Thank you, Ruth.”

She didn't turn around. “Please go now.”

He gathered his stuff, opened the door to the conference room, and stepped out. As he started to close the door, she turned toward him.

He waited in the doorway.

After a moment, she shook her head.

“Just go,” she said.

CHAPTER 39

A
s he watched from the back row of the classroom, Hirsch couldn't help but ask himself again why he'd given up his Friday afternoon handball game to attend this ceremony.

The answer should have been Judith, but it was probably Dulcie. He'd put their relationship under enough strain already by insisting they have no social contact until his investigation was complete.

He'd told Lauren the same thing, although without giving her the real reason. He had called her two nights ago. It had been almost a week since their pumpernickel bagel breakfast, and he was acutely aware of his promise to get together for dinner after the case was over. With each passing day, that promise weighed heavier on his thoughts. He knew that she'd know about this afternoon's ceremony. It was at her law school, after all. She'd thus know the lawsuit was officially over. But what she didn't know was that the lawsuit had become the least important, and the least hazardous, aspect of the case. So he told her on the phone that he was working on a new matter that involved people who might try to harass anyone with a personal connection to him. He told her that he ought to be able to wrap it up in a week or so, but that until that happened he didn't want to endanger her by making any contact, especially at something as public as the ceremony at the law school. Lauren had been fine with it. Indeed, she'd sounded impressed, apparently willing to believe that her father was still important enough to be involved in matters that required him to protect those in his inner circle.

Dulcie, however, had not been impressed. The more accurate term was annoyed.

“You should be there,” she'd told him over the phone. “Dammit, David, she was your client. I don't care what you think about the people involved. This is in her honor, not theirs. You should be there.”

A good argument, although perhaps not as persuasive as Rosenbloom's.

“Are you out of your mind, Samson?” He'd shaken his head in disbelief. “She wants you there. She'll be happy if you're there. She'll be unhappy if you aren't. So let's ask ourselves whether she is someone you want to make happy? Let's examine that weighty question, shall we? Item one: She's bright. Item two: She's funny. Item three: She's totally gorgeous. Bright, funny, totally gorgeous. Does that sound like someone you want to make happy?” He slipped into his Mister Rogers voice: “Kids, can you say, ‘Fucking aye'?”

So he agreed to come to the event, although he insisted that no speaker mention his name or his involvement in the lawsuit or the settlement.

The ceremony was held in one of the large classrooms at the law school. It consisted of several curving rows of table desks arranged in descending levels around the instructor's stage below. The room was filled for the event—mostly professors and students. Lauren wasn't among them, thank God. The dignitaries were seated down below in a row of chairs facing the audience. Standing off to the right side were a local TV reporter and her cameraman, a husky guy with a videocam on his shoulder. On the side were three press photographers and a newspaper reporter. The reporter was scribbling in his notepad as the dean of the law school gave his introductory remarks.

“We live in an era,” Dean Miller was saying, “where corporate America is too often and too easily accused of caring about profits and not people, of focusing on the bottom line of the balance sheet instead of the bottom part of society. We read in the papers and hear on the news . . .”

Hirsch watched the dean perform with mild amusement. Once upon a time, Arnold Miller had treated him as a fellow member of the elite, although their kinship had in truth extended no farther than their Supreme Court clerkships—Hirsch for Justice Potter Stewart, Miller for Justice Lewis F. Powell Jr. And one possible additional connection. Although Miller had the perfect WASP facade, right down to the horsy wife nicknamed Bunny, Hirsch had heard from others that only one generation back the family name had been Milkovitz.

He was struck by how much Miller had aged during the past decade. The goatee had once been dark and sharply trimmed, adding a European intellectual flair to Miller's features. Now those same features had faded and sunk, as if from erosion, and the goatee, gray and bushy, seemed little more than a vain old man's ploy to hide a receding chin line.

Hirsch shifted in his seat, trying to focus on the dean's opening remarks. He was introducing someone.

“—one of our own esteemed alumni,” the dean said, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.

The bigwigs down below included three middle-aged white guys in suits and Dulcie, who looked stunning in her simple black matte jersey dress and gold necklace, her curly hair cascading to her shoulders. The tableau could have been the stage set for the beautiful young queen and her senior advisers. Treacherous advisers, though. To her right sat Marvin Guttner, his girth spilling over the sides of the chair. He resembled a cross between a corporate lawyer and a sumo wrestler. To his right sat a short balding man in his late fifties with droopy eyes and a droopier gray mustache. He was, according to the program, Donald Foster, chief financial officer of Peterson Tire Company. To Dulcie's left was the dean's empty seat, and to the left of that sat the featured speaker, Judge Brendan McCormick, nattily attired in a dark suit, white shirt, and striped tie.

“A gentleman,” the dean continued, “who is now a senior partner in a prominent law firm with headquarters in this fine city. He has represented the Peterson Tire Company for years, and through his good services has been instrumental in making the arrangements for today's most generous gift.”

Guttner, Foster, and McCormick—quite a rogues' gallery, Hirsch thought. All gathered on stage to bask in the glory of a donation that represented, at best, a fraction of the revenues that Peterson Tire would earn during the length of this ceremony.

“Without further ado, it is my great pleasure to present a distinguished attorney and graduate of our law school, Mr. Marvin Guttner.”

As the applause began, the dean turned to Guttner with a smile. The fat man heaved his bulk out of the chair, adjusted his suit jacket, and stepped to the podium, pausing to shake the dean's hand.

To his credit, Guttner kept the proceeding moving. At ease in the role of master of ceremonies, his voice in full mellifluous mode, he gave the audience a brief summary of Judith Shifrin's life and her “tragic and untimely death.” With an acknowledgment to Dulcie, he spoke of Judith's involvement in the legal clinic and Peterson Tire's desire to pay tribute to that commitment. That was the segue to Donald Foster, who Guttner motioned to join him at the podium. He also summoned Dulcie and the dean to the podium.

“We are honored today,” Guttner continued, “by the presence of a top officer of Peterson Tire Corporation, who has traveled to St. Louis for this special ceremony. What makes his appearance here especially noteworthy is that thirty-nine years ago, he earned his bachelor's degree from this university. So without further ado, I am pleased to introduce a fellow alumnus of Washington University and the chief financial officer of Peterson Tire Corporation, Mr. Donald Foster.”

Foster acknowledged the applause with an awkward wave as he removed an envelope and a folded sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. He put on his reading glasses, unfolded the sheet on the podium, and cleared his throat.

“Thank you, Mr. Guttner.” He had a high-pitched twang. He glanced up briefly and then returned to the written text. He acknowledged the dignitaries and greeted the audience—eyes focused on the text, voice close to a monotone.

“On behalf of the Peterson Tire Corporation,” he read, “I am pleased to present to the law school this check”—and here he held up the envelope stiffly—“in the amount of fifty thousand dollars, to be used for establishment of the Judith Shifrin Memorial Internship at the law school's Family Justice Legal Clinic.”

He looked up from the text with a squint and turned toward the others gathered around the podium, still holding the envelope at an odd angle. The dean stepped forward to take it from him, placed a hand on his shoulder, and gently turned him in the direction of the photographers. The two men posed side by side, the dean smiling and holding the envelope in front of them waist high, Foster looking down at the envelope, his bald head shining in the glare of the overhead lights.

Once the others had returned to their seats, Guttner placed a hand on either side of the podium and waited until there was total silence.

“For the final two years of her life,” Guttner began, “Judith Shifrin served as a law clerk to the Honorable Brendan McCormick of the United States District Court for the Eastern District of Missouri. They shared a special professional relationship, this tall federal judge and his diminutive law clerk. For those of us who appeared in Judge McCormick's courtroom, it was clear that the Judge and his Judith were the dynamic duo. The mutual respect was obvious. Alas, Judge McCormick was the last person to see Judith alive. We are honored today that this busy jurist has made time in his schedule to help us mark this special occasion with some of his memories of Judith Shifrin. Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in giving a warm welcome to the Honorable Brendan McCormick.”

Hirsch leaned forward as the judge stepped to the podium. McCormick looked vigorous and imposing in his dark suit and deep tan. Hands holding the edges of the podium, he gazed around the crowd, pausing for a nanosecond as he made eye contact with Hirsch, acknowledging him with a tiny nod.

“I miss Judith,” McCormick said.

He paused. The room was silent.

“I miss her energy. Her insights. Her commitment.” He smiled. “I even miss her stubbornness. There was nothing halfway or halfhearted about Judith Shifrin. She was a believer, and she acted on her beliefs. I saw it every day in my chambers and in my courtroom. If she disagreed with a decision of mine, she'd let me know it. Politely, of course. But persistently, too. She was walking determination. What did she do for a living? She made things better. That was her job in life. From what I've heard today from those involved with the Family Justice Law Clinic, she made that a better place, too.”

Another pause, a sadder smile. “And she made me a better judge. Unfortunately, I still had a long way to go when she left us. But Judith never gave up. She kept working on me up until the very end. The very end.”

He looked down, apparently overcome. Hirsch watched, fascinated. He'd forgotten what a consummate showman McCormick had been back in his prosecutor days. The courtroom audience for his closing arguments invariably included a handful of prosecutors and defense lawyers who just happened to drop by for the show. Although Assistant U.S. Attorney Brendan McCormick rarely had a good grasp on the law or the facts, he always had a total grasp on the jury.

And like those juries back then, today's audience was rapt. The only noise was the occasional click of a camera shutter.

McCormick resumed, his voice filled with emotion. “This is a wonderful tribute to a wonderful person. To those of you who made this possible, including those too humble to allow their names to be mentioned here today, I thank you on Judith's behalf. Those of you who knew Judith know that she was far too modest in life to have been anything but embarrassed by all this attention. I'd like to think, though, that she's smiling down at us from somewhere up above. Maybe blushing, too. But smiling nonetheless.”

He glanced heavenward and then nodded. “We salute you, Judith Shifrin.”

He stepped away from the podium.

The audience remained silent for another two beats and then erupted into applause.

CHAPTER 40

“D
avid!”

Hirsch had reached his car in the parking lot. He turned to see McCormick striding toward him.

“Not staying for refreshments?”

Hirsch shook his head. “I have another appointment.”

“I thought it was a nice ceremony.”

Even in the parking lot, he could smell McCormick's cologne.

Hirsch said, “The audience liked your speech.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What did you think of my speech?”

“I thought it was effective.”

“Effective, eh?” McCormick grinned. “I suppose that qualifies as a compliment. Especially from you, David.” He bowed. “I thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

McCormick's smile faded. “I think her father would be pleased.”

“I hope so.”

“I didn't see him there.”

“He wasn't.”

“Nursing home?”

Hirsch nodded. “But the press was at the ceremony. I'll bring her father a copy of the article when it's published.”

“I bet he'll like that.”

“What do you want, Brendan?”

McCormick held up his hands. “No hidden agendas here, David. Just wanted to tell you how much I appreciate what you've done for Judith. I still remember when you and I had our first meeting about the lawsuit. Back in January. We both knew back then it was going to be a tough case, and that was before we even knew who your opponents were. Marvin Guttner is no teddy bear, and Jack Bellows is a genuine son of a bitch. But you took 'em on, all of them, and look what you accomplished. And in just a few months. You did a helluva job, David.”

Hirsch waited.

“So how's it feel?” McCormick asked.

“How's what feel?”

“To be done with the case. To finally be able to move on to something else.”

If McCormick was fishing, he wasn't going to get a nibble.

Hirsch checked his watch. “I need to go, Brendan.”

“Sure. I do, too.”

“Court?” Hirsch asked, trying to end the conversation on a neutral note.

“Well, in a way. Tennis court. And golf. I've had a crazy couple of months. I've decided to take a few days of R and R.”

“Bermuda?”

“Actually, yes.”

“You have a place there?”

“A little cottage. Up on a hill overlooking the ocean. You ever been to Bermuda?”

“No.”

“Beautiful island. First time I saw it was on my honeymoon.” He chuckled. “That was about my last good memory from that marriage, and just about the only thing she didn't take in the divorce. That bitch got everything but the place in Bermuda. Oh, brother.” He shook his head at the memory.

Hirsch took out his car keys. “Have a good time, Brendan.”

“Thanks. And thanks again for your work on the case. Judith deserved the best, and you gave it to her.”

They shook hands again.

He watched as McCormick headed down the row of parked cars toward his black Mercedes. He waited until McCormick had pulled out of the parking lot, and then he dialed the office on his cell phone.

“This is David. Is Cheryl there?”

“I'll ring her office, Mr. Hirsch.”

She answered on the second ring. Cheryl Jaspers was one of the firm's paralegals who'd been helping him on the Judith Shifrin case.

“I'm not having much luck on that Swift code,” she told him.

“I have a different idea,” he said. “Can you get me a list of the banks in Bermuda?”

“I can try. Why?”

“Just a hunch.”

“Shouldn't take too long. Do you need it today?”

It was Friday afternoon. He checked his watch. Too late to drive back downtown and get anything done before sunset.

“No. I'll be in the office Sunday. If you find anything, just leave it on my desk.”

“Sure thing.”