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  “For all four?”

  “To varying degrees, yes. Moreover, I have come across no material that would eliminate any of them.”

  I walked over to where he was seated. He was studying the expense reports for one of the attorneys—paging through the three-inch stack, one page at a time.

  “I want to review these, too,” I said. “I’ll pick up the box this weekend.”

  “In addition,” Stanley said, not looking up. “You should ask Mr. Flynn for printouts of the cardkey records for the garage walkway for the two week-period prior to Ms. Bashir’s death.”

  “You mean the records for people leaving the building after seven at night?”

  “Those would be the only records that exist. As you will recall, you do not need to use your cardkey before seven.”

  I smiled. “Yes, Stanley. And why do we want those records?”

  “Patterns.”

  “What kind of patterns?”

  Stanley looked up and then back down at the expense report in his hand. “We won’t know what kind unless and until we find one.”

  “Rachel, dear.”

  I turned as Stanley’s mom entered the den with a plate of kamishbroidt in one hand and a steaming mug of coffee in the other.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The three-minute video announcing the firm’s tribute project had been created with high production values and a keen awareness of its likely broader audience. Within a day of its release inside the firm, word of its existence had shown up on various internet legal gossip sites, including the Wall Street Journal Law Blog and AboveTheLaw.com. By the end of the week, the video was on YouTube.

  The following Monday, our project was the subject of a piece in the online version of the National Law Journal, which included a sidebar on the contrasts between the firm’s two name partners—a contrast, the author noted, that went far beyond their physical appearance. The tall, gaunt Warner specialized in international corporate finance and tax. The handsome ex-quarterback Olsen specialized in lawsuits that garnered press coverage, including two that had landed him on Larry King Live. Donald Warner had worked in the Commerce Department during the first Bush Administration, was good friends with former U.S. Attorney General John Ashcroft, and had become a force within the Missouri Republican Party. By contrast, Len Olsen was an influential fundraiser for the Missouri Democratic Party, an occasional golf partner of Bill Clinton, and a guest at the Obama White House. Warner had married his high school sweetheart, was the father of six children, and was an active member of his church. Len Olsen, “thrice divorced, currently dates a St. Louis Rams cheerleader.” The reporter even nailed the small contrasts: “While Warner’s one grudging concession to casual Fridays is a blue Oxford shirt instead of the usual white one with his suit and tie, Olsen dons faded jeans and Nikes each Friday, and during the summer months sports a polo shirt.”

  I should have seen it coming. The first consequence of the media attention was the hiring of a professional videographer. I had assumed that the tribute would be a homemade project filmed with a video camera borrowed from someone at the firm. Instead, as Dick Neeler told me in an excited phone call, the executive committee had authorized the hiring of Sam Tilden, a videographer with Mound City Court Reporting. I knew Sam. Ironically enough, he’d been the videographer for my last deposition of Dr. Mason.

  When I passed along the videographer news to Jerry and Stanley, Stanley’s only comment was that Samuel Tilden lost by one Electoral College vote to Rutherford Hayes in the Presidential election of 1876.

  The second unexpected development was Harry Hanratty. Again, I had assumed that someone at the firm—perhaps one of the trial lawyers with a polished delivery—would conduct the interviews and narrate the video. Instead, the firm hired Harry Hanratty, the longtime anchor for the Ten O’clock News on the local CBS affiliate. Although Hanratty had been retired for almost a decade, he was still known around town as the Walter Cronkite of St. Louis news. With his flushed cheeks, pug nose, toothy smile, and completely bald head, he was immediately recognizable at his favorite bars, restaurants, and nightspots, and he still got stopped in the aisles for handshakes and autographs at Cardinals, Rams, and Blues games.

  Len Olsen was apparently the firm’s connection to Hanratty. According to Dick Neeler, the two men were part of a group of well-connected fishing and hunting buddies who made a semi-annual trip to Jackson Hole.

  Judging from Stanley’s muted reaction, no Hanratty had ever garnered a single Electoral College vote. However, I was concerned by the unexpected injection of a professional journalist into the project—and especially one who had come of age during an era when investigative reporting was a component of local television news. I made a few phone calls, though, and discovered, to my relief, that the seventy-one-year-old Hanratty’s top three interests in life were young women, single-malt Scotch, and blackjack, all three of which he pursued several nights a week at the area casinos.

  Indeed, as was apparent during our first meeting with Hanratty in a conference room at Warner & Olsen—a meeting that included Dick Neeler, Sam Tilden, Len Olsen, Jerry Klunger, and myself—the Walter Cronkite of St. Louis had no interest in the subject of the tribute and no desire to do anything besides read a script prepared by others.

  “Folks,” he said in that familiar deep, gravelly voice, “I’m here to read words and collect my stake for the blackjack table. Took me half a century to figure out that the two greatest pleasures in life are old Glenfiddich and young ladies. Nice coincidence there, too. Both are at their peak in their twenties.” He turned to me with a wink. “Present company excluded, Counselor. You are one fine specimen of a woman. My heavens. Anyway, as I was saying, I will keep my focus on those two great pleasures in life and leave you fine folks to worry about the rest.”

  Chapter Twenty

  And so we did.

  Although the executive committee had designated Dick Neeler as the producer of the video, he told me after the meeting with Hanratty that he would defer to me on most matters, including scheduling interviews and creating interview scripts for Hanratty, so long as he got the producer credit on the video.

  That was good news. To the extent that I hoped to obtain any useful information in the interviews of the four attorney suspects, we needed to be able to include in their interview scripts certain questions that were important to our efforts but that might not seem directly related to that attorney’s dealings with Sari.

  I knew in advance that I couldn’t be the onsite director for the interviews. After all, I had clients to counsel and cases to prepare. Fortunately, I was able to convince Neeler that Jerry Klunger could attend the filming in my absence. And as a precautionary backup measure, I called Sam Tilden the night before the first interview and told him to keep recording for several minutes after the conclusion of the interview. He didn’t need to actually move the camera around, I told him. I just wanted to be able to hear any post-interview comments or conversations.

  “Just in case,” I explained, “we hear something that we might want to include in the video.”

  The first two interviews—conducted by remote with the subjects seated in a conference room in the Dykma Gosset law firm in Detroit—were of Sari’s father and her aunt Rijja, who was the sister of Sari’s deceased mother. Jerry sat in the Warner & Olsen conference room as Hanratty conducted the interviews over the air.

  “Nice job, sir,” the videographer Tilden said to Hanratty when the second interview ended and video feed from Detroit went dark.

  As instructed, Tilden kept recording.

  “Son of a bitch,” Hanratty said. “Nobody told me I’d be interviewing ragheads. Missed our chance, boys. Could have asked them about the damn Taliban.”

  The next two interviews took place at Washington University, with Benny supervising. The first was Dean Hamilton, who essentially repeated his eulogy. It was moving footage, thou
gh, and would fit nicely within the video. The other interview was of Martha Eastman, a professor of environmental law who spoke poignantly of Sari’s involvement with the school’s environmental clinic and her commitment to that cause. I had tears in my eyes when that interview ended.

  I had written the scripts for those first four interviews, which Stanley reviewed but made no edits. Stanley prepared the initial drafts of the final eleven scripts—which included nine attorneys, one secretary, and Jerry Klunger. I translated them into conversational English—not Stanley’s strong suit—and added questions that actually had relevance to a tribute video.

  Missing from the list of interviewees was Stanley Plotkin. I asked him if he wanted to be included.

  “I share Mr. Olsen’s opinion, Ms. Gold.”

  His words made me wince. Toward the end of our initial meeting with Hanratty, Len Olsen—who had attended primarily to introduce Hanratty—had called Neeler and me aside.

  “Jerry will be a fine spokesperson for our mailroom staff,” he said. “His empathy will come through in the interview.”

  He had smiled and nodded toward Jerry.

  Then he leaned in and lowered his voice. “But we need to guard the tone of the video. Nothing jarring. I refer to Stanley. If he insists on an interview, so be it, but I urge you not to include him in the final cut.”

  I had assumed that Stanley would not want to be interviewed and had asked him only to be polite. But Stanley’s response made me realize that Jerry must have overheard what Olsen said to Neeler and me. That would have upset Jerry, and Stanley would have detected that emotion. He must have pried the information out of Jerry.

  “I don’t care what Olsen said,” I told Stanley. “You knew Sari. If you’d like to be interviewed on camera, we’ll do it.”

  Stanley didn’t respond.

  ***

  The first of the firm interviewees was Brenda Muskie, Sari’s sixty-two-year-old secretary. Brenda broke down several times during the interview as she described Sari’s good manners, respect, and work ethic.

  “She worked so hard,” Brenda said, dabbing her cheek with a handkerchief. “I would come in some mornings and could tell from the pile of papers on my desk that the poor dear had been there until midnight. She would apologize for all the work she gave me, but I told her again and again that I was honored to be able to help.” Her lips quivered. “Oh, my goodness, she was such a gentle soul.”

  After Brenda left the room, Hanratty said, “We nailed that one, boys. Won’t be a dry eye in the house.”

  The second law firm interview was Rebecca Hamel, a second-year associate that Sari had mentored. She, too, spoke beautifully of Sari’s graciousness and commitment, of the long lunch hours they had spent together as Sari coached her in the basics of life in a big law firm.

  The physical contrast between Sari and Rebecca added an unspoken element of poignancy to Rebecca’s description of their close relationship. Sari was the elegant Middle East princess—slender, olive skin, dark eyes, strong nose, black hair. Rebecca was the Midwest state fair beauty queen—tall, blond, leggy, piercing blue eyes. But not the cheerleader version. There was nothing giggly or effusive about Rebecca Hamel. Like Sari, she had a reserved air, but while Sari’s was deferential, Rebecca’s was cool and controlled. This was one woman you didn’t want to mess with. That became clear when the camera went dark and Hanratty metamorphosed into the old lecher in a singles bar, even asking Rebecca what her sign was. He dropped the names of a few local VIPs he knew and then tried to get her phone number. I could hear the steel in her voice as she declined his request.

  I smiled. My kind of woman.

  After she left, Hanratty chuckled. “That is one fine piece of ass.”

  There was a Snap! sound.

  “Christ Almighty,” Hanratty said, “what the hell happened to your shirt, big guy?”

  “Uh,” a flustered Jerry said, “my pen broke.”

  “Damn, son,” Hanratty said, “you got ink all over the front of your shirt.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I would later learn that Jerry had snapped his pen in anger after Hanratty’s piece-of-ass observation.

  Harnratty said, “So is that a wrap for today?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jerry said. “We start tomorrow at one o’clock.”

  “Another pretty gal, I hope?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Who’s up next?”

  “Mr. Teever,” Jerry said.

  “Teether?”

  “Teever, sir. Mr. Brian Teever.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “A partner, sir.”

  “Trial lawyer?”

  “No, sir. He is in Trusts and Estates.”

  “Did he draft her will?”

  “No, sir. I think Miss Bashir worked with him on estate planning matters.”

  “Okay. See you tomorrow, big guy. You, too, Sammy.”

  After I turned off the TV, I made a note to follow up with Rebecca.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Benny picked up Jerry and Stanley on his way to my office that Saturday. They arrived at quarter to ten. My son Sam’s religious school class at the synagogue ran from 9:30 until 11, so we had enough time before I needed to pick him up.

  The four of us gathered in my conference room to watch the uncut video of the Brian Teever interview, which had been filmed the prior day. I loaded the DVD into the system, pointing the remote toward the screen, and turned to Stanley.

  “Ready?”

  He stared at the screen. “Proceed.”

  I pressed PLAY.

  The blank screen flickered and resolved into a shot of Brian Teever from the waist up. He was seated on a leather couch in his office. Behind him on the wall were framed diplomas and certificates and photographs of Teever posed with various noteworthies. Per my instructions, Sam Tilden had started filming before the official start of the interview. Teever was fiddling with the tiny clip-on microphone, which he was trying to fasten to the lapel on the suit jacket. Off camera, Harry Hanratty sounded as if he were talking to someone on his cell phone.

  Tony Manghini had described Brian Teever as Central Casting’s answer to a call for a Big Law senior partner. The description fit: the silver hair, the strong chin, the golf course tan, the gray pinstriped Brooks Brothers suit, the navy-and-red repp tie, the gold cufflinks.

  Teever got the clip-on mike fastened and looked up toward the camera with a slight frown. After a moment, he cleared his throat, a hint of impatience in his expression. Hanratty seemed to get the hint, because he abruptly ended his cell phone conversation.

  “Okey-dokey,” Hanratty said offscreen. “Let’s get this show rolling. Sam, how we doing?”

  “All I need is a sound check,” said the offscreen voice of the videographer.

  “That’s your cue, Brian,” Hanratty said.

  Teever’s focus moved slightly to the right, indicating that Hanratty was seated next to the videographer.

  “Give ol’ Sam here a testing-one-two-three. He needs to make sure you’re coming in loud and clear.”

  Teever straightened his tie and cleared his throat. “Testing, one, two, three.”

  “That’s good,” the videographer said offscreen.

  “Brian,” Hanratty said, offscreen, “we’re going start this in just a minute or two. The goal here is to give the viewer a little sense of your feel for Miss Bashir.” Hanratty chuckled. “Not literally, of course.”

  Teever didn’t smile.

  But I did. With the exception of the most senior of partners in the firm, apparently no one called Teever by his first name. From what I’d gleaned, at the law firm he was strictly Mister Teever. While the same was apparently true of Donald Warner, the reasons were far different. As I learned during my days as a junior associate at Abbott & Windsor in Chicago, there were certain older
men you addressed as Mister out of a blend of admiration and respect. And while Donald Warner would not likely ever generate the same level of affection that you may have had for, say, your favorite high school teacher, you called him Mister Warner for some of the same reasons you called your teacher Mister Lubeck. It just felt more natural. By contrast, you called Brian Teever Mister Teever because his demeanor conveyed a sense of his lofty status within in the law firm hierarchy. You’d no more call him by his first name than you would the Queen of England.

  Teever certainly had the pedigree. He’d prepped at St. Louis Country Day School and earned his bachelor’s and law degrees at Yale, where he’d allegedly been a member of the Skull and Bones Society with classmate George W. Bush. His legal specialty was trusts and estates, and his client list included the landed gentry of St. Louis, many of whom were members of St. Louis Country Club, where Teever had served an unprecedented two terms as president and now chaired the mysterious admissions committee. Supposedly, he’d brushed aside a new client inquiry from a representative of August Busch—either the III or the IV—because he deemed the brewery family too loutish. His only concession to the firm’s Casual Fridays—where even many of the younger partners wore chinos—was a navy blazer. And thus I had to grin as Hanratty addressed Teever like they were old drinking buds from the American Legion Hall.

  “Feel free to stop me, Brian,” Hanratty was saying, “if you have a question or want to re-shoot one of your answers or whatever else comes to mind. This interview may last twenty minutes, but it’s just raw footage. The edited version will be less than five, and you’ll have the final say on your portion of the video. What do you say, Brian? Shall we get this puppy rolling?”

  Through gritted teeth, Teever said, “Fine.”

  There was a pause, and then Hanratty morphed from drinking bud to portentous offscreen narrator:

  “Brian Teever. Senior partner at Warner & Olsen. Former chair of the American Bar Association’s Trust and Estate Law Section. An attorney known for his ability to recognize legal talent amongst younger attorneys. Mr. Teever, tell us about Sari Basher.”