Judgement Day

by Andrew Neiderman

  Dave Kotein nodded and opened his folder. Then he looked up to preface his remarks. “Looks like I’ll have the headlines this week.”

  “Good, we could use the publicity,” Paul said. Mr. Milton turned to him and they exchanged a look of satisfaction.

  “Dave has a rather highly publicized case, Kevin,” Mr. Milton said. “Perhaps you’ve read about it: a number of coeds have been raped and viciously murdered, their bodies mutilated, the murders covering an area from the upper Bronx, through Yonkers and into Westchester. A man has been arrested and charged.”

  “Yes. Wasn’t a victim found just last week?”

  “Tuesday,” Dave said. “At a corner of the parking lot at the Yonkers race track. Wrapped in a plastic garbage bag.”

  “I remember. It was particularly gruesome.”

  “You only read half of it.” He pulled out a sheaf of papers and held them toward him. “Here’s the rest. The coroner’s report reads like a detailed description of a Nazi torture chamber, which, by the way,” he said, turning to Mr. Milton, “the prosecution intends to point out.”

  “Why’s that?” Kevin asked. He couldn’t help his spontaneous interest.

  “My client, Karl Obermeister, was in Hitler’s Youth Corps. Claims he was just a child, of course, and did what he was told, but his father distinguished himself by being a guard at Auschwitz.”

  “Doesn’t matter. His family’s not on trial here,” Mr. Milton commented, waving off the references.

  “Right,” Dave said and turned to his documents again.

  “What else was in that coroner’s report, though?” Mr. Milton inquired. “Perhaps Kevin should hear it.”

  Kevin turned, surprised. “Well, that’s okay, I . . .”

  “Besides being sliced across the breasts, a heated rod was inserted in the woman’s vagina,” Dave began quickly.

  “So much for semen as evidence,” Ted said.

  “Christ,” Kevin said.

  “We’ve all got to have strong stomachs, Kevin. We’ll be dealing with gruesome crimes as well as white-collar crimes in this firm,” Mr. Milton said. His voice was tight, hard. It was as close to a reprimand as Kevin imagined it could be.

  “Of course,” he said softly. “Sorry.”

  “Go on,” Mr. Milton commanded.

  “Obermeister was stopped in the general vicinity. A patrolman became suspicious. He seemed too anxious to accept a speeding ticket. In the morning after the body had been discovered, this patrolman remembered Karl Obermeister. They went to his apartment to question him, only an overly ambitious young detective went a lot further. He searched his place without a warrant and found wire fasteners similar to the ones used to bind the victims. They took Karl in and kept him in a holding tank for five hours, questioning him until he confessed.”

  “So he confessed,” Kevin muttered.

  “Yes,” Dave said and smiled, “but I scrutinized everything the police had done. We’re going to get it thrown out of court for sure. All that time they held him at the station, they never gave him an opportunity to phone an attorney. He wasn’t properly Mirandized, and the alleged evidence the detective found is all inadmissible. They don’t have anything, really. Karl will soon be walking,” he added and turned to Mr. Milton, who smiled at him. Dave closed and opened his eyes as though he were receiving a benediction.

  “Very, very good, Dave. That’s good work; that’s really good work.”

  “Congratulations, Dave,” Paul said.

  “Beautiful,” Ted added. “Absolutely.”

  Kevin stared at the associates, all of whom looked so content. It flashed through his mind that Dave Kotein was Jewish and that successfully defending someone with a Nazi background should have bothered him. But there was no sign of it. If anything, his eyes radiated pride.

  “Even so,” Mr. Milton said, “I’d like to go over that coroner’s report. Have a copy made for me, Carla,” he said without turning to her. She made a note on her pad. He looked at Paul and then at the rest of them. “And now Paul has a biblical case for us to consider.”

  Ted and Dave smiled.

  “Biblical?” Kevin queried.

  “Cain and Abel,” Paul said. He looked at John Milton.

  “Precisely. Describe it, please, Paul.”

  Scholefield opened his folder. “Pat and Morris Galan are both in their late forties. Pat’s an interior decorator. Morris owns and operates a small bottling works. They have an eighteen-year-old son, Philip, but when Pat was forty-one, they had a second son, Arnold. It was one of those should we, shouldn’t we decisions. From what they say, they couldn’t make up their minds and time ran out. They had the child, but a baby at their ages seemed burdensome. Pat wanted to keep working and eventually resented the new child.”

  “She admitted to this?” Mr. Milton asked.

  “She was seeing a psychologist and is open about her feelings concerning the baby because she feels that contributed to it all. The Galans had marital problems, too,” he continued. “Each didn’t think the other was doing enough when it came to caring for the new baby. Pat accused Morris of resenting her work. Eventually they both went into counseling.

  “In the meantime much of the responsibility for Arnold fell to Philip, who, being an active teenager with a life of his own, resented the burden, too. At least this is the picture I see.”

  “Describe the crime,” Mr. Milton directed.

  “One night while bathing his younger brother, Philip lost control and drowned him.”

  “Drowned him?” Kevin asked. Paul had said it so nonchalantly.

  “He was washing his hair; Arnold is . . .” He looked at his papers. “. . . five years old at the time. He puts up resistance, complains . . . Philip loses his temper and holds the boy’s head under water too long.”

  “My God. Where were their parents?”

  “That’s just it, Kevin. They were out on the town, as usual, pursuing their own lives. Anyway, Mrs. Galan has asked us to defend her son Philip. Her husband doesn’t want anything to do with him.”

  “Does Philip have history of violence?” Dave asked.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. Some fighting in school but no previous police involvements. Good student, too. Generally well liked. The thing is, he’s not very remorseful.”

  “What do you mean?” Kevin asked. “Doesn’t he realize what he has done?”

  “Yes, but . . .” Paul turned to John Milton. “He’s not sorry. It’s so clear that he has no regrets that the prosecution is going for premeditated murder. They’re trying to create the scenario that he wasn’t told to give his brother a bath. He did it just to kill him. Under questioning, the mother admitted she didn’t tell him he had to bathe Arnold.

  “I don’t want to put him on the stand. The way he talks about his dead brother . . . if I were on the jury, I’d convict him, too.”

  “Could he have planned it?” Kevin asked.

  “Our job is to show that he didn’t,” John Milton said quickly. “We’re defending him, not working for the prosecution. How are you going to handle it, Paul?”

  “I think you were right about the parents. I’ll work them over, show them for what they are, and illustrate that the boy was put under enormous pressure. Then I’ll bring in Dr. Marvin to confirm his unstable mental state . . . confused roles, all this at a time when he’s undergoing other adolescent pressures, the kind of pressures that have turned teenage suicide into an epidemic.”

  He turned to Kevin.

  “I don’t know if he could have planned it, Kevin. As Mr. Milton says, Mrs. Galan hired me to defend him, not prosecute him. Besides, even though he’s still hard-nosed about what he has done, I really think he has been twisted and victimized by his parents and their attitudes.

  “When they returned that night, he was asleep in his bed. They didn’t even look in on Arnold. It wasn’t until the next morning that Mr. Galan found his five-year-old son in the tub.”

  “Jesus.”

  “After y
ou’re with us a while, Kevin,” Mr. Milton said, “you’ll stop saying that.” Kevin looked confused. “It shouldn’t surprise you that the world is full of pain and suffering. And Jesus doesn’t seem to be doing much about it these days.”

  “I know. But I just don’t see how you can get used to it.”

  “You do, or at least you grow tough enough to do your job well. You know a little about that already,” John Milton said, smiling. His insinuation was a clear reference to Kevin’s defense of Lois Wilson. Kevin felt himself blush. He looked around to see how the others were gazing at him.

  Paul looked as serious as Mr. Milton. Dave wore a look of concern. Ted was smiling.

  “I guess it just takes time,” Kevin said, “and more experience.”

  “That’s so true,” John Milton replied. “Time and experience. And now that you’ve heard about the firm’s present workload, you can begin to think about your own case.”

  John Milton slid a folder to Dave, who passed it on to Kevin. Despite his desire to get started on something exciting, he felt icicles slide down his back. All eyes were on him now, so he smiled quickly.

  “It’s going to be an exciting case, Kevin; you will be baptized by fire,” John Milton said. “But there isn’t a man here who hasn’t, and just look at them now.”

  Kevin turned from one to the other. Each had the intensity of an Ahab searching for his Moby Dick. He felt as if he were joining more than a law firm; he was joining some kind of fraternity, brotherhood of blood, advocates of the damned. They made fortresses out of the law and procedure; they made weapons out of it. Whatever they chose to do, they were victorious, successful.

  Most importantly, they were eager to please John Milton, who now sat back, contented, satiated by their stories and plans for court battle.

  “Next time we meet, Kevin, we’ll be listening to you,” John Milton said and stood up. They all stood up and watched him leave, Carla right behind him. As soon as they were gone, Dave, Ted, and Paul turned to Kevin.

  “I thought he was going to get angry there for a moment,” Dave said. “When you said ‘Jesus . . .’”

  “Why would that anger him?”

  “If there’s one thing Mr. Milton can’t tolerate, it’s an attorney feeling sorry for a victim when he has a client to defend. That has to be first and foremost,” Paul explained.

  “It’s especially true for Dave’s case,” Ted said.

  “Why is that?”

  “Because Dave’s client, unlike our two, hasn’t got a pot to piss in. Mr. Milton is bankrolling his client all the way.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “We kid you not,” Dave said. “He saw a breakdown in the system and he went after it. That’s his style.”

  “And that’s why we’re so successful,” Ted said proudly, even arrogantly.

  Kevin nodded and looked at his new associates again. They weren’t knights and this wasn’t the Round Table in Camelot, but they would become just as legendary, Kevin thought. He felt sure of that.

  Miriam feared her face would remain permanently creased in a smile. She had been smiling and laughing since Kevin left. Norma and Jean were unendingly entertaining. When one slowed down, the other picked up. At first Miriam thought those two had to be on something, uppers. How could two women be so energetic, so talkative, so ecstatic for so long a period without being juiced?

  But their philosophies about life seemed to suggest otherwise. Both were health fanatics, which explained the sugarless muffins; and Miriam had to admit they looked like prime examples of the good life: trim figures, clear, creamy complexions, beautiful white teeth, bright eyes, positive self-images.

  Although neither worked or pursued a career, both appeared to have full lives. They went so far as to schedule and organize their days in order to be able to do all that they wanted. Cleaning and cooking took place in the morning, followed by their aerobics classes Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Tuesday was set aside for grocery shopping. Thursdays they went to the museums and galleries; and of course, Saturdays and Sundays they went to the theater and movies. Most of their evenings were plotted out with dinners, shows, regular get-togethers.

  Furthermore, it was immediately obvious to Miriam that Norma and Jean, along with the yet unmet Helen Scholefield, formed a close-knit, self-sufficient group. They didn’t talk about any other people. Apparently, the three couples went everywhere together, even taking vacations together whenever court schedules permitted it.

  As Kevin had suggested, these urban women were continually on the go, their lives comfortable, interesting. She couldn’t imagine them spending an afternoon leafing through magazines, watching soap operas, just waiting for their husbands to return from work, as she had been doing lately. It had become increasingly more difficult to get any of her Blithedale friends to come into the city for a show or shopping or anything. It was always “such an effort to buck the traffic and crowds.”

  But these two were absolutely impervious, oblivious to any difficulties the city might present, and they lived just as well, if not better, here—no sense of insecurity or fear for their safety, no inconvenience, and, most importantly, perhaps for someone like Miriam who had been brought up on the Island, no feeling of being closed in. Their homes were just as spacious and bright as hers.

  Norma’s apartment was done in a traditional decor, much like hers and Kevin’s back in Blithedale, only Norma and Dave’s colors were more conservative. Jean’s apartment was brighter, with light colors and wider spaces, her furniture ultramodern, lots of squares and cubes, plastic and glass. Although Miriam wasn’t fond of it, it was interesting. Both apartments had the same beautiful views as hers and Kevin’s.

  “We’ve been talking and talking,” Norma finally realized. They were sitting in her living room sipping white wine from large goblets. “And not giving you a chance.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “No, it’s impolite,” Jean said, sitting back and crossing her legs. They were long and slim, and she had a gold ankle chain spotted with small diamonds on her left ankle. Miriam hadn’t missed much about their affluence. Both apartments contained expensive things, from their oversized television sets and state-of-the-art stereos to their furnishings, decorations, and ornaments.

  “To tell you the truth, I’ve just been sitting back and admiring your apartments. Both of you have such beautiful things.”

  “And so will you,” Norma said.

  She started to shake her head, her eyes tearing.

  “What’s wrong, Miriam?” Jean asked quickly.

  “Nothing’s wrong. I just can’t believe how fast all this is happening. I feel as if I’m being ripped out of one world and placed into a completely different one overnight, not that it’s not all wonderful . . . it’s just . . . just . . .”

  “Overwhelming,” Norma said, nodding, her face serious. “It was the same for me.”

  “And me,” Jean chimed in.

  “But don’t fret about it,” Norma said, leaning over to pat Miriam on the knee. “You won’t believe how quickly you’ll adjust and enjoy. Right, Jean?”

  “She speaks truth,” Jean said, and the two of them laughed. Miriam had to smile, her anxiety slipping back again.

  “Anyway, getting back to you. What have you been doing with yourself while your handsome young husband has been burning up the legal turf in—what did you call it—Blithedale?” Norma asked.

  “Yes, Blithedale. Small community, but we love it. Loved it, I should say.” She paused. “Funny, it’s almost as if I’ve left it and been here for months,” Miriam said softly. The feeling made her bring her fingers to the base of her throat. Both women stared, similar smiles of amusement on their lips. “Anyway,” Miriam continued, “for a while, I tried to do some fashion modeling, but all I did was a department store show here and there. I quickly realized it wasn’t the career I really wanted for myself. I helped my father . . .”

  “Who is a dentist?”

  “Yes. I work
ed as a receptionist for nearly six months and then I decided to concentrate on Kevin and our home life. We intend to have children this year.”

  “So do we,” Norma said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Intend to have children this year,” she said, looking at Jean. “In fact . . .”

  “We’ve been conspiring to have them about the same time, although the boys don’t know it.” They laughed. “Maybe you’ll join us now.”

  “Join you?” Miriam’s smile widened in puzzlement.

  “Actually, Mr. Milton suggested it to Jean at one of his parties. Wait until you see the penthouse. He’s bound to have a party any day now, since there’s a new associate in the firm.”

  “Oh, he gives wonderful parties, gourmet catering, music, interesting guests . . .”

  “What do you mean, Mr. Milton suggested it?” She turned to Jean.

  “He has a wry sense of humor sometimes. He knew we were planning on starting our families this year and he pulled me aside and said wouldn’t it be something if Norma and I had our children about the same time, maybe even the same week. I told Norma, and she thought it was a great idea.”

  “We’ve been planning it like a campaign, marking days on our calendars when the forays will begin,” Norma said, and they both laughed again. Then Jean stopped abruptly.

  “We’ll show you our plans and maybe you’ll join us, unless you and Kevin have already . . .”

  “No, we haven’t.”

  “Good,” she said, sitting back.

  Miriam saw they weren’t kidding. “You say your husbands don’t know?”

  “Not all of it,” Norma said.

  “You don’t tell your husband everything you do, do you?” Jean asked.

  “We’re very close, and something as important as this . . .”

  “So are we, close,” Norma said, “but Jean’s right. You’ve got to have some personal, woman secrets.”

  “We three have got to stick together,” Norma said. “Men are wonderful, especially our men, but they are, after all, men!” She widened her eyes.

  “You should say four,” Jean corrected. Norma looked puzzled. “We four have got to stick together. You’re forgetting Helen.”