The Mourning Sexton (3 page)

CHAPTER 3

S
eymour Rosenbloom closed the file folder and slid it across his desk toward Hirsch. “This is a no-brainer.”

“What's that mean?”

“Sue the bastards.”

“Which ones?”

“All of them. Ford Motor, the tire manufacturer, the outfit that made the air bags, anyone who had anything to do with that car. Sue them all.”

“On what ground?”

“On the ground she's fucking dead. On the ground that drunk knucklehead survived and she didn't. What's that all about, huh?”

Rosenbloom backed his wheelchair away from the desk and wheeled himself toward the window. He peered out at the lights of downtown and then turned toward Hirsch with a grin.

“Come on, Samson. If you're going to play the personal injury game, you're going to need the proper mind-set. You're going to need to cleanse your system of all those defense attorney toxins. You're going to need a brand-new mantra.”

“And I suppose you have one for me?”

“This is your lucky day,
boychik
. Place your hand over your heart and solemnly recite after me. Hey, I'm serious. Hand over your heart.”

“Cut it out, Sancho.”

“Come on. This is important.”

Hirsch sighed and placed his hand over his heart.

“That's better. Now, recite after me. Ready? ‘If you've been hurt in an accident'—go ahead, say it.”

Hirsch gave him a look.

“Come on.”

“‘If you've been hurt in an accident.'”

“Good. ‘If you've been hurt in an accident, someone somewhere owes you a boatload of money.'”

“That is a profoundly spiritual mantra.”

“Right out of the goddamn sacred Hindu texts.”

Rosenbloom rolled his wheelchair back over to his desk. He reached for the file. “Who'd you say made the air bags on that Ford?”

“A company called OLM.”

“Never heard of them, but they sound ripe for the picking. She was a little thing, right?”

“Just five feet. Weighed ninety-two pounds.”

“I read somewhere how dangerous those damn bags can be with kids in the front seat. What about the tires? Goodyear?”

“Peterson.”

“Peterson?” Rosenbloom chuckled with delight. “Oh, my God. That's beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”

“This is different.”

“Who cares? You gotta love it. I assume he knows.”

Hirsch shrugged. “Probably.”

“Peterson Tire.” Rosenbloom was grinning. “I offer a hearty salute to the god of irony.”

The Peterson Tire Corporation was currently enmeshed in
In re Turbo-XL Tire Litigation,
a massive consolidated tort case arising out of allegedly defective tires on various models of sport-utility vehicles, including Ford Explorers. Not only was the case pending in St. Louis federal court, but the presiding judge was Brendan McCormick. On the night of the fatal accident, Judith Shifrin was driving Judge McCormick's Ford Explorer, which, according to the accident report, was equipped with four Peterson Turbo-XL tires.

Hirsch shook his head. “I don't see any evidence of tire malfunction.”

“Who cares? For chrissake, Samson, that's no reason
not
to include those bastards in the suit. Hell, the words
Peterson
and
defective
are practically synonyms. Sue 'em all. Let them figure out who gets to pick up the tab. If you can survive the first round of motions, one of those defendants is going to start waving money at you. Most of these cases settle.”

“Probably not this one. Abe Shifrin has no interest in settlement. He sees it as a battle of principle. But even if he didn't, this case”—he gestured toward the file—“it's a weak one, Sancho. If one or more of these companies feel they need to fight one of these claims, they could do worse than pick this case.”

“Never say never, Samson, especially when you're up against fancy corporate litigators. You used to eat their livers for sport.”

To others, they were Seymour and David. To each other, they were still Sancho and Samson. Hirsch had been Rosenbloom's junior counselor at an overnight camp in Minnesota for three summers during his college years. The fat and jovial Rosenbloom, a few years Hirsch's senior and nearly bald even then, had been a passionate fan of
Don Quixote.
He'd nicknamed himself Sancho, after Sancho Panza, and claimed to be waiting for his Knight of the Sad Face. He nicknamed his junior counselor Samson after Samson Carrasco, the clever university student in the novel. That was back when Hirsch's plans for the future included a stint in the Peace Corps and a career teaching Shakespeare to inner-city kids. Back before his ambition metastasized at Harvard Law School and devoured his idealism and, according to his ex-wife, his heart and soul.

They followed different career paths in the law and eventually lost touch with each other, although not by Rosenbloom's choice. It was Hirsch who became too busy with important people and weighty matters to make time for his old camp buddy. Nevertheless, it was Rosenbloom who reached out to Hirsch in prison—one of the few who did. That first year at Allenwood, Hirsch received a package from Sancho containing a leather-bound edition of
Don Quixote
and a harmonica. He read the novel in jail—read it twice, in fact—his first work of fiction in more than a decade. And he even took up the harmonica again, although not quite the way Sancho had assumed from their summer nights around the campfire when Hirsch entertained the campers with cowboy tunes.

A year ago last November, when the Missouri Supreme Court provisionally restored Hirsch's law license with the stipulation that he could practice only under the direct supervision of an attorney who'd been a member of the bar in good standing for at least twenty years, there had been only one choice for him.

He'd worked up the nerve to call Rosenbloom and ask him to lunch at an Italian restaurant on the Hill. Rosenbloom was delighted. It had been a long time since he'd seen his old junior counselor.

Hirsch had been startled when Rosenbloom arrived using a walker. During all those years apart, Hirsch's image had reverted to the Sancho of their camp counselor youth—to the burly, sweaty, vigorous guy who'd hauled the biggest backpack on the camping trips and helmed the tug-of-war team during color wars and roughhoused with the campers in the lake, tossing them into the water while a half dozen other kids hung from his arms and neck and climbed on his back. Although Hirsch had heard somewhere that Rosenbloom had multiple sclerosis, he'd never accepted the debilitating reality until he saw his Sancho hauling himself through the doorway of the restaurant on the walker.

Over a platter of linguini with red clam sauce, Rosenbloom had read through the terms of the Missouri Supreme Court's reinstatement order. When he finished, he wiped his chin with a napkin, broke off a piece of Italian bread, and shrugged.

“There must be an empty chair somewhere in my office. Until Sharon Stone passes the bar, I might as well stick your sorry ass in it.”

These days, Rosenbloom was confined to a wheelchair from the disease that gradually, inexorably, whittled away his bulk and darkened his moods. As courtroom appearances became more difficult, Hirsch had increasingly become his legs. He handled about half of the firm's bankruptcy docket, representing debtors at the creditors meetings and at the hearings to approve their wage-earner plans.

Hirsch said, “It's easier to eat your opponent's liver when you have the facts on your side.”

“Don't worry. As Don Quixote teaches, ‘Fortune always leaves some door open to come at a remedy.'”

“As I recall, he also teaches that many go out for wool and come home shorn themselves.”

Rosenbloom was grinning. “So? Just keep your eyes peeled for badass shepherds toting shears.”

CHAPTER 4

H
is Honor's secretary had a prim moon face, penciled eyebrows, and gray hair gathered in a neat bun. A pair of reading glasses hung from a gold cord around her neck. The scent of talcum powder reminded him of his grandmother.

She gave him a tidy smile. “The judge is still in his three o'clock pretrial. I shouldn't think it will be much longer.”

Hirsch took a seat, opened his briefcase, and removed some of the files for the next day's creditors meetings. He tried to focus.

He'd been edgy ever since the judge's secretary called two days ago to schedule the meeting. Given that Hirsch had no case before Judge McCormick and hadn't spoken with him in more than a decade, the request had seemed almost out of the blue.

Almost.

But not quite.

He'd been thinking about setting up his own meeting with McCormick. Even though he kept putting it off, he knew a meeting was inevitable.

The first time he'd almost called McCormick was an hour before he filed the lawsuit. His secretary had just finished the final revisions to the petition and come in with the original, three copies, and the check for the filing fee. He'd stared at the petition, shaking his head over the slapdash nature of it all. Cobbling together a lawsuit on the very last day was contrary to everything he'd learned and everything he'd practiced during all those years as a federal prosecutor and a partner at Marder McFarlane—years when nothing was done slapdash, when every court filing, no matter how routine, was carefully vetted.

He'd checked his watch that afternoon. Quarter to four. The courthouse was just a ten-minute walk, which meant he still had almost an hour's leeway. Paging through the petition, he'd wondered whether there was anything else he should do—could do—before the deadline. He'd read Abe Shifrin's file, of course, and he'd done a quick review of the case law and researched the identities of the registered agents for each of the defendants. He'd done all that and he'd drafted the lawsuit and suddenly the mad blur of preparation had slowed to the sharp focus of the telephone on his desk.

He'd stared at the phone—stared and mulled over whether to call Brendan McCormick.

Minutes had passed in silence

And then he'd gathered the court papers and headed for the elevator.

The docket clerk stamped the date and time on the first page of the petition: December 18, 4:37
P
.
M
. As of that moment, his meeting with the only eyewitness in the case became inevitable. He'd be conducting an interview of Brendan McCormick, and eventually he'd be taking his deposition. It was no longer if but when.

Nevertheless, as he'd told himself again just last week, there was still time.

And there was. The lawsuit was barely three weeks old. There'd been no press coverage of its filing. No attorney for any of the defendants had yet to enter an appearance.

All of which meant that it was possible the judge had another reason for the meeting. The two of them did have a shared past, although their four years together as young assistant U.S. attorneys dated back more than a quarter of a century.

He closed his briefcase and strolled over to the windows. McCormick's chambers were on the seventeenth floor of the federal courthouse. He looked down at the Civil Courts Building, where he'd filed the wrongful death case a few weeks ago. The structure looked even more bizarre from above. What was otherwise a staid 1930s fourteen-story limestone office building veered into the surreal at the “roof,” which consisted of a Greek temple crowned by an Egyptian step pyramid crowned by two sphinxlike creatures seated back to back. He'd read somewhere that the hodgepodge replicated some ancient structure, although what it was doing on top of a St. Louis government building was a mystery.

“His Honor will see you now.”

Hirsch turned as four lawyers emerged from the judge's office—three men and a woman, chatting quietly, seriously, all carrying leather briefcases. Following behind was a young man in khakis, white shirt, and dark tie, carrying a legal pad filled with notes. Presumably one of the judge's law clerks. As Hirsch stepped toward the judge's office, the young man glanced back at him before turning into a side office.

Seated behind a large desk at the far end of the imposing room was the Honorable Brendan R. McCormick, United States District Judge for the Eastern District of Missouri. The judge was frowning and scribbling something onto a yellow legal pad. As Hirsch approached, he looked up and the frown vanished.

“Hello, David.” The familiar, hearty voice.

Capping his fountain pen, the judge stood, grinning broadly.

As they shook hands, Hirsch noted that McCormick's taste in clothing had gone upscale in the decades since their AUSA days together. Back then, he bought wash-and-wear suits off the racks at JCPenney and picked up shirts from the irregular bins at the discount houses. These days, Hirsch guessed, McCormick's clothiers knew him by name and kept his measurements and current wardrobe on file. Today's outfit included a monogrammed dress shirt, gleaming gold cuff links, an elegant silk tie, and a navy pinstripe suit perfectly tailored to his large frame. The crisp white shirt contrasted nicely with the deep tan, which, if Hirsch recalled correctly, he'd likely picked up playing golf over Christmas in Bermuda, where he had a second home.

“Good afternoon, Judge.”

“‘Judge?' Christ, David, cut that formal crap. Outside my courtroom I'm just Brendan. Grab a seat. How 'bout something to drink? Soda? Coffee?”

“I'm fine.” Hirsch settled into the chair facing the desk.

“So I hear you're a bankruptcy lawyer these days.”

“Mostly Chapter Thirteens.”

“Do you enjoy them?”

Hirsch shrugged. “They have their challenges.”

“Not exactly the fast lane.”

“I spent enough time in the fast lane for one lifetime.”

They talked a bit about the bankruptcy practice and a bit about the whereabouts of some of their colleagues from the U.S. Attorney's Office and a bit about a recent football recruiting brouhaha at Mizzou and a bit about the contrasts between the college football players these days versus the real men of their era. This was Brendan McCormick's meeting. Eventually, he'd get around to the reason he called it.

He hadn't seen McCormick for maybe twenty years. Time had taken its toll. Back in his college linebacker days, Brendan McCormick had carried a strapping 240 pounds on his six-foot-four-inch frame. He'd stayed in shape at the U.S. Attorney's Office, but the years since then had changed him into a bulky slab of a man with a neck and torso that seemed too big for his legs. The chiseled features that once stirred women jurors had starting eroding—the jutting chin receding into a puffy neck and jowls, the strong nose beginning to bulge, the eyelids sagging over the corners of his blue eyes. Even the hair—still jet black, though likely from dye—had thinned into a comb-over.

Eventually, the chitchat petered out. McCormick paused, and leaned forward, his expression grave.

“David, I want you to know how relieved I am that you filed that lawsuit for Judith.”

“How did you find out?”

He gestured out the window toward the Civil Courts Building. “I sent someone over there to check on the filings.

“Why?”

“Why?” McCormick's features softened. “Because I wanted to know. I had to know. I assumed you'd understand why.”

“You were there that night.”

“It was more than just that. She was my law clerk, David. That's a special relationship, and she was a special gal. Loyal, hardworking, dedicated. I had great affection for her. Great affection, and great respect.” He leaned back. “And yes, she was in my car. Died in my car. Even worse, died behind the wheel because I had too much to drink at that damn Christmas party. Judith Shifrin would be here today if I'd been driving.”

“You don't know that.”

“Don't tell me what I know. An icy road? Hell, I drove that Explorer through the Rocky Mountains in a snowstorm. I could have handled that road dead drunk.” He paused. “You know me, David. You know I'm no fan of personal injury litigation. Even so, I raised the possibility of a lawsuit with Judith's father a few weeks after the funeral. I wanted to have something done. He wouldn't hear of it. Talk about a tough old bird. I tried again after the first anniversary of her death. What's the name you people have for it?”

“
Yahrzeit.
”

“Right. I went to his synagogue that Saturday. Spoke with him after the service. He still wanted nothing to do with a lawsuit. Even so, I couldn't forget about it. I knew the exact day the statute of limitations would expire. I have that date etched in my memory. As the deadline approached, I couldn't stop thinking about it. On December nineteenth—the day after—I sent one of my clerks over to state court. Had him check on the filings. I expected nothing, but when he came back carrying a copy of your petition I almost called to thank you.”

“For filing the lawsuit?”

“And for giving me a chance to do something for her, or at least for her memory.” He paused and leaned forward. “That night, well, by the time we left my house that night I was feeling pretty okay, but she wanted to drive. Said she loved being behind the wheel of such a big car. Jesus Christ.”

McCormick turned sideways in his chair to stare out the window, his eyes watering. Off in the distance to the east, a long line of barges slowly passed under the Poplar Street Bridge heading upriver.

Hirsch waited.

Mounted along one wall of the office were stuffed trophy heads of an elk, a bobcat, and a grizzly, each with a little brass plaque stating the date and spot where McCormick shot the animal. Another wall had a gun cabinet that displayed, in addition to some of McCormick's rifle collection, the cowboy hat, spurs, and vintage Colt '45 given to him by the St. Louis county police when he became a state circuit judge. During his years as the county's chief prosecutor, one of the local newspaper columnists dubbed him McCowboy because he liked to ride with the cops on big raids. The alternative weekly gave him a second nickname, McCrazy, after he pistol-whipped a cocaine dealer arrested in a drug bust. The dealer, handcuffed at the time, had made the mistake of calling McCormick a “pussy,” or at least that's what the alternative paper reported. The prisoner spent a week in the hospital, but nothing came of the incident. The cops stayed mum, the doctors declined to comment, and McCormick's spokesman quoted him as “refusing to stoop to respond to the paranoid fantasies of a crackhead.”

The incident hadn't hurt McCormick's standing within the GOP, since shortly thereafter the Republican governor appointed him to a judicial opening on the Circuit Court of St. Louis County—a position he would hold for nearly two decades, until a Republican president elevated him to federal district court.

McCormick turned back to Hirsch with a resigned smile. “We both know I'm the only eyewitness. That makes me an important witness at trial. That's why I called you here today. To tell you that I'll be a good witness. I'm going to tell the truth, of course. I'm going to tell it like it is, but,” he paused, “it's been more than three years now. Exactly what happened that night may not be totally clear until your accident reconstruction experts have a chance to examine the evidence and reach their own conclusions.” He contemplated Hirsch for a moment. “It might help if I know what their conclusions are before I testify.”

Hirsch nodded.

“I have a crazy schedule this month.” He reached for his personal calendar and started paging. “Let's see.”

On the credenza behind his desk sat a battered black football helmet with a gold
M
emblazoned on each side. Framed above the credenza was a large color photograph from his football days at Mizzou. It was a telephoto shot taken an instant before the snap. In it, he towered above the crouching lineman, his breath vaporing in the chilly air, mud smeared on his arms and pants and jersey. He'd earned a reputation on the gridiron as a headhunter.

Hirsch almost smiled at the memories triggered by the helmet and the photo. He, too, had played linebacker for a college team, the Tigers, and he, too, had worn the same number on his jersey. But as McCormick often taunted back in their assistant U.S. attorney years, especially in crowded singles bars after hours, the level of competition in the Ivy League was a far cry from Saturday warfare on the gridirons of the Big Eight.

“Like tiger lilies to tigers,” he used to shout at Hirsch over the din.

Not anymore, pal,
Hirsch thought as he eyed McCormick's puffy face. But he caught himself, irritated by his own cockiness. There were, he reminded himself, far more reputable places to get in shape than the weight room of a federal penitentiary, and far more respectable workout programs then the so-called Eminem Regimen, which got its name not from the rap star or the little candies but from the disgraced junk bonds prince Michael Milkin, whose personal trainer supposedly wrote the program for his client's stay at the federal prison camp in Pleasanton. Photocopies of the program had spread throughout the federal correctional system and were posted on the gym walls of most minimum-security facilities, including Allenwood.