The Fire This Time
Page 17
Gomita stopped taking notes. Another bad sign. He was not losing interest. On the contrary, his interest was so heightened he did not want to distract himself with note taking. He had the court stenographer’s transcript to fall back on.
Bonturo paused, as if he were an actor playing an attorney in the movies or on television. “Based on your study of the historical record, in your expert opinion what is the correct historical explanation for the occurrence of blood libel murders?”
Gomita leaned toward the witness. Maddie did likewise.
“The truth has been hinted at by those who observe that these crimes always occur near Passover. Not because Jews use Christian blood to make matzoh. They don’t. The truth goes back much further than 1144. It goes back to the significance of Passover for Jews. Blood and death are central elements of the Passover story.”
Al-Saffah’s testimony wove a spell over the court-room. The reporters at the press table, the sketch artists, the spectators, the police, the court officers, the monitors from the Department of Justice, the rabbi, Moskovitzky, Maddie, Levy, Bonturo, Gomita, everyone listened with the intensity of acolytes awaiting a divine revelation. The court stenographer, a veteran of many trials, recorded every word. Her smile hinted at her dreams about the things she would buy with the money she would make selling copies of the transcript, a new car: a Cadillac, first and foremost. All eyed al-Saffah.
“While Egyptians held the Jews in bondage,” al-Saffah continued, “the Egyptians hurled their sons into the Nile River.”
”Whose sons?” Gomita interrupted.
“The sons of the Jews. This is commemorated at the seder by mixing red wine, symbol of the blood of infants, into the haroses.” Al-Saffah spoke slowly. “When God, as it is set forth in the Old Testament fable, visited the ten plagues on Egypt, the tenth plague was the slaughter of the Egyptian first born. Jewish first born were saved because God instructed the Jews to mark the lintels of their doors with the blood of the Paschal Lamb so He would pass over their homes. To this day, the first born sons of Jewish families fast and pray the day before Passover to commemorate this.
“The Passover story is retold every year at the seder,” al-Saffah continued, “and stresses the obligation of every Jew to memorialize the experience of his forefathers on the night they left Egypt by reenacting it. Eating matzoh is part of this, but Christian blood is not part of the recipe for matzoh. This superficial explanation distracts us from fully comprehending how Passover is celebrated.”
“Is it your expert opinion,” Bonturo asked, “that Jews have been engaging in the ritual murder known as the blood libel as part of their observance of Passover since the Exodus because of the commandment that they must reenact the experiences of their ancestors on the night of their departure from Egypt?”
“Objection. Leading the witness.”
“A bench hearing, Ms. Devlin.”
“Preserving my objection for appeal.”
“Of a bail hearing? Overruled.”
“Yes. By committing blood libels, they are reenacting the slaying of the first born sons of the Egyptians.”
“Your witness,” Bonturo said to Devlin.
“Will you finish up before lunch?” Gomita asked.
“No, Your Honor.”
“We shall recess now so you can proceed without interruption. Court will reconvene at precisely two p.m.”
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Four court officers escorted Levy to one of the holding cells in the basement of the New Court House. Built during the Great Depression as a public works project, it was called the New Court House to distinguish it from the Old Court House built several generations earlier. As an example of architecture, it had the character of the political hacks who had profited from its construction. As a building, it had their quality. Like most Massachusetts public construction projects, decay had set in about the time of the ribbon cutting at the dedication ceremony. Now, some fifty years later, the trial bar dubbed the New Court House Jericho as they waited for the clap of thunder or the truck backfire that would cause its walls to come tumbling down.
Narrow and cramped, the basement holding cells lacked furniture except for a bench built into the wall and sandpapered smooth by fifty years of prison denim. A guard positioned a paper plate with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the floor outside the bars. With his foot, he lined it up with the opening at the bottom of the door. Starch sharpened the creases in his uniform. His boots, steel tipped, ideal for kicking hapless prisoners, rode up his legs to just below the knees. His tie rested on the bulge of his belly like a bib on a pudgy baby. He looked like an extra in a bad World War II movie.
“Is the Jew hungry?” the guard taunted. He nudged the plate along the floor like a hockey player moving a puck up ice, then kicked it with the instep of his boot. The plate skimmed along the floor before hitting Levy’s foot. The sandwich caromed into a mound of dust neatly collected under the bench by a previous detainee. “Enjoy.” The guard winked.
Levy rested his arms on his lap. His muscles ached from the weight of the steel bands around his wrists and the chains binding his wrists to his waist and ankles. The chains chafed his skin and he had the urge to scratch. When he was young, he scratched insect stings and bites until his arms bled. Skin stuck to his sleeves when the blood dried. His mother bandaged him with love then, and he wondered if she would love him now. He forced his fingers beneath the wrist band and dug his fingernails into his raw skin. The more he scratched, the more it itched. The more it itched, the greater the pain. The greater the pain, the harder he scratched. His skin split open and blood smeared his arm. His mother would not come and soak away this blood, nor clean and bandage this wound, nor feed him chicken soup, scold him with a smile, comfort him with a hug. He thanked Hashem his mother of blessed memory had not lived to see this day.
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In the conference room at Suffolk County Legal Services, Maddie, Rabbi ben Reuben, and Moskovitzky pondered the logic of al-Saffah’s testimony. Maddie spread a lunch of apple slices, honey, cheese, hard rolls and coffee on the conference table. The rabbi nibbled at a piece of bread, collecting the crumbs from the hard crust as if he were saving them for another meal. Moskovitzky dipped an apple wedge in the honey, then set it aside. Usually doing well in court made Maddie hungry, but the heat still sapped her appetite.
“We need a golem like in Chelm and Prague,” Moskovitzky said
“He’s making a leap of faith and disguising it as a logical conclusion,” the rabbi said.
“I can’t cross-examine a leap of faith,” Maddie said.
“Think it through,” the rabbi said. “First, he testifies Jews have contrived a false explanation to deceive the public into believing a ritual murder has not occurred; then he says there was a ritual murder and offers the real explanation. How can that be?”
Maddie said, “Saying there was no murder doesn’t mean there was no murder. People once said the world was flat. Saying so didn’t make it flat.”
“Flat, schmat,” Moskovitzky said. “She should care, her and my grandson.” He picked up a hard roll and tried to tear off a piece, then put it down.
“What would Howard Kaplan do?” Maddie asked. “What would you do?” she said to Moskovitzky.
“Force him to answer the rabbi’s question.”
“I’m going to waive cross-examination and rest without putting in any defense.”
“You’re condemning Avram to prison,” the rabbi said.
Maddie sipped some coffee to build a pause into the conversation. Silence created anxiety and anticipation. Anxiety and anticipation created good listeners. She needed two good listeners. The deaf were rarely persuaded. She took another sip of coffee. “Suppose I cross-examine al-Saffah or the rabbi testifies and we manage to cast reasonable doubt on his testimony. First, that’s not the standard of evidence at a bail hearing. Second, Bonturo still has his suicide argument. Third, al-Saffah would gain the benefit of experiencing cross-examination. Fourth, Bonturo would gain the benefi
t of hearing the rabbi testify. Fifth, Levy would gain nothing because he won’t be bailed no matter what we do. Trial is war. You choose your battlefield, sacrifice a battle when necessary to win the war, and you never expose your flank.”
“What I would expect from a lawyer who thinks her client is guilty,” Moskovitzky said.
“Wishful thinking has reduced your doubts to a scintilla.”
“If you were defending Robert Emmet,” Moskovitzky replied, “would you be so cold and clinical?”
“As cold. As clinical.”
“I’ve been an attorney,” Moskovitzky said, “almost twice as long as you’ve been alive and I’ve learned there are times when moral principles, not the individual client, come first. This is one of those times.”
“The public isn’t the client,” Maddie said. “History isn’t the client. The only client who matters is Avram Levy and the only audience that matters is Judge Gomita today, the jury tomorrow. Disclosing defenses at a preliminary hearing prejudices Kaplan’s ability to try this case. Find some other way to rebut al-Saffah. Call your own press conference. Hire a PR firm. Co-opt the media. But do not tell me what I should or should not do inside that court-room.”
“Resign now,” Moskovitzky said. “I’ll take over.”
Maddie said, “You’ll do more harm than good.”
“She may be right, Jacob.”
“Age has made you weak,” Moskovitzky replied.
“Of body, but not of mind.” With his little finger, the rabbi swept the bread crumbs into a tiny pyramid. “You speak of moral principles, Jacob, as if we were Talmudic scholars debating some fine point of scripture. We are not in the bet sefer. We are on the battlefield. At war. We are fighting to survive. Our survival is our best and only way to defend moral principles. Is that not the lesson of the Passover story?
“Ms. Devlin. After today’s testimony, you must have a strange notion of what a seder is. Please join Jacob and me at the first seder tomorrow night.”
“No. I’m sorry. I couldn’t.”
“You’re not curious?”
Maddie’s heartbeat accelerated. She breathed deeply to mask her anxieties. If Levy’s name were Emmet, she would not, like an informer, allow herself to be bought off by the promise of a few pieces of silver. If Levy were Emmet, the skull-cap would be a plant, al-Saffah’s involvement a frame-up. She felt as jumbled as a child trying to understand the difference between a lie and a white lie or a truth and a half-truth. She longed for the simplicity of certainty, the comfort of the absolute, the bright line of black-letter law; but, even more, she longed for some sign she was doing the right thing.
Maddie gathered the refuse from the uneaten lunch–apple slices turning brown, cheese sweating from the heat, lukewarm coffee, the pyramid of crumbs–and stuffed it into a brown paper bag. “We have to get back to court.”
*
Judge Gomita denied Levy bail because, as he explained, he was convinced Levy would flee if released. At Maddie’s request and over Bonturo’s objection, he agreed to report a question of law to the Single Justice session of the Supreme Judicial Court.
“May I have until next week, your Honor?” Maddie asked.
“Wednesday. Eleven o’clock a.m.”
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Michelle Furey walked Maddie to her car which was parked on the roof top level of the Government Center parking garage. Walking down New Sudbury Street, Maddie wanted to hold Furey’s hand, but the windows of the District 1 police station on one side of the street, the JFK building on the other, stared down at her, at them, with divine disapproval, reminding her of the eyes of the nuns who terrorized her in parochial school if she were not deemed devout enough. Maddie had enough turmoil in her life and she didn’t need the additional aggravation that would come from being seen in public holding hands with a woman. Nor the turmoil of Michelle Furey’s refusal to hold her hand. She was fleeing to Washington, she now understood, not only for the money, but to avoid being rejected by Furey. She opened her car doors to allow the heat to escape.
“Tough morning,” Furey said.
“’Bout what I expected,” Maddie replied. “Brandeis himself wouldn’t bail this defendant.”
“What now?”
“It’s Howard Kaplan’s problem.”
“Who?”
“Some handpicked Jew attorney taking over the case.”
“And you?”
“Washington office of the Mosca firm.”
“Just like that?”
“Come to D.C. with me.” The words escaped before Maddie knew what she was saying.
“My life’s here. My parents. Sister and brother. My practice.”
“I’ve got to get out before Boston eats me alive.”
“The sow that eats her own children.”
“There’s the Washington shuttle,” Maddie said. “Trains to New York where we can meet half-way. It’s not the end of the world.”
“Is this good-bye?” Furey asked.
“If it is, you’re saying it, not me.” Maddie tossed her brief-case into the front seat of her car. “I can’t stay in Boston. It’s suffocating me.” She reached out to hug Furey, but Furey stepped to the side. “It’s not you, Michelle. It’s Boston.”
“Boston. Boston. How convenient to blame Boston. Go to Washington. I’m sure you’ll have your pick of the single women on the Hill. The married ones, too.”
“I don’t want ‘women.’ I only want you.”
“Then stay.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re saying good-bye, not me.”
From across the roof of the parking garage, Maddie watched Furey step into the elevator and the elevator doors close behind her. She leaned against the car door to regain her equilibrium. She felt like a piece of molten iron on an anvil being pounded into shape by heat’s hammer.
Maddie crawled into the front seat, closed the car doors. A straitjacket of heat imprisoned her. Driving home, Furey’s voice accompanied her on every radio station she tuned in, AM or FM, talk or all-news or all-sports or easy listening or oldies or rock or classical. On Suzy’s Swap Shop, Furey offered one soul, used, with years of penance ahead of it in exchange for a power lawn mower and two hundred feet of garden hose. On Sports Boston, Furey’s voice assured the host that the Celtics, now led by a great white hope, would win the NBA championship. On Cousin Brucie’s Top 40 Countdown, Furey’s voice dedicated every song to an Irish lassie identified only by her initials, MAD.
Maddie shut off the radio and still Furey’s voice accompanied her. She inserted a tape in the tape deck; Furey’s voice. She ejected the tape; Furey’s voice. It was as inescapable as the tap of the valve lifters in her engine, the screech of her power steering when she turned a corner, the squeal of her brakes when she stopped for traffic, the tea stains in the fabric of the front seat.
May fire and brimstone, Furey’s voice said, ne’er fail to fall in showers upon you. May every woe that e’er marred mankind dance upon your dish. May the devil cut off your head and make eternity’s work of your heart. May the flames through which your soul wanders be bigger than the Connemara Mountains were they on fire. May you die without a priest in a town without a church. It is said, Furey’s voice continued, you should never rest your eyes beyond what is your own, whether awake or asleep. Did you dream last night of serpents, dragons, and other water beasts? Or, of great birds who arrive bearing honey and depart with plume bloody? The day will come when your arms are bony and thin, your cheeks withered and weathered, your hair gray and thatched with age; the day will come when you drink whey and water with shriveled hags, not mead and wine with warriors and kings; the day will come when you seek the way to the house of judgment. On that day the Son of God will come and claim payment of your debt.
And unsung will be your bones. And unsung will be your bones.
All this and more Furey’s voice proclaimed.
CHAPTER 8
EREV PESACH, SATURDAY, APRIL 18, 1981
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Maddie Devlin who knew nothing of the Sabbath bride and thought nothing of desecrating Avram Levy’s Sabbath waited in a small dressing room at the Charles Street Jail while a matron, Gloria Mundy according to her hand-written name tag, searched Maddie’s pocket book and brief-case. Mundy was husky and athletic, built like a wrestler in the heavyweight division. Her hands were out of proportion to her body, the hands of a football player grafted on to the arms of an overweight woman.
“Let’s get this over with, sweets.” Mundy sounded as gleeful as a young boy who delighted in focusing sunlight through a magnifying glass to set fire to the coat of his neighbor’s cat. Her fingers moved deliberately through Maddie’s hair, lifting it to expose the nape of her neck, rubbing her scalp. A stiletto of sensation flashed down the back of Maddie’s legs. Mundy jerked Maddie’s head back, exposing the cartilage of her neck, and pried open her mouth with her thumb and forefinger. Both tasted of onion and the greasy oil of a cheap grinder. Mundy’s finger swabbed the inside of Maddie’s mouth, brushing across the lining of her cheeks and the back of her teeth. Mundy’s calluses rubbed against her cheeks.
With each touch, Maddie’s impacted rage strained against the boundaries that constrained it. She clenched her fists. One punch, she thought. One fucking punch.
“Arms over your head, sweets.”
Mundy slipped off Maddie’s blouse and undid her bra. Football hands moved from her spine, across her rib cage, below her armpits and swallowed up her breasts. Maddie pushed away, but Mundy’s size overpowered her. Maddie crossed her arms over her breasts, but Mundy grabbed her wrists and rotated her arms until Maddie felt they were being ripped from their sockets.