The Mourning Sexton (30 page)

They'd reached the order board. Rosenbloom rolled down the window, leaned toward the speaker box, and ordered them both a medium cone—a plain one for him, a chocolate dipped for Pruett. The female voice from the speaker box announced the total and told him to drive forward to the second window.

As the Cadillac moved forward, the trail car swerved out of line in a U-turn and pulled all the way around to the front of the Dairy Queen, the camera veering for a blurry shot of the cameraman's feet. From the microphone on Pruett's body came the sounds of the transaction at the drive-thru window.

The trail car followed them back to the Home Depot. The Cadillac stopped alongside Pruett's car. The trail car waited at least a hundred yards back. Even with the zoom lens, it was difficult to see what was happening inside the Cadillac.

“Here you go,” Rosenbloom said.

“It's all in the envelope?”

“Count it if you'd like.”

“No need to. I trust you.”

“Keep sending those folks, Gene. We're here to help.”

The sound of the car door opening.

“See you later, Seymour.”

Pruett watched the Cadillac drive off. Then he unlocked his car door and got in.

“I am opening the envelope now,” he said, his mouth closer to the microphone, his voice suddenly amplified. The sound of paper tearing.

“There is money inside. Looks like all fifty-dollar bills. Yep. Let's see what's here. Fifty, one hundred, one hundred fifty, two hundred, two hundred fifty—”

He counted aloud until he reached seven hundred dollars. A rustling noise, and then he started the car engine. The tape ended as he pulled out of the space.

Guttner used the remote to eject the tape and turn off the television. He removed the videocassette from the machine, turned back to the table, and slid the cassette into the large envelope.

He gazed at Hirsch as he closed the envelope and pressed down the clasps.

“Bad stuff, David.”

“You call a hundred-dollar referral fee for a Chapter Thirteen case bad stuff?” Hirsch shook his head. “Come on, Marvin. You spend far more than that every time you take one of your clients to dinner and a ball game. I read about your law firm's golf weekend for clients last fall at that resort near Tucson. What does that cost come out per case? Five grand?”

“The cost for that does not matter one iota. You are comparing apples to oranges, David, and you know it. That golf outing was a legitimate business expense, and, moreover, a perfectly proper one under the rules of professional responsibility that we all live by. The rules are the rules. I don't make them, and neither do you, but we both know that those rules prohibit your colleague's kickbacks to his chasers. If those transactions become public, he could lose his law license. He could even go to jail. Maybe the chaser fees aren't a big enough deal to interest the U.S. attorney, but think of Mel Browning.”

Browning was the county prosecutor.

Guttner said, “That ambitious twit would jump on this case like a rat in heat.”

Guttner was right, Hirsch thought. Maybe not about the criminal exposure, but certainly about the jeopardy to Seymour's law license. An all-expense-paid $5,000 golf outing with the in-house corporate counsel responsible for referring his company's legal business to your firm was proper. A hundred-dollar referral fee for a bankruptcy case was improper. The lawyer with the golf outing got lots of lucrative new legal business for his extravagant investment. The other lawyer got disbarred for his modest one. As Guttner said, the rules were the rules.

“So,” Hirsch said, “you called me here to propose a trade?”

Guttner gave him thoughtful nod. “I am prepared to agree to such a proposal.”

“The only copy of my material is in the safe-deposit box.” Hirsch gestured toward the envelope. “How do I know you won't keep an extra copy of these?”

“I suppose you will have no choice but to trust me.”

Hirsch laughed. “Not in this lifetime, Marvin. You'll have to give me an affidavit at the time we make the trade. Your affidavit has to describe exactly what you're giving me, state that you've kept no copies, and further state that you're giving the stuff to me in exchange for the materials I'm giving you.”

Guttner pursed his lips and mulled it over. “Only if you do the same concerning your materials.”

Hirsch pretended to weigh the request.

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

“How soon can we do this?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Guttner said. “You can come over here.”

“Oh, no. Never. I'll figure out a public place for us. Some place where I can feel safe. I'll call you with the meeting place.”

“Oh, come now, David. No cloak-and-dagger routines. We hardly need to go to those extremes.”

“Yes we do.” Hirsch held up his cast. “Someone's already tried to kill me for those documents, Marvin. For my own safety, I have to assume that you hired that thug. So from this point on, I only go to extremes.”

CHAPTER 47

H
e called Russ Jefferson when he got back to his office.

“Is our meeting still on?” Jefferson asked.

“Definitely. We'll have plenty to talk about. But we have to assume that someone is following me. I don't think it's wise to meet in your office, especially after my meeting with Guttner. They still believe the only copy is the one in my safe-deposit box. They're going to question that belief if they see me walking into your office.”

Jefferson mulled it over. “Do you have a credible reason to be in this building?”

“I'm in there all the time on bankruptcy matters. I was thinking maybe you could arrange for us to meet in one of the bankruptcy judge's chambers.”

“I'll call down there and see whose office we can use. I'll get back to you in a few minutes.”

Hirsch hung up.

“So?”

He turned. Rosenbloom was in his doorway.

Hirsch nodded. “Hi.”

Rosenbloom had only the vaguest idea of what he had been up to the past week. That was by design. As the hazards of the investigation had increased, so had his determination to keep Rosenbloom out of the loop. And not just Rosenbloom. He'd done the same with Dulcie and his daughter. He hoped that the less they knew the less their risk.

Rosenbloom rolled into his office. “So what did Jabba want?”

Rosenbloom knew that he'd gone to meet with Guttner. Hirsch had told him he was. He'd also told him that Guttner had called the meeting and that he didn't know why Guttner wanted to meet. All true.

But the rest of what Rosenbloom knew, or thought he knew, was vague. He knew that Hirsch had found some important documents having to do with the Peterson Tire litigation. He also knew that the discovery of those documents had placed Hirsch in danger. But those were obvious deductions from Hirsch's terse call from his cell phone on the cab ride to the hospital. He didn't know what the documents were, or where Hirsch had found them, or why Hirsch had been concerned enough to put them in his safe-deposit box. To Rosenbloom's increasing exasperation, Hirsch had refused to answer each of those questions.

He also knew that Hirsch had broken his arm and banged up his head—as did anyone who saw Hirsch's cast and bandages. He wasn't buying Hirsch's story that he'd slipped as he got out of his car in the rainstorm, but he'd been unable to wheedle anything else out of him.

And now, Hirsch thought as he looked at his pal seated in the wheelchair, he certainly didn't need to know about the affidavits and the videotape and the other things he'd learned during his meeting with Guttner.

Hirsch said, “Guttner thinks I'm still working on the case. I told him I wasn't. He doesn't believe me. He said that if he finds out I'm lying, he'll file a claim under that provision in the settlement agreement. The one that requires me to pay back part of the settlement amount.”

Rosenbloom frowned. “What makes him think you're still on the case?”

“He wouldn't say.”

“Something else is going on. Something he's not telling you.”

“Maybe.”

“You think that bastard is having you followed?”

Hirsch shrugged. “Anything's possible.”

“This is some serious shit, Samson. You got to let me back in this case. You can't keep fighting this battle alone. I can help.”

“I know you can. Let's talk later. I have to go over to the courthouse.”

“Now? For what?”

“I have a meeting with the U.S. trustee. He wants to talk about the IRS claims in a couple of our Chapter Sevens. I'll probably head home after that. We can talk tomorrow.”

“Okay. But we
have
to talk tomorrow. We're a team, Samson. You and me. Don't forget that. You're not in this alone. I can help.”

CHAPTER 48

H
irsch and the grizzly bear studied one another. Hirsch was leaning on the wood railing overlooking the bear pit. The grizzly was seated facing Hirsch, its back resting against the rock formation above the pool of water. Its companion paced back and forth along the back wall, head swaying side to side, never looking up.

The bear shifted its gaze as Guttner arrived at Hirsch's side.

“Interesting choice of venue, David.”

Hirsch glanced over at Guttner, his eyes moving down to the briefcase in the fat man's left hand. Guttner had on a dark brown suit, white shirt, tie, and polished wingtips. He could have been standing before a judge in a court instead of a grizzly in a pit. Hirsch had a briefcase as well, but he was dressed more for the location in khaki slacks and a navy turtleneck.

A teacher ushered a class of elementary school children past them toward the polar bear pit. “This way, children. Over here. No pushing, Kevin. Hurry up, Lisa.”

The kids chattered and laughed as she directed them toward the viewing area.

The zoo was a good choice for a Friday morning in late April. As he'd hoped, it was mostly empty. Other than a few groups of schoolchildren on field trips and a smattering of mothers and nannies pushing strollers, the usual zoo crowds, the ones that packed the place on spring weekends, were in school or at work or out running errands.

He turned to Guttner. “I'll need to see your affidavit before I give you the documents.”

“Right here? In the open?”

Hirsch reached into his front pocket and pulled out two tickets. “On the train.”

He gestured toward the main train station, which was beyond the bear pits near the entrance.

Guttner looked incredulous. “You actually want to accomplish this exchange on the zoo train?”

“We'll have plenty of privacy. No one rides it weekday mornings. We can exchange affidavits as the train passes through the woods beyond the children's zoo. If the affidavits are acceptable, we can trade the materials when we pass through the long tunnel after Big Cat Country. Let's go. I want to get this over with.”

Waiting in the station was a zoo train, a miniature steam locomotive and three passenger cars. Each car consisted of several rows of bench seats beneath a canopy roof. Hirsch and Guttner climbed aboard and sat along one of the middle benches in the second car. Despite Guttner's bulk, the bench was wide enough for them both plus room in the middle for their briefcases.

Although Guttner seemed displeased by the prospect of a train exchange, he didn't seem suspicious. That's what Hirsch had hoped for. Among several possible exchange sites, he'd selected the zoo train on the assumption that Guttner was not a regular. He'd confirmed that the man's two children were teenagers and that he was not a member of any zoo board or committee. That meant it was unlikely that Guttner would know that the principal reason the zoo train was empty that morning was because it didn't run at that time of day during that time of the year. Nor was he likely to know that the man seated at the controls of the miniature locomotive was at least three decades younger than the usual zoo train engineers. Nor was he likely to know that the engineer himself normally took the passenger's tickets, and not the athletic young man in the conductor outfit.

The engineer blew the whistle twice, and the train pulled out of the station.

They sat in silence as the train clattered past the bear pits at maybe fifteen miles an hour. Several of the schoolchildren turned to watch. A few waved. Behind the children, one of the polar bears jumped into the water with a loud splash.

The train pulled into the little station near the children's zoo area. No one got off. No one got on. Two whistle blasts, and the train pulled out of the station.

The tracks curved around the children's zoo on trestles over the water and then entered the woods.

Hirsch said, “Let me have your affidavit.”

Guttner gave him two stapled sheets of bond paper. “Let me see yours.”

Hirsch unsnapped his briefcase and handed Guttner his six-page affidavit. He'd been careful to make sure that the description of the documents in his affidavit was detailed enough to eliminate any doubt as to Guttner's state of mind at the time he would receive the documents themselves. Moreover, he'd made sure that the description would leave Guttner with no doubt that Hirsch had figured out the entire scheme. Among other things, his affidavit stated that the materials he'd found in the safe atop the Civil Courts Building consisted of (a) monthly status reports from Guttner's law firm to the chief financial officer of Peterson Tire Corporation summarizing for each resolved case the plaintiff's demand and the actual amount awarded, and (b) corresponding wire transfer records in which Peterson Tire instructed its bank to transfer specified sums of money to an account for Felis Tigris LVII at the Hamilton Bank & Trust Limited in Bermuda. (His bank had matched the Swift number with the Hamilton Bank & Trust, which was the one on Victoria Street.) His affidavit further stated that each wire transfer equaled fifteen percent of the difference between the amount actually awarded and ninety percent of the plaintiff's demand.

He watched Guttner as he read that page of the affidavit. No change of expression.

Guttner's affidavit was much shorter. Just three one-sentence paragraphs that identified the videotape and the two affidavits plus a final paragraph stating that Guttner was turning over the originals of each and had “personally destroyed all extant copies of same to the best of his information and belief.”

Hirsch's affidavit was somewhat vague on the subject of copies. The final paragraph stated only that “I will turn over the originals of the documents to Mr. Guttner and will not retain a copy of them.” Nevertheless, that appeared to be sufficient to Guttner, who nodded and dropped Hirsch's affidavit into his briefcase.

The train had now entered the River's Edge section of the zoo. The still air was punctuated by an exotic bird call, followed by a monkey's shriek. Hirsch looked up from his briefcase. A pair of black rhinos stood motionless in front of a waterfall. Two hippos paddled across a small river.

The train slowed as it arrived at the station near the south entrance to the zoo. Up ahead was a waterfall and pool of water. Hirsch had memorized the railroad map. He knew the tracks looped behind the waterfall and into the first tunnel.

“Not this one,” he told Guttner as the locomotive entered the tunnel. “Too short. The third tunnel is the longest one. That's the one we'll use.”

They emerged from the tunnel. The tracks curved to the right along the pool of water and then looped into the woods behind the reptile and monkey houses. New leaves were on all the trees. A cardinal zipped by overhead and landed on a branch to the right. Hirsch looked back at the bird surrounded by green leaves. He stared at that red focal point, which grew smaller by the second, as he tried to maintain control of his emotions, of his anxiety.

He glanced over at Guttner, whose expression mainly evinced irritation and impatience. The man was oblivious to what lay just ahead.

“Not this one,” Hirsch said as the train entered the tunnel behind the monkey house.

The train began to slow as it came to the end of the short tunnel and emerged into the light at the next train station. They were in the Big Cat Country now. In the grassy enclosure to their right, a large Bengal tiger was walking directly toward them. Somewhere beyond the tiger, a lion roared. The tiger turned as it reached the fence and strolled on past, ignoring them.

Felis tigris,
Hirsch thought.

Four passengers boarded the train—three men and a woman. Two of the men took seats in the forward car. The other man and the woman took seats in the rear car. Guttner had his briefcase on his lap now. He was drumming the fingers of his right hand on the leather of his briefcase.

Two whistle blasts from the locomotive.

Guttner looked at Hirsch.

Hirsch nodded and unsnapped his briefcase.

“Get ready,” he said. “We'll do the exchange as soon we enter the tunnel.”

Guttner unclasped his briefcase.

The train started forward. As they entered the darkness of the third tunnel, Hirsch handed his package to Guttner, and Guttner handed his package to Hirsch. Each man closed his briefcase and straightened in his seat.

The tunnel was several hundred feet long. Hirsch peered into the darkness, watching, waiting. They passed a closed door on the right, then one on the left. The two men in the front car were looking back now. Hirsch glanced back, too. The tunnel entrance was no longer visible behind them.

The train began to slow down.

“What the hell?” Guttner muttered.

Hirsch turned forward. A man was standing in the middle of the tracks up ahead. He waved a powerful flashlight back and forth.

The train came to a stop, the engine rumbling.

“This is ridiculous,” Guttner said.

The man with the flashlight started toward them. The beam illuminated a narrow pathway along the side of the track. As he drew near, three other men stepped out from the wall of the tunnel behind him and fell into line. Hirsch could hear the two passengers in the rear car getting off the train.

As the four got closer, details began emerging from the dark.

The man in front was wearing a suit. The three men behind him were in dark windbreakers.

The man in front was black. The three behind him were white.

The man in front was the United States Attorney for the Eastern District of Missouri. The three men behind him had yellow FBI logos on the fronts of their windbreakers.

Russell Jefferson stopped on Guttner's side of the car. The three FBI agents arrayed themselves behind him, joined now by the two men from the first car. The man and woman from the rear car took up positions on the other side of the car.

“What is the meaning of this?” Guttner said.

“Mr. Guttner, my name is Russell Jefferson and I work for the United States government. I have a warrant here for your arrest. These gentlemen and this lady are special agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. They are here with me this morning to take you into custody, sir.”

“On what grounds?” Guttner demanded.

“On myriad grounds, sir.” Jefferson enunciated each word clearly.

Hirsch climbed down from the train as Jefferson continued.

“My office has filed a criminal complaint against you, sir, and it sets forth more than one hundred counts. Those counts include bribery of a public official, obstruction of justice, conspiracy, mail fraud, wire fraud, bank fraud, and violation of the Racketeer-Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. The list goes on and on, sir. Now would you please step down from the train?”

One of the FBI agents stepped forward and grasped Guttner by the arm. “Let's go.”

Guttner pulled back. “Wait a minute. You have made a terri—”

“Move it,” the agent commanded and pulled him forward.

As Guttner lumbered down off the train, two agents stepped forward, pulled his arms together in back, and snapped a pair of handcuffs around his wrists.

Guttner was furious. “This is an outrage. Do you have any idea who you—”

Jefferson held up his hand. “I realize you are an attorney, Mr. Guttner, but I must remind you that you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have—”

Guttner spun toward Hirsch, his face contorted by hatred and panic. “You miserable prick.”

Hirsch gazed at him calmly. “Some free advice, Marvin. If you end up there, watch out for the second showerhead on the left. The hot water cuts out.”

Guttner stared at him. “What? End up where?”

“Allenwood.”

Guttner tried to reclaim his arrogance, and he almost succeeded. But not quite. And the collapse was fast and it was ugly.

Russ Jefferson had paused to allow Guttner to go ahead of him into the long passageway through the wall of the zoo railroad tunnel. Without even acknowledging Jefferson's presence, Guttner stepped through the entrance as haughty as a Roman emperor. With his entourage of federal law enforcement agents—half ahead of him, the other half behind—the only missing props were the toga, sandals, and garland of myrtle.

But the facade began splintering as they moved farther down the passageway. The first sign was the cursing. Under his breath, barely audible.

“Son of a bitch . . . double-crossing prick . . . bankruptcy scumbag.”

The rage and the volume kept building.

“Fucking bastard . . . Going to set me up, huh? . . . Protect that cripple and try to screw me? In your dreams, asshole . . . I'll nail your fucking kike ass to the fucking wall you fucking motherfucker.”

He spun around, craning his head, trying the find Hirsch in the crowded passage, his face flushed and beaded with sweat.

“You hear me, you slimy Jew bastard?! You want me—”

One of the federal agents yanked him around and shoved him forward. “Shut up and keep moving.”

By the time they reached the end off the passageway, Guttner was moaning.