Now You See Me... (16 page)

Chapter 29

Monday, November 22, 9:38 a.m., 5500 block of
Carlton Way. A married couple got into an argument, and the woman attempted to stab her 49-year-old husband in the chest with a knife. The
woman failed to cause any serious injury to her
husband and fled the scene.

Shankman’s death made the morning news.

I was chugging along on the treadmill in our spare room, working up a sweat while watching a local station to make the time pass and reach my goal of two miles more quickly. So far the news had been unremarkable. The original Scott Peterson jury would sit for the penalty phase; Dan Rather would probably be stepping down, and maybe Tom Brokaw (I’d much rather lose Rather); Arnold “The Governator” Schwarzenegger was urging a California football team to play only in-state games; Eisner was still battling Disney. Traffic was next, then the weather, reported by a pretty, voluptuous young woman who was pointing to a map of the San Bernardino Mountains and talking about a cold front. I found her Dolly Parton twin peaks distracting and imagined that the temperatures of male viewers were rising. No cold front here—more like hot and bothered.

I was about to switch the channel when I heard the gray-haired male anchor say, “. . . breaking news about the death of a popular local high school teacher.”

I brought the treadmill to an abrupt stop, my heart pounding from exertion and anxiety. A second later Shankman’s photo filled the screen. It was a formal shot—he was in a dark suit and tie, his light brown hair carefully combed. I wondered where the station had obtained it.

“Lydia Martin is coming to us live from Mulholland Drive about a mile west of Coldwater Canyon, where twenty-nine-year-old Greg Shankman met his death,” the anchor continued. “Lydia.”

Now the screen showed a thirty-something woman. The wind was blowing her long dark hair as she stood at the side of the two-lane road.

“Kevin, I’m only feet away from the spot where, some time Friday night, Greg Shankman’s car plunged onto the rocks below,” the field reporter said, pointing to her left. “Shankman left his apartment in West Los Angeles. But where was he headed? And what happened? Police have few clues and no witnesses, and ask anyone with information to contact the West L.A. station.”

“Do they think it was suicide, Lydia?”

“It’s possible, Kevin. Neighbors told us Greg Shankman was depressed. In September he suddenly left the Orthodox Jewish high school in the heart of Beverly Hills where he had been teaching for several years. And his girlfriend of five years, Melissa Frank, had ended their long-term relationship and obtained a restraining order.”

“Thanksgiving is in three days, and psychologists talk about holiday pressure,” the anchor said. “Do we know why Shankman left the school?”

“School officials won’t comment. The sad irony is that reconciliation was in the air. Melissa and their four-year-old daughter, Kaitlin, returned last night from Seattle, where they had hoped Shankman would join them for the Thanksgiving weekend. Melissa and Greg were talking about getting married. But this Thanksgiving will be sad for Melissa and Kaitlin. And there will be no wedding bells, and no holiday celebration for Greg Shankman. Back to you, Kevin.”

I wasn’t surprised that the media had picked up the story. The estranged girlfriend, the restraining order, the violent car crash, the fact that Shankman had taught at an Orthodox Jewish school—all that made for interesting material. Janet Mendes was no doubt grateful that the reporter hadn’t named the school. I didn’t know whether other media would mention it. And if other reporters followed the story, they would soon learn that there was only one Orthodox Jewish high school “in the heart of Beverly Hills.”

At least the media didn’t know that the police suspected foul play, I thought as I took off my sweats and sneakers and prepared to shower. I wondered again whether I should have refused to give the police Rabbi Bailor’s name. Melissa Frank had returned last night. They would have obtained the name of the school from her.

“You did the right thing,” Zack had told me when he returned from his board meeting.

That’s what Connors had said, too, his tone somewhat conciliatory.

I still felt miserable—about giving the police Rabbi Bailor’s name, about my rift with Connors and what was possibly the end of our friendship, about the concerns I was having about Hadassah Bailor and the marks on her arms.

Thinking about the police reminded me that I’d told Jessie Drake I would stop by today to have my fingerprints taken—“for purposes of elimination,” she had said. I generally collect data for my column on Mondays and Tuesdays. I would start at West L.A.

I had finished reciting my daily prayers and was putting on makeup when the phone rang. I hurried to my nightstand and picked up the cordless receiver.

It was Cheryl Wexner.

I’d forgotten that I’d told her I’d call her about Hadassah. So much had happened since Friday. I felt as though a week had gone by. I apologized and told her things had come up—a lame equivocation, but the best I could do.

“I understand completely,” Cheryl said. “When I didn’t hear from you, I was going to phone
you,
but I got caught up in work, too. November and December are my busiest months, because of college deadlines. I
do
want to talk to you about Hadassah, Molly, but that’s not why I’m calling you. I heard on the news that Greg Shankman died in a horrible car accident. I thought you might know Greg? He taught at Torat Tzion, and you’re close to Rabbi Bailor.”

“I never met Greg, but I know he was Hadassah’s teacher last year.” I wondered what Cheryl would say if she knew that until last week I hadn’t spoken with Rabbi Bailor in almost fourteen years. “I did hear about his death. It’s a tragedy.”

Whatever Shankman had done, it
was
a tragedy—for his parents and any siblings he might have, for his little girl, for his girlfriend, whether or not she had been planning to reconcile with him.

“I saw him less than two weeks ago,” Cheryl said. “I can’t believe he’s dead.”

“How did you know him?”

“Dr. Mendes, the secular studies principal at Torat Tzion, introduced us. I met with her soon after I moved here and told her I’d appreciate referrals from the school. I have a B.A. in history, and Greg teaches history. We got to talking, and we became friends. The reason I’m calling, Molly—the TV reporter said people who have information about Greg should call the police. Friday night your ex-husband said you deal with the police, and you write true crime books. So I was hoping you could advise me. Justin, really. He’s the one with the information.”

I was glad she couldn’t see my face. “What kind of information?”

“He’d rather explain in person. I know you’re busy, but he’s home now, and if you could meet with him as soon as possible?”

Chapter 30

Cheryl lived on the corner of Ogden and Oak-wood in Beverly-Fairfax, only blocks from Bubbie G, on the ground floor of the two-story building with multiple turrets that my sisters and I had called “the castle” when we were kids. My parents lived in the area before they bought their house on South Gardner. So did many Orthodox Jews before they moved half a dozen blocks east toward La Brea.

The neighborhood is a mix of old and new. The “new” includes the Bicentennial Post Office, a natural foods store, and the huge mustard-colored Broadcast apartment building above it. The “old” is Television City and the CBS building, where my mom and her friends used to spend their summers watching quiz shows being filmed. Some of the “old” is now a memory, like the Pan Pacific Theater, where my parents went on their first date, and the Art Deco Pan Pacific Auditorium, where in the 1960s you could see the annual Home Show or GM’s Motorama, or a boxing or wrestling match, or Elvis, live. My optometrist had a huge black-and-white panoramic aerial photo of Beverly-Fairfax and the Pan Pacific Auditorium. I loved looking at it, trying to locate my parents’ home and Bubbie G’s apartment. A few years ago he remodeled his Wilshire office, and the photo came down.

The neighborhood is also populated more and more by hip singles who park their sporty cars fender to bumper on the narrow streets that were never meant to accommodate so many vehicles, parked or moving. Which is why I had to circle Cheryl’s block twice before I gave up and parked a block away.

Cheryl opened the door as soon as I rang the bell, and I had the feeling she’d been watching for my arrival. There was no entry hall. I stepped into a large barrel-ceilinged living room painted pale gray and furnished with a navy chenille sofa, a chrome-framed glass coffee table, and two tall chrome-framed cabinets, one on either side of a small plaster-faced fireplace, that held books and curios. Several plants added color to the room, along with framed museum prints on three of the walls.

“I’m afraid you may have come for nothing,” Cheryl said, her voice awkward with apology. “It was Justin’s idea to phone you, but now he’s having second thoughts. He doesn’t want to get anyone in trouble.”

She was wearing a black turtleneck sweater and jeans that made her look more hippy than she had in her skirt Friday night. I could tell she’d been crying.

“Why don’t you tell me what you know, and we’ll go from there.” I handed her a bag. “A little something from The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf and me to welcome you to Los Angeles. They’re all kosher, by the way.”

“This is so sweet, Molly.” She opened the bag and inhaled. “Smells heavenly. You’ll have to share some of this with me.”

“I got an assortment of Danish, including the crumble cheese, which is my favorite. The coffee is Jamaican Blue Mountain regular and Mocha Java Blend decaf. I’ve never tasted either one, but they sounded good.”

I followed her through the dining room (“My office,” she said, pointing to a stack of folders, a thick college directory, and individual college catalogs piled on the table) to a breakfast nook off a galley kitchen with a pink ceramic tile counter and outdated wallpaper with pink and gray bubbles. While Cheryl put up a pot of the Jamaican, I sat at a round white Formica table and arranged the pastries on a platter she took down from a cabinet.

“I told you Greg and I are good friends?” she said when she joined me at the table. “Justin is close to him, too. That’s why he’s taking this so hard.”

“Do you have other children?”

“No. Justin has a half sister. I divorced his father when Justin was three. I should never have married Simon. He was head over heels in love with me, and well-to-do. He wanted to give me the world. I thought I loved him, too, but I was on the rebound. There’s nothing like a first love, is there?” She sounded terribly sad.

Zack had been my first love. We had dated in high school, and I’d had visions of happily-ever-after, but a carton of cottage cheese has a longer shelf life than our relationship did. I had pined for him long after we’d broken up. As for Ron, part of his attraction, I later admitted to myself, was the fact that he’d been Zack’s best friend. Easy loves, heavy damages.

“It can color your whole life,” Cheryl said. “It took me years to get over him, even after I divorced Simon. Sometimes I wish I’d never met him. He moved on, of course. Wife, kids. No picket fence.” She laughed uneasily. “God, listen to me. I’m not usually this maudlin. I think it’s because of Greg. One minute he was alive, the next . . . I was telling you about Justin. Where was I?”

“You said his father remarried.” I took a crumble cheese Danish from the platter and broke off a piece.

Cheryl nodded. “Stacy’s a nice woman. I’m glad they found each other. She and Simon had Tina soon after they married. From the time they brought her home from the hospital, Justin felt he came second. I’m not sure he did, but that’s how he felt. It’s not an unusual story, but when it’s
your
story, it’s the only one that counts. And Justin is creative, and creative people tend to be more sensitive, I think. Don’t you?”

I nodded. “Justin lived with your ex?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes he lived with me. He couldn’t find his place. And it didn’t help that Simon and I aren’t on the same page about religion. I’m Modern Orthodox. Simon and Stacy are stricter. And Justin—well, until about a few months ago, he was ready to chuck the whole religion. Sometimes I think he was trying to get back at Simon and at me. But then Greg told him about Rabbi Bailor and convinced him to meet with the rabbi. They hit it off. But I’m not sure if Justin wants to continue learning with him.”

I could hear footsteps above us. Someone jumping. “When did Justin move to L.A.?”

“A year ago. After college he decided he wanted to write screenplays. He was always a writer, always making up wonderful stories.” Her smile lit up her face. “He moved here to pursue his career and kept telling me how wonderful L.A. is, so I came to visit and ended up staying.” She bit a piece of the croissant she’d taken. “This is amazing. How’s yours?”

“Too good,” I said, impatient to get to the reason I’d come.

“Anyway, I was ready to leave New York. I was never happy there. Business-wise, it’s worked out. I do much of my consulting and application guidance online, and I’m getting more and more referrals from local schools. And being with Justin is wonderful. He’s a part-time waiter—the typical Hollywood story—so it made sense for him to move in with me. I’ve learned not to ask where he’s going or what time he’ll be back, but it’s hard to accept that your little boy is all grown up when he still comes to you for money. And of course, you’re not allowed to ask what it’s for.” There was a hint of annoyance behind the smile. “I know Justin hates asking, and I don’t mind helping him. It’s only until he sells his first screenplay. I just
know
that’ll happen soon. He has the talent. It’s just a matter of time, and connections.”

“So Justin became close to Greg,” I said, hoping to get back on track.

“Sorry. You didn’t come to hear my life story.” She laughed ruefully. “To be honest, I haven’t made close friends yet, and you’re easy to talk to. People probably tell you that all the time. I didn’t mean to go on and on.”

“You didn’t,” I said. “I’m interested in hearing about your background.”

“You’re being kind, but thanks. Anyway, Greg was like an older brother. If Justin was having girl trouble, he’d turn to Greg. And Greg would read his material and make insightful comments. Greg is—” she stopped. “Greg was very bright and knowledgeable, and not just about history.”

“You said Justin has information about Greg that the police may find useful?”

“It’s about what happened in school, at Torat Tzion. Greg was accused of inappropriate behavior with one of the senior girls.”

“It was all lies,” Justin said.

He was standing in the doorway, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. His hair was tousled, and he looked as though he’d just woken up from a troubled sleep.

“Feeling better, honey?” Cheryl asked.

He shrugged.

“Come sit down.” She pulled out the chair next to hers. “Mrs. Abrams brought treats.”

“Molly, please,” I said. “When people call me Mrs. Abrams, I think they’re talking about my mother-in-law.”

Justin walked over, but he remained standing, shifting from leg to leg. “I don’t know what my mom told you.”

“Just what you heard.” Cheryl patted the seat of the chair. “Why don’t you tell Molly what happened, Justin.”

“I’m not sure
anything
happened. That’s the point. I don’t want to tell the police something and get someone in trouble if it has nothing to do with Greg’s accident.”

“You said this girl lied about Greg,” I said. “When was this?”

“In September, the first week of school.” Justin took his hands out of his pockets. “She told the principal that Greg said he’d give her an A if she put out. It was all a lie, everything.”

“Why would this girl accuse Greg falsely?”

“To discredit him.” Justin sat down. “She’s tight with a guy in her class that Greg had accused of cheating.”

“How could Greg be sure?” Having been falsely accused of cheating, I’m sensitive about the subject.

“Greg watched him for two years. The kid cheated on tests, plagiarized papers. All the teachers knew it, but no one could figure out how he did it, so they couldn’t prove it. And his family helped build the school.”

“Adam Prosser?”

Justin narrowed his eyes. “You know?”

“I guessed. I heard rumors about him.”

“Well, it was driving Greg crazy,” Justin said. “Over the summer he spent hours in the UCLA library stacks and online, and he finally had the goods on Prosser. The kid had copied some papers almost verbatim. He bought others online. Greg found a website that helped him trace that.”

TurnItIn? That was the site one of the kids in the chat room had mentioned.

Cheryl put a pastry on a plate and set it in front of her son. “You haven’t eaten all day, Justin.”

“And Greg confronted the boy?” I asked.

Justin nodded. “Prosser denied it, of course. Greg wanted to give him a chance to come clean before he told the principal. But the next day the principal called Greg into her office and told him a senior was accusing him of sexual harassment. Amy Brookman.”

A name I hadn’t heard. “Didn’t Greg explain why Amy was lying? That he’d found proof Prosser had been cheating?”

“Sure. But Greg didn’t have the proof with him that day. He said Amy gave a convincing performance. She cried. She said she was so depressed she had to go on Prozac. And she gave dates when she met with Greg alone and he came on to her.” Justin grunted. “Greg stayed after hours to
help
her. That’s the thanks she gave him.”

Justin tore off the top of the Danish, then dropped it and pushed the plate away.

“When did this alleged harassment take place?”

“Amy said Greg was coming on to her and threatening her all last year. She’s hoping to go to Columbia or Penn, and a B average won’t cut it. So she didn’t tell.”

The coffeemaker was gurgling. I could smell the nutty flavor wafting toward me. Above us there was more jumping.

“But all of a sudden, in September, Amy’s no longer afraid of Greg?” I said.

“She was still afraid, but she felt she had to speak up. She claimed Greg was picking on Prosser because he’s the one who encouraged Amy to come forward. She couldn’t let Greg get away with his lies.” Justin rolled his eyes. “She also claimed she wasn’t the only one Greg hit on.”

“Who else?” I asked.

“Another girl in her class.”

“Did this other girl accuse Greg, too?”

“She died last year. They said she had a heart attack.”

“Batya Weinberg?”

He looked at me, curious. “You heard about her too, huh? Amy said she killed herself because of Greg. How sick is that, to make up garbage like that? What was Greg supposed to do? Ask the Weinbergs to sign an affidavit saying their daughter didn’t kill herself?” Justin tilted his chair back.

I nodded, but wondered with some unease whether Batya
had
killed herself. Dr. McIntyre, I recalled, had seemed edgy when I’d brought up her name.

“Plus Amy said if anyone was guilty of cheating, it was Greg,” Justin said.

“In college?”

“At Torat Tzion,” he said, impatiently. He brought his chair to an upright position. “They said Greg changed kids’ answers on the APs.”

“Why would Greg do that?”

“He
didn’t
do it.” Justin scowled.

Cheryl put her hand on her son’s. “Molly knows that, honey.” The coffeemaker had shut off. She stood and took the few steps into the kitchen. “They said he did it for the status. Greg was proud that almost all of his students passed the AP. They passed because he prepared them so well.” Cheryl took three mugs from a cabinet.

Sara, I recalled, had said that Dassie had hoped to have Shankman for an AP history class. That Shankman worked students hard, that almost everyone in his class passed the AP exam. And someone in the chat room had mentioned a teacher who changed answers on an AP exam. Was that chat room visitor someone from Torat Tzion?

“I can still see Greg the night he told us what had happened,” Cheryl said, holding one of the mugs. “He was devastated. Shocked, hurt. He didn’t know how he would support himself. He’d moved into a new apartment. He’d just bought a new car. More than that, he loved teaching. Working with kids, helping them reach their potential. He couldn’t see himself doing anything else.”

My mother loves teaching for the same reason. So does my brother Judah, who won’t give up his two classes even though his Judaica store is thriving. I found it hard to reconcile Greg Shankman, model teacher, with the man who had lured Hadassah from her home and threatened to rape her. My mother says the truth can have many faces. Maybe Greg had been both people.

Something was nagging at me. I reviewed in my mind what Justin had told me. “You said other teachers suspected Prosser of cheating, Justin. Wouldn’t that have rung bells and shown him to be a liar?”