Played! Page 8

  Herschel Goldman also happens to be Uncle Heschie to Milton’s wife, Peggy. He’s Peggy’s mother’s older brother. His law practice consists of a hodgepodge of criminal and civil cases—everything from felonies to fender-benders, from DUIs to divorces—all conducted out of a second-floor office above Mound City Pawn Shop on North Jefferson Avenue.

  But don’t get fooled by the surroundings or the clients or those cheesy television commercials. The namesake of the Law Office of Herschel P. Goldman, P.C. graduated at the top of his law school class at St. Louis University, back when none of the big firms in town hired Jews. That was fine by him. As his proud father, Moishe, alav ha shalom, used to tell his buddies (aka the alter kockers) at the Kiddush after Shabbat services at Bais Abraham Synagogue, “That boy of mine, Herschel, he’s not only got seykhel but a real Yidisher kop.” Or, as the managing partner of the largest insurance defense firm in town said two days ago, when his paralegal brought him a copy of a new lawsuit filed against one of his clients and he flipped to the signature block on the last page of the pleading, “Oh, shit. Not him again.”

  On this weekday morning, the Gold Man looks up from the papers on his desk and smiles.

  “Ah, Miltie,” he says with just a hint of a sing-song Yiddish accent, gesturing with the other hand toward the chair in front of his desk. “Sit, boychik.”

  Milton sits.

  “Nu?” Herschel twirls one end of his handlebar mustache. “What can I do for my nephew-in-law?”

  “I need a good investigator.”

  Herschel nods. “Okay. Define good.”

  “Reputable, dependable, solid credentials, access to a lab.”

  “You need reputable, eh?”

  “Definitely. I may need him to testify.”

  Herschel twists his mustache as he mulls it over. “Reputable.”

  He turns toward the credenza and begins flipping through his huge, circular Rolodex. “Reputable…reputable…ah, here we are.”

  He removes a card from the Rolodex and turns back toward Milton.

  “I have your man, Miltie.” He hands the card to Milton. “Fred Butz. B-U-T-Z.I don’t always need reputable, but when I do, Butz is my man.”

  Milton studies the card. “Who is he?”

  “President and sole employee of Butz Investigations.”

  Milton raises his eyebrows. “Sounds like a proctologist.”

  “An old joke, Miltie. Poor Fred’s heard it at least a million times, maybe more. However infelicitous his name may be, Fred Butz has impressive credentials. A genuine maven, I kid you not. A former FBI special agent with a master’s degree in chemistry. Does his own lab work. Very reliable. What kind of case?”

  “Criminal.”

  “White collar?”

  “No. Murder and kidnapping.”

  “Oy.” Herschel winces. “Your poor brother? You’re representing him?”

  “For now.”

  “Leonard Pitt’s wife, eh?”

  “I know. I’m suing him. We got a judge to freeze his assets.”

  “That was you, eh? Good for you. Couldn’t happen to a more deserving fellow than Pitt. That man is a real mamzer.”

  “There’s a hearing on the case later this morning. He’s retained new lawyers, too.”

  “Who was his lawyer before?”

  “Sam Budgah.”

  Herschel raises his eyebrows. “Sam? Really?”

  “Not anymore. He has a team of litigators from Warren and London, a big Chicago firm. They filed more than one hundred pages of motion papers.”

  “Seeking what?”

  “To get the injunction lifted. Pitt is putting up a three-million-dollar bond as security.”

  “Are you ready for the hearing?”

  Milton winces and shakes his head. “I’m off the case.”

  “What? You won the first round for them. Why off?”

  “My brother’s situation. The firm has put me on paid leave until his case is over. They’re not real keen on their lawyers getting involved in a criminal defense matter.”

  “Ach, those wimps. That’s pathetic. Well, Miltie, if you need a place to hang your hat until your leave is over, I have an empty office down the hall. You’re welcome to it.”

  “Thanks, Herschel. That is quite kind of you.”

  “Kind shmind—you’re married to my favorite niece. It’s the least I can do.”

  Herschel opens the humidor on his desk and looks over at Milton. “A cigar?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Milton watches as Herschel snips off the end of the cigar, slides the ashtray in front of him, lights a match, uses it to light the cigar, and take a puff.

  “So, Miltie, tell me about your little brother. The case against him. I’ve been so busy I haven’t kept up with news.”

  Milton tells him what he knows so far.

  Herschel leans back in his chair, cigar in his mouth, and shakes his head. “Oy, your brother. That is some bad evidence.”

  “That’s why I need a good investigator. The detective on the case agreed to let me see the motel room tomorrow. If we find a clue out there, I don’t want some prosecutor to suggest that I planted it.”

  “And what makes you think there’s a clue out there?”

  “Because I know a few things about the killer already: he’s a pervert and he’s stupid.”

  “Stupid? Well, let’s face it: your brother is not exactly an Oxford don. But you say also a pervert? How do you know that?”

  “He apparently masturbated onto her, or maybe he got her to give him a blow-job, and then after he shot her he put out his cigarette on one of her breasts.”

  Herschel raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Oy gevalt. I’d call that compelling evidence of perversion.”

  “And he left that cigarette ash on her stomach. That makes him stupid. If he’s stupid enough to leave a clue literally on his victim, he’s stupid enough to leave some other clue out there.”

  ***

  An hour later, Milton and his brother, Hal, are in the small attorney-client room at the St. Louis County Jail.

  “I’m going out there tomorrow,” Milton says.

  Hal nods dully, looking down at the table.

  “You’ve got to try to remember everything, Hal. Keep searching your memory. Something helpful is going to pop up.”

  Hal looks up at his brother. “You know the worst part?”

  “What?”

  “To have her treat me like a moron. To use me like that.”

  “This is the worst part, Hal. Forget about that woman.

  “She set me up, Bro. No, even worse, she had me set myself up.” He shakes his head. “What a schmuck.”

  “She’s dead, Hal, and you should be glad. I sure am. She was going to kill you on Friday, whether he transferred the money or not. She planted those clues to make you look like the kidnapper. That way she could claim self-defense when she shot you. If someone hadn’t killed her, she would have killed you.”

  Hal sighs. “Still.”

  “Here’s our problem. She’s dead, but her evidence isn’t. That evidence put you in jail, and we’re going to have to overcome that evidence to win. Her killer got into her room without having to force the lock. Who was he? Maybe she had a partner who double-crossed her. Whatever, you may have seen a piece of that evidence without realizing it. You’ve got to try to remember everything.

  Hal shrugs. “Okay.”

  Milton studies his brother. “I know it’s tough, Hal. I’m going to try to get you out of here. I have that bail hearing on Friday. It’s an uphill battle, but I promise I’ll give it my all.”

  “Thanks, Milton.” There are tears in Hal’s eyes. “You are so awesome.”

  Despite himself, Milton smiles

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The mood
is somber this morning inside the chambers of the Honorable Roy L. Stubbs, United States District Judge for the Eastern District of Missouri. As His Honor slowly leafs through the stack of motion papers, his court clerk, Rahsan Abdullah Ahmed, and his law clerk, Norman Feigelberg, sit quietly on chairs facing the desk.

  Judge Stubbs looks up from the papers. “It doesn’t make sense, Rahsan.” He shakes his head. “He could have told us about the kidnapping—about the ransom note.”

  Rahsan says nothing.

  “According the newspaper,” Norman says, “Mr. Pitt was afraid she’d be killed if he told anyone.”

  “She was killed anyway.” Judge Stubbs gestures toward the motion papers. “And now this. A three-million-dollar bond as security to vacate the injunction. I suppose I should grant it. What about this other motion?” He lifts up the court papers. “The class action motion. Who are the members of that class?”

  “Leonard Pitt’s clients,” Norman says. “The ones he ripped off with those fake checks.”

  “And the motion? It seeks to consolidate the class action case with the original case. Is that something I can do?”

  “I read the court decisions she cites,” Norman says. “It’s all good law. You could grant it—or, if you want, you could defer a ruling until Judge Weinstock gets back from vacation. It’s his case, after all.”

  The judge places that motion on top of the other court filings, stares at the pile, and then takes a deep breath.

  “Okay.” He pushed back from the desk. “Let’s roll.”

  All three stand. Norman is first out the door. Rahsan lingers by the door as the judge dons his black robe.

  “You okay, Judge?”

  “I suppose.” Judge Stubbs buttons up his robe. “I just keep wondering, Rahsan, asking myself whether we got played here. I’ve tried to run the traps on this one, but it doesn’t make sense. What do you think?”

  Rahsan studies his judge. After a moment, he says, “Based on the law and the evidence, Yo’ Honor, you done the right thing. No one can blame you for anything but doing what you been appointed to do, which is to do justice based on the law and the facts, and you done just that here.”

  Judge Stubbs sighs. “Yeah, maybe.”

  ***

  As Rahsan steps into the reception area, Norman is waiting with a big grin.

  Rahsan sighs and shakes his head. “Now what?”

  “The class action lawyer is out in the courtroom. Have you seen her?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Oh, my God. That girl is hot, Rahsan.”

  “You talkin’ ’bout Ms. Rachel Gold?”

  “You betcha.”

  “First off, Norman. She ain’t no girl. That lady is a woman. Second off, Norman, Rachel Gold ’bout as smart and tough as they come—probably smarter and tougher than them fancy Chicago lawyers Pitt brought into this case. So my advice to you is don’t even be thinking of messin’ with her. She about ten levels above your pay grade.”

  ***

  The front half of the hearing goes about as expected. Pitt’s new lawyers present their motion to lift the injunction, speak movingly of their client’s grief as he prepares to bury his beloved wife, and hand Rahsan the three-million-dollar bond their client has put up as security for the insurance company’s claims.

  Lawrence Armstrong, the Abbott & Windsor senior partner standing in for Milton Bernstein, folds his arms over his stomach, tries to make a sad face, offers his sympathies to Mr. Pitt, and tells the judge this his client has agreed to the posting of the bond in lieu of the injunction.

  Judge Stubbs nods, grants the motion, and asks his court clerk to call the next case, which is the class action filed against Mid-Continent Casualty Insurance Company and Leonard Pitt’s law firm.

  As Rachel Gold steps to the podium, we appreciate Norman Feigelberg’s rapture. She is tall and slender and beautiful, with dark curly hair and striking Mediterranean features. Her elegant black pantsuit and low heels highlight her athletic figure. She states her name for the record and briefly describes her motion. Her clients comprise the class of former clients of Leonard Pitt who were tricked into settling their claims for thousands of dollars less than the insurance company had agreed to pay in settlement.

  When she finishes, Judge Stubbs turns first to the new lawyers for Leonard Pitt. “Any objection, Counselors?”

  The three attorneys briefly confer, and then the lead attorney steps back to the podium. “No objection, Your Honor.”

  Judge Stubbs turns to Lawrence Armstrong. “What about you, Mr. Armstrong? What is the position of Mid-Continent Casualty Insurance Company?”

  Armstrong looks over Rachel Gold and shakes his head, doing his best to channel a disappointed middle school principal. “Judge, my client most certainly objects to this greedy and unprecedented intrusion into its case. This is our claim against Mr. Pitt. We are the plaintiff here. If Miss Gold had simply sued Mr. Pitt, we might have been able to abide by consolidation as long she understood that she and her clients needed to get in line behind us. We were here first. But Miss Gold has sued not only Mr. Pitt but my client as well. I am, to put it mildly, shocked. Shocked. There is no justification for bringing any claim against Mid-Continent Casualty. We are the victim of this outrageous fraud, not the perpetrator. If Miss Gold wants to scurry back to her office and revise her lawsuit to delete my client, then perhaps we’d have something to talk about. But until then, there’s no excuse for this bold money grab.”

  Judge Stubbs purses his lips in thought, looks down at the motion papers, and then turns to Rachel Gold. “Counselor, do you wish to respond?”

  Rachel Gold smiles, unruffled. “I do, Your Honor. While I appreciate Mr. Armstrong’s effort to make us all shed crocodile tears for his sad little multi-billion-dollar insurance company, I remind the Court—and Mr. Armstrong—that every single settlement check his client wrote to Mr. Pitt was for an amount that his client had deemed, after its own due diligence, to be a reasonable and proper settlement amount. If Mr. Pitt hadn’t defrauded my clients by misrepresenting to them the actual amounts of those settlement checks, none of us would be here today. But, as we have learned, Mr. Pitt took those settlement checks—checks in amounts that the insurance company was comfortable writing—and skimmed off some of that money for himself. My clients, Your Honor, are the real victims here. The only victims. They are owed thousands and thousands of dollars, while Mid-Continent is not owed a penny. Zero. And, frankly, if Mr. Armstrong’s insurance company had acted with more due diligence early on, it would have uncovered this scam years ago and thus prevented this harm to my clients. But as a direct result of the insurance company’s complacency, my clients were damaged. And that, Your Honor, is why we named Mid-Continent as a defendant in our case, and that, Your Honor, is also why these two cases need to be consolidated. Thank you, Judge.”

  She steps back from the podium and nods at Lawrence Armstrong, whose face has turned beet red.

  Judge Stubbs leans back in his chair, gavel in hand, and glances over at Rahsan, whose face remains expressionless, at least to the rest of us. After a pause, Judge Stubbs leans forward, bangs his gavel, and announces. “Ms. Gold’s motion is granted. That will be all. Court is in recess.”

  And Rahsan commands, “All rise!”

  Stage 3: The Leg Lift

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Up on the second-floor landing of the Sleepy Time Motel a uniformed cop is seated on a metal chair outside Room 205. Strips of yellow Crime Scene tape form an uneven “X” on the door. The cop stands as Milton Bernstein and Fred Butz approach.

  Butz is an unimposing fellow in his sixties—more CPA than former FBI. Skinny, average height, gray crew cut, thick wire-rim glasses, white short-sleeved dress shirt, thin black tie, tan slacks belted high on the waist, thick-soled brown shoes. He is lugging a large black briefcase.

  The cop turns towa
rd Milton. “You Bernstein’s lawyer?”

  “That is, indeed, correct. This is Mr. Butz, my investigator.”

  The cop raps on the door. “They’re here, Detective.”

  Bernie Moran opens the door. He hasn’t shaved since yesterday.

  He nods at Milton. “Counselor.”

  He turns toward Butz. “How’s it hanging, Freddie?”

  Butz gives Moran a thin smile. “Hello, Bernard.”

  Moran gestures toward the room. “Come on in, boys.”

  They follow Moran into the motel room.

  The final position of the body is outlined in white tape on the bare mattress. The head and neck portion of the outline are stained reddish-brown.

  Twenty minutes later, Milton is leaning against the wall and checking his e-mails on his cell phone. Butz is on his hands and knees, moving slowly around the room with a penlight, a pair of tweezers and a magnifying glass. He stops, picks something up with the tweezers, drops it in a specimen jar, and moves on. There are little jars on the carpet all around the room.

  Moran walks out of the bathroom. “Our guy says she was shot by the bed and then dragged onto it to die.”

  Butz looks up with a frown. “She was kneeling when she was shot.”

  A few moments later, Butz is on his knees peering under the nightstand with his penlight. Milton comes over and kneels beside him.

  “What is it?” he asks.

  Butz is under the nightstand brushing something into his specimen jar. “I’m not sure.”

  He backs out, holds the jar up, and shines the light on it. Moran joins them as well. Inside the jar are a dozen or so white particles, including a couple little curlicues.

  “What the fuck?” Moran says.

  “Wallboard,” Butz replies.

  All three of them look at the wall.