Murder At The Mikvah (30 page)

Father McCormick nodded, deflated, but appearing to accept John's words. “The attorney—Lance Parker—thinks he can get Peter a reduced sentence based on this cock-a-mamie possession defense. You know, 'the devil made me do it'.” He shook his head. “This whole thing just seems like a nightmare… not mine, Peter's. But somehow, I'm the only one who can wake him up.”

John couldn’t help but feel even sorrier for the priest. Father McCormick had just admitted that he viewed Peter as his own son, and John understood what fatherhood felt like. He also knew what it was like to lose a child. Although preferable to death, watching a child be carted off to prison wasn’t a whole lot different than burying one. It was understandable that Father McCormick would defend Peter’s innocence—even if he had to remain in complete denial to do so. And this phenomenon was not uncommon. Throughout his career, John had witnessed more than his share of parents who refused to believe
their
kid was capable of the misdemeanors they were busted for—underage drinking, vandalism, petty theft. Like them, Father McCormick could not accept the truth, even when it was staring him squarely in the face. Instead, he was choosing to stand by Peter. Put in the same situation, John wondered if he might do the same.

Suddenly the priest's face lit up. “What about
evidence
John?”

“You mean
physical
evidence?” John asked in disbelief. So much for facing reality. Apparently, Father McCormick was up to his neck in a sea of denial.

“Yes, yes of course!
Physical evidence
,” Father McCormick replied. “Did they gather any from the crime scene?”

What physical evidence did Father McCormick need, John wondered, when they had
a hundred and fifty pounds of it in a holding cell already? John paused, and considered what he should say. Speaking in generalities was always safe. “I assure you Ron followed standard procedure collecting evidence,” John said, although he privately wondered if it were true.

“And what
is
standard procedure exactly?” Father McCormick pushed.

“The crime scene was closed off; there were photos taken, measurements, that sort of thing,” John said, “and any physical evidence was collected, preserved and sent to the lab.” He thought about the fact that Peter's DNA was collected from Estelle Ginsberg's body, but didn’t mention it. Nor did he mention that Peter's was the
only
male DNA found in the entire place.

“So there
is
a chance!” Father McCormick sounded thrilled. “There is a chance the lab might discover something—a piece of evidence to exonerate Peter!”

John shrugged. “Yeah, sure. I suppose there’s always that possibility,” he said, trying not to sound too cynical.

“Then you'll need to be there when it does!” Father McCormick spoke as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. “To make sure Peter is protected,” he added.

John glanced over at Patty, but instead of meeting his gaze, she stared down into her cup, as if hoping to divine some wisdom from the small gathering of tealeaf sediment.

“You're a believer in
justice
, John!” Father McCormick continued. “I know you couldn’t just stand by while an innocent man was punished! Besides, I trust you. I know that you of all people wouldn’t do anything funny with the evidence.”

John couldn’t believe it.
Father
McCormick was concerned with evidence tampering?
The man was beginning to sound downright paranoid!
This isn't the OJ case!
John thought, willing himself not to say it out loud.

“I still think the best course of action is to let Ron do his job,” John said. “Besides, I explained the conflict of interest…”

Father McCormick waved him off. “You don't give yourself enough credit, John! You're a professional, just like this psychiatrist—Dr. Danzig. I'm sure you wouldn’t allow yourself to be swayed by your personal involvement.” Father McCormick took a deep breath and shook his head. “It's truly a shame, that's all.”

“What's a shame?” John asked, feeling his body tense defensively.

“It's a shame to see you wasting your God given talent.”

God given talent
. The words stung. John felt his chest begin to tighten. Instinctively, he clenched his fists. “What the hell good does it do me?” he shouted. “What good does it do
any
of us? God gives us gifts…
talents
you call them! But why? What's the point? He snapped his fingers. “In a split second, our lives could be over,”—he pointed toward the ceiling—“depending on what kind of mood the big guy happens to be in.”

Patty reached for her husband's hand, but he pulled back.

“John,” Father McCormick said gently. “God doesn’t act arbitrarily… there is a divine plan and one day it will be revealed.”

“Father,” Patty said softly, eyeing John out of the corner of her eye. “Please… this is not a good time.”

Father McCormick sighed and pushed his chair away from the table. “Forgive me if I've offended or upset either of you.” He stood, taking Samson's leash in his hand. “Too often, our emotions wreak havoc on our judgment. Perhaps I too, have been guilty of that tonight.”

 Thirty-seven

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Last Friday

Lewis,

Elise gave me your personal e-mail address and assured me you wouldn’t mind my contacting you in this way.

To be brief: I wish to apologize for my rude behavior last Friday night. During our time together, you were a complete gentleman, and in no way deserved to be the recipient of my venomous outburst. (You can see why I’m considered an anaconda in many legal circles!)

Please accept my sincere apology.

Yours truly,

Judith

Judith Orenstein, Esq.

___________________________

This e-mail, including attachments, contains information that is confidential and may be protected by the attorney/client or other privileges. This e-mail, including attachments, constitutes non-public information intended to be conveyed only to the designated recipient(s). The unauthorized use, dissemination, distribution or reproduction of this e-mail, including attachments, is prohibited and may be unlawful
.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Last Friday

Dear Judith,

I was surprised and delighted to receive your e-mail of this morning.

I too have felt badly about the events of last Friday evening, and after a great deal of introspection, I have concluded that it is I who should be extending my apology to you. Clearly I was out of line in offering my opinion when you did not seek it out.

Your verbal reaction, although strong (and yes, anaconda-like) was entirely justified. I should not have spoken to you as a psychiatrist, but rather as a new friend. I regret that I did not have the wherewithal to simply enjoy our time together. I hope that you will forgive me so that I might have the privilege of seeing you again (in a strictly non-professional capacity, I assure you!)

Sincerely,

Lewis Danzig

 Thirty-eight

She stood, shaken, in front of Tova Katz's front door clutching her bag and staring hypnotically at the ornate wood mezuzah. Tucked inside the finger-length rectangular box was a tiny parchment containing the words of the
Shema
. Mezuzahs, she knew, were hung from each doorpost of a Jew's home as a reminder of the covenant with God and as a fulfillment of the biblical commandment to place God’s words “on the doorposts of your house and upon your gates.” As a sign of devotion, many people touched a finger to their lips and brushed it over the mezuzah as they passed through the doorway. In some circles mezuzahs were believed to protect the inhabitants of the home. If a child was sick, or if financial hardship befell the family, they were advised first and foremost to examine each mezuzah. It was possible a letter on the parchment was smudged, or the encasement damaged.

Maybe this was why things had always gone so badly in her own home; there wasn’t a single mezuzah to check. Her husband had balked when she suggested hanging even one.
Religious bullshit
he called it. This was what he called
anything
she learned from Hannah Orenstein at the Jewish Learning Center.

Against his wishes she had started going to the mikvah each month, but when she had suggested sleeping in separate beds during her menstrual cycle, he nearly had a fit. As far as he was concerned, being married by a rabbi, under a chuppah was enough. He had paid his religious dues. For business purposes he would give donations to Jewish causes and show up at events if the press was going to be there; but privately, behind closed doors, he couldn’t care less.

Why couldn’t he see that anything she did religiously was an attempt to make things right between them? She had forgiven him for his affairs, at least the two that she knew about. She begged him to come for counseling, and he did—for a single session—and promised to change. He wouldn’t control all the money anymore he told her. He wouldn’t forbid her to go to her classes. He even promised to stop hurting her. There were still the twists of the arm, and the occasional shove, but last night he had crossed the line. He had pushed her to the floor and kicked her in the back while she was hunched over in a ball begging him to stop. He had been high, he said later. That's all. It was a little coke. He fell off the wagon. He was sorry. Somehow “sorry” didn’t cut it when you were terrified of your own husband.

She swallowed and wiped a tear from her cheek.

Her parents would be disappointed. She was sure of it. All they had wanted was a better life for her. Marrying a man with a good education and a big income would give her security. At first she had hesitated. She had a dream for herself, she told them. But they balked at the idea. After all, pursuing an acting career where she came from was beyond senseless. Sure she had played the leads in many school productions, but that wasn’t the real world where her odds of succeeding were a million to one.

It was all so ironic. She had played the game so well, become the woman
he
wanted her to be.
Acting confident. Dressing sexy.
She had even changed her personality to fit her new wealthier lifestyle. She had everyone convinced. Maybe she did have a future in acting, after all. These few years had been like a run on Broadway. It had been fun for a while; but it had taken her husband's slaps to wake her up. Like so many actors, somehow she had gotten lost in the role.

Inside, a sixty-something woman bustled by the window. This must be Tova. She looked just as she had sounded on the phone—like a strong but kindly grandmother who would make chicken soup and offer an extra blanket. Hesitantly, she raised her finger to the doorbell, just as Tova called out to someone named
Saul
. A man's voice responded from another room.

She pulled her hand back, surprised. Somehow it hadn't occurred to her that Tova might not live alone, that there might be a husband. She took a deep breath. Husband or no husband, this was it. She would have to make her decision fast, before she was noticed. Ring the doorbell or go back to
him
. But she was beginning to have second thoughts. What right did she have to barge in on this woman and her husband anyway? But then Tova would not have given out her home address, she reminded herself. She wouldn’t have said
come anytime, day or night
if she hadn't meant it.

 Thirty-nine

“Nana! You’re early!”

It was a complete surprise to Judith to find that Rachel wasn’t alone. After a warm hug, she introduced her friend Sara, a tiny girl with short hair and bangs. Sara wore an outfit identical to Rachel's—the school uniform of a white blouse and a pleated blue skirt.

“Abba just dropped us off,” Rachel said. “He had to get something from the store, but he'll be right back.”

“Well, it's lovely to meet you Sara,” Judith said. “Will you be joining us for Shabbat?”

“I would like to, but we’re going to my brother’s house,” Sara said. “He just had a baby.”

Such a polite child, Judith thought, after congratulating Sara, and extremely well mannered too, just like all of Rachel’s friends from Jewish Day School. Judith knew that a religious education wasn’t perfect, but the orthodox school her grandchildren attended
did
seem to have success warding off some of the greater evils afflicting children today. This was especially pronounced with the girls. Judith had met many of them from the local community, and more than anything, she was impressed with how
stable
they were. Unlike most secular girls who dressed provocatively, were fixated on popularity, and demonstrated utter disregard for authority, these girls were a breath of fresh air. A return to innocence, Judith thought. They dressed modestly—skirts below the knees, no sleeveless tops, and no exposed midriffs—and didn’t fixate so much on appearance and weight. They were healthier emotionally, much more comfortable in their own skins. Judith had always believed that “checking out” of society during the turbulent teenage years was to be expected, especially with the girls. Some of the bad behavior of today’s youth made the sixties look tame. Meeting many of the composed young women of this orthodox community made her consider that maybe it wasn’t inevitable.

“Can we have a snack, Nana?”

“Of course sweetheart,” Judith said. “You must be starving! Your Abba told me you're getting ready for the Chanukah play.”

“We had our first organizational meeting today,” Rachel announced proudly. “Sara and I are in charge of scenery.”

Judith led the girls to the kitchen where, to Judith's dismay, Lauren was busy at work on the evening’s dinner.

“It smells so good in here,” Sara said sweetly to Rachel.

To Judith's surprise, Rachel just shrugged, like she couldn’t care less.

If Lauren noticed Rachel's odd reaction, she didn’t let on. “It's garlic chicken with apricot glaze,” she announced.

“Hmm. Yehuda's favorite,” Judith said, tapping her chin. “I must tell you, I'm surprised you know that.”

Lauren looked momentarily flustered. She wiped her hands on a dishtowel and excused herself to check on Nehama. When she returned a few minutes later, Judith was bent over, peering into the refrigerator.

“It's a chocolate torte.”

Judith jumped. “Chocolate Torte? So fancy, Lauren! Are we having guests or are you just trying to impress my son?”

Lauren's face dropped.

“I'm kidding!” Judith said, waving her hand. “Except for the guest part, that is.”

Lauren swallowed, but managed to retain her composure. “Yehuda invited Sonia Lyman and her husband, Gary.”

Even after learning from Janine about Sonia and Gary's counseling meeting with Yehuda, Lauren had been reluctant to reach out to Sonia. What if she was still angry? But the last several days Sonia had been turning up in unexpected places—at White Elephant Park on Sunday, sitting inconspicuously under a tree, at the drug store on Monday where Lauren overheard her asking the pharmacist about pain medication. Then on Wednesday, Lauren had spotted Sonia on Tova Katz's front step. At first Lauren thought it odd—she hadn't realized the two even knew each other—until she remembered: S.O.S.!
Tova ran the local S.O.S. chapter!
But it wasn’t until yesterday that Lauren noticed the
sling
. Maybe it was because she was seeing Sonia for the first time all week with her coat off. Sonia was sitting by herself in the back corner of Starbucks. Lauren wanted so badly to walk over to her and give her a hug.
You're not alone…
I'm your friend,
she would say. But she couldn’t pretend not to notice Sonia's arm; she would have to ask her what happened; and Lauren didn’t have a good feeling about that at all. Just supposing Gary
did
have something to do with it—would Sonia even admit the truth? Lauren had her doubts. So she chickened out—grabbed her coffee and fled—before Sonia noticed her. If Lauren knew anything for sure, it was that confronting someone, especially in public, was never a good idea. No, it would be much better to approach her casually, in a more private and safe environment. In the meantime, she took comfort knowing that at least Sonia was reaching out to Tova Katz.

“Anyone else coming tonight?”
Judith tried to sound nonchalant, though she was secretly hoping to hear Lewis Danzig's name. What was the matter with her? She never fixated on a person like this—not unless they owed her money.

“No,” Lauren said, “…just Sonia and Gary.”

Judith shrugged it off as not a big deal, mumbled something to the effect of, “Well, it should be a very nice evening,” and went back to rummaging in the fridge. “Okay girls, about your snack—how about some Jell-O?”

“Oh… a snack. Is that what you're looking for?” Lauren asked. “Don't bother; I have it all ready.” Lauren slid past Judith and pulled a plate of cut up fruits and vegetables and a container of ranch dressing. “This is much healthier,” she told Judith, then turned to the girls and smiled coyly. “But don't worry, I also made you a special treat for all your hard work on the scenery.”

“Brownies!” Sara exclaimed. “But we didn’t do any work yet, Lauren!”

“Okay, then this is for all your
future
hard work!”

“Sara doesn’t like nuts,” Rachel said, dryly.

Lauren forced a smile. “Don't worry. I remembered. No nuts! Now who wants milk?”

Who does she think she is,
Judith thought,
Martha Stewart
? She studied Lauren carefully while she poured the girls their drinks. As usual, she was wearing her hair in two braids… one of Hannah's aprons. But there was something else…
Something
was different. What the heck was it?

Lauren returned the milk carton to the fridge and smoothed the sides of her cotton skirt.
Bingo
.

“Pretty skirt,” Judith said.

“Oh… thanks.”

“I thought you didn’t like wearing skirts. In fact, I recall you specifically saying you
disliked
them.”

Lauren's face reddened at the accusation. “I… uh…”

“I think she looks great, don't you?” Yehuda said, as he entered the kitchen. He winked—though Judith couldn’t tell if it was intended for her or Lauren—and set a heavy grocery bag down on the counter. “Here you go, Lauren,” he said. “I hope it's enough.”

Rachel ran over to greet him, gave him a quick hug, and then she and Sara went up to her room.

Lauren couldn’t have been more thankful for the interruption. Okay, so she told Judith she didn’t like skirts. Big deal. It wasn’t like she took an oath never to wear them! Besides, the situation had changed. She had a legitimate reason to dress this way—not that she'd ever share it with Judith.

“This is more than enough,” Lauren told Yehuda, peeking in the bag. She looked at Judith, who continued to eye her suspiciously. “It's potatoes and onions. I’m making potato
kugel
.”

“Potato kugel?” Judith waved her hand and marched past Yehuda on her way to the basement door. “That’s silly… There are some frozen ones in the freezer downstairs; I’ll go grab…”

Lauren watched with amazement.
Yehuda shows up and all of a sudden the woman wants to help me?
“No, that's okay; really… I like my own recipe,” Lauren said, fighting back her annoyance.

Judith stopped in her tracks and spun around. “But it would save you so much time,” Judith said sweetly. She waited for Yehuda to second the idea, but he didn't.

“Oh, it's no problem,” Lauren said. “I’m not worried about saving time.” She pulled a carton of eggs from the fridge. “I’ve got all the time in the world.”

“It must be nice having no one expecting you, no place to be,” Judith said, studying her fingernail. “Of course, I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

Before Lauren could decide whether this was intended as a put down, Judith continued. “Oh… I just remembered; while you were upstairs with Nehama, a man called.”

Lauren’s first reaction was to shudder and close her eyes in disbelief.
Oh God… Even a coma can't slow Hannah down.

“His name was Jon something,” Judith said as she went to retrieve the message.

At the sound of the name, Lauren knew exactly who it was. Jonathon Bauer had already left a dozen messages on her cell phone this past month. Maybe if she had bothered calling him back at least once, he wouldn’t have felt the need to track her down to the Orenstein’s home.

Judith shuffled through a small pile of papers. “Let's see… I have his number here somewhere… He mentioned something about seeing a show downtown, after Shabbat.”

Yehuda placed an open hand on the notepad. “Don't bother… I have the number, Mom.”

“Good. So, you'll give it to Lauren.”

Yehuda scratched his head. He glanced from Lauren to Judith and back to Lauren. “Lauren,” he said, “this doesn’t seem like a good time… I mean you're pretty busy around here.”

Lauren nodded, looking almost as surprised as Judith. “Well, yes, that's true.”

Judith tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at her son. “What are you doing, Yehuda?”

Yehuda ignored her and continued speaking directly to Lauren. “I have to talk to Jonathon about something else anyway,” he said. “I'll let him know it won't work out for the two of you.”

“Oh… okay. Great,” Lauren said, with what sounded like a combination of delight and relief. “Please tell him, thank you, but…” She paused, studying Yehuda's face quizzingly. “Like you said, this isn't a good time.”

Judith just stared at the two of them. They sounded like they were speaking in some kind of private code. Finally, she spoke up. “Lauren,” Judith said, with the voice of authority, “a young girl like yourself should get out and date… have fun for goodness sake! Now if your commitments to my son and grandchildren are interfering…”

“No!” Lauren snapped, a bit annoyed that Judith's harsh opinion of men would suddenly relax. Just what she needed—another Hannah! “I'm not interested in Jonathon!”

Yehuda held up his hand. “Enough, Mom! Lauren’s made it perfectly clear… she’s not interested!”

Lauren could feel Judith's eyes penetrating her, but she refused to meet her gaze. She felt almost giddy with confidence having Yehuda by her side. “Well,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron and checking her watch. “I better get moving on this kugel!”

“But…” Judith started to object, but Yehuda cut her off. “I think we should leave Lauren to her cooking.” When he said
we,
Judith knew he meant
her.
“…among other things,” he added.

“Well, I want to help!” Judith demanded and before he could object she had rolled up her sleeves and marched over to the sink.

Lauren smiled weakly and tried to think quickly as Judith soaped up her hands. She had learned from Judith’s previous visits that it was best to give her simple jobs. Anything requiring too much of a commitment would end up either undone or done incorrectly. Last week, Judith promised Rachel she would bake an apple pie, but had gotten only as far as slicing the apples; it was Lauren who ended up doing the rest. And then, after all that rushing to get it done in time for dinner, Rachel decided she was sick of apple pie and refused to eat any. Maybe at one time Judith had been competent in the kitchen, but it was apparent the woman hadn’t cooked in ages; Judith was a little rusty and a lot disinterested. Even worse was that she was often interrupted by “urgent” work matters.

“Uh sure,” Lauren said. “Why don’t you make a salad?”

Yehuda brought his hands together. “Great idea! You'll make the salad, Mom.” He checked his watch. “I've got to run back to the center. I'll see everyone in a few hours, okay?”

Rachel ran in just as he was about to leave. “Is it okay if we play outside, Abba?”

“Yes, just stay in the back where Nana and Lauren can see you from the window.”

The girls went to retrieve their coats while Lauren gathered ingredients for Judith’s salad. She pulled out a couple heads of lettuce, some cucumbers and cherry tomatoes from the fridge, intentionally passing on anything too complicated like avocado or bean sprouts. Judith rinsed off the lettuce and felt Lauren’s eyes on her as she began chopping it with a knife.

“Something the matter?” Judith asked.