Due Diligence

by Michael A. Kahn

  We did.

  My initial attraction continued to grow. David Marcus was an unusual man. Earnest and committed were adjectives that fit. He was serious about his Judaism, about his Holocaust studies, about his involvement with the shelter for battered women. He was no lightweight. But fortunately, he also had a sense of humor. Otherwise, as I told him after the trial, he’d be an insufferable bore.

  “A bore?” he had repeated with a perplexed smile.

  That was four nights ago. The trial had ended well, and we’d gone out to celebrate with dinner at Baliban’s in the Central West End. We were walking back along Maryland toward my office to get our cars. I’d had one too many glasses of wine at dinner, and during dessert had had an almost overwhelming urge to lean across the table and kiss him. Really kiss him. A wine-spilling, silverware-clanking, busboy-blushing kiss. The urge passed somewhere between the first and second cups of espresso, leaving me almost ashamed for having such lustful thoughts about a rabbi, especially since I had no clear sense of what his feelings were for me.

  “A bore,” I had answered mischievously, looking up at him as we walked along. “You men don’t seem to realize that a sense of humor is not merely vital. It’s sexy.”

  “Sexy?” he repeated.

  “Very.”

  He stopped to study me. “I don’t think so,” he finally said.

  “Oh, no?” I responded, fighting back a smile. “And what do the great Talmudic rabbis have to say on the subject?”

  “All I know is what this rabbi thinks.” He put his arms around my waist and gently pulled me toward him.

  “And what does he think?” I whispered, looking up at him.

  He kissed me tenderly on my forehead. “He thinks your forehead is sexy.” He kissed me on each eyelid. “He thinks you’re sexy here, too.” I shivered as he moved his lips down my nose. “And he thinks your nose is exquisitely sexy.” He kissed me on each side of my nose and then pulled back. He stared into my eyes, and then dropped his gaze slightly to my lips. “And definitely here,” he whispered. He leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. Our first kiss, slow and gentle.

  I let it last until I could just sense that all of my defense systems were shutting down. I opened my eyes as I leaned back in his arms. “Maybe you’re right,” I said hoarsely. “That sure beats a joke.”

  Two days passed, and then a client called with a pair of box seat tickets to the Cardinals game that night. It was the first of May, and I hadn’t been to a game since opening day. I called David, who seemed delighted to hear from me but unenthused about going to a baseball game.

  “Come on,” I told him. “They’re playing the Pirates. Our seats are fabulous.”

  Reluctantly, he agreed to go.

  He probably doesn’t like baseball, I told myself after I hung up. Or maybe he didn’t even understand how the game was played. Don’t forget, I said, you’ve never really known a rabbi before—at least outside of a synagogue. Don’t assume a thing.

  But to my surprise, David Marcus turned out to be an extremely knowledgeable student of baseball. Several times during the game he quietly pointed something out that I never would have spotted on my own—a subtle shift in the infield alignment, a change in the pitcher’s motion or the catcher’s position, a batting strategy based on the next two players in the lineup.

  On the way home from the game I made my decision. “Come on in,” I told him when he pulled in front of my house. “I’ll make us some coffee and you can meet Ozzie.”

  “Who is Ozzie?”

  I raised my eyebrows impishly. “A gorgeous redhead I’ve lived with for the past seven years.”

  David and Ozzie hit it off immediately, although I must admit that I have yet to meet anyone who doesn’t hit it off immediately with Ozzie. I’ve had Ozzie since he was six weeks old, and as far as I am concerned, he is the most lovable, gentle, loyal, and tolerant golden retriever in the Western Hemisphere.

  When the coffee was ready, I let Ozzie out in the backyard and David brought the steaming mugs into the living room. When I came into the living room, he was kneeling next to the stereo system flipping through my old albums. A good sign, I told myself. He had ignored the rack of CDs.

  “What are you in the mood to hear?” he asked.

  “Your choice,” I said.

  Any lingering doubts vanished when I saw the album he selected: The Greatest Hits of Smokey Robinson and the Miracles. I knew then it would be a wonderful night, and it was. We kissed on the couch to “Shop Around.” We made love on the bed to a medley that ended with “I Second That Emotion.” We awoke at three in the morning and made love again, this time to our own music.

  And now, at 7:15 in the morning, I gazed at my handsome sleeping rabbi. He had actually carried me from the couch to the bedroom last night, scooping me up as if I weighed nothing. I was surprised by his strength, but as I studied his bare arms and chest I could see how powerful they were. A weight-lifting rabbi? You could do worse. I stretched with contentment. You could do a whole lot worse than a strong, dark, and handsome rabbi who knew baseball, enjoyed good food, and could sing all the words to “Tracks of My Tears.”

  “Good morning, Rachel.”

  I turned to find him looking at me, a twinkle in his eyes. I leaned over and kissed him on the nose. “Good morning, David,” I said, nuzzling against his neck.

  ***

  An hour later, barefoot and wrapped in my terrycloth bathrobe, I came into the kitchen, fluffing my hair with a bath towel. The sight I found made me smile. David was dressed and at the kitchen table, reading the front page. Ozzie was curled on the floor at his feet. A fresh pot of coffee was on the counter and a basket of croissants, rolls, and Danish was on the table.

  “Wow,” I said as I joined him at the table. “Where did you get the goodies?”

  He smiled. “The St. Louis Bread Company. I ducked out while you were in the shower.”

  I leaned across the table and kissed him on the lips. “Thanks.” I sat back and ravenously surveyed the basket of pastries. I picked out a raspberry croissant, took a bite, and got up to pour myself some coffee.

  “I thought rabbis only ate bagels,” I said when I returned to the table.

  “Not when we’re romancing beautiful, long-legged attorneys.” He winked. “There’s a special exception set out in the Torah.”

  I reached for the sports page.

  “By the way,” I said a few moments later, “your friend never showed up.”

  David looked up from the newspaper. “My friend?”

  “That guy you sent me. Bruce Rosenthal.”

  “He’s not really a friend. He’s a member of the congregation. He came to me Saturday morning after services. He was agitated, but didn’t tell me much. From what he was willing to say, it sounded to me like he needed to talk to a lawyer. I suggested he give you a call. I thought he did.”

  “He did,” I said. “He called last Thursday.”

  “Were you able to help him?”

  I shrugged. “Not yet.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was real nervous. He was calling from his car phone. He didn’t want to talk about it over the phone, only face-to-face. ‘Strictly confidential,’ he told me, which was fine. Most new clients are reluctant to describe their problems over the phone, especially a car phone. We scheduled a meeting for eleven o’clock the next day—that was last Friday.”

  “And?” David said.

  “I had to reschedule. He got to my office right on time, but I was still stuck in a court hearing downtown. I called him from court and apologized. We rescheduled the meeting for Tuesday morning at nine.”

  “What happened?”

  I shrugged. “I have no idea. He never showed up, never called to explain, never called to reschedule. I haven’t talked to him since last Friday. Has he said anything to you?”


  David leaned back in his chair and scratched his neck pensively. “He was at Shabbat services on Saturday morning. I haven’t talked to him since then.”

  I stood up with a shrug. “Well, let’s hope his problem went away.” I glanced up at the kitchen clock. “I’m going to get dressed. It won’t take me long.”

  Five minutes later I was zipping my skirt when David Marcus came into the bedroom. I turned with a smile, which faded when I saw his ashen face. He was holding the newspaper in his hand.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Here.” He handed me the paper. It was open to page three of the metropolitan section. He pointed to the headline at the top of the page:

  LOCAL CONSULTANT DISCOVERED INSIDE TRASH COMPACTOR; APPARENTLY DEAD FOR DAYS

  I started reading the story:

  The body of a 29-year-old engineering consultant was discovered yesterday afternoon when the contents of an industrial trash compactor container were dumped out at the Chain of Rocks landfill near Granite City, III. Workers at the site watched in horror and disbelief as a male corpse, still attired in a conservative business suit, came tumbling out of the compactor container along with dozens of large brown bags of trash.

  Police at the scene identified the man as Bruce A. Rosenthal of Clayton, Mo. His employer had reported him missing the day before his body was discovered. A homicide investigation has commenced, according to Captain Ron Price of the St. Louis Police Department.

  Rosenthal was employed as a manager at the engineering consulting firm of…

  I looked up from the article. David was sitting on the bed, his head down. I glanced at my watch. I had to be downtown for a deposition in forty-five minutes, but I didn’t want to act rushed. David was shaken by Rosenthal’s death. I could tell that he was trying to shoulder some of the blame, as absurd as that was.

  “You did what you could,” I said.

  He turned to me, puzzled. “Pardon?”

  “He needed an attorney, not a rabbi,” I explained. “I gather he wanted to talk to an attorney about a matter he was working on. I assume he had discovered something about one of his firm’s clients and wanted to know who he could tell.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You told me that he said he wanted to talk to an attorney about two things. One of them was the accountant-client privilege, right?”

  “Right.”

  I scanned the rest of the newspaper article and looked up. “It says he had a degree in accounting. If he told you he had a question about the accountant-client privilege, I assume it had to do with one of his firm’s clients. He must have learned something disturbing and wanted to know if he could tell anyone.” I glanced down at the newspaper article. “He worked at Smilow and Sullivan, Ltd. An engineering consulting firm.” I looked at David. “What kind of things does an engineering consulting firm do?”

  “I don’t know,” he said with a frown. “He never told me.” He shook his head sadly. “I never even asked.”

  “David,” I said gently, “you did the right thing. Both of you decided that he needed to talk to an attorney. You’re not an attorney. You gave him my name. You did exactly what he asked you to do. I was the one who wasn’t able to make that first appointment. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me, not you.”

  He wasn’t persuaded. I sat next to him on the bed and took his hand. “I’m sure the police will do a thorough investigation.”

  David sighed. “I hope so.”

  A few minutes later, we were in the front hall getting ready to leave. Ozzie was waiting at the front door, his eyes moving back and forth between David and me.

  “What do you make of the other issue?” David asked.

  “What issue?” I said, reaching for my purse.

  “In addition to the privilege issue, Bruce told me he wanted to talk to an attorney about some sort of statutory limits.”

  “Do you remember what kind of statutory limits?”

  David shook his head in frustration. “No.”

  “There are lots of possibilities,” I explained. “The law books are filled with statutes that put limits on things—limits on the amount of damages you can recover, limits on the types of actions a board of directors can take without a shareholder vote, limits on the number of branch offices a bank can operate, and so on and so on. Unless you know who the client was, it’ll be hard to figure out which statutory limits might apply.”

  I held the door open for Ozzie, who ran out, and then I locked it behind me.

  “Where does Ozzie go during the day?” David asked.

  “Next door.” We watched Ozzie trot toward my neighbors’ porch. “It’s a great arrangement. They have adorable little twin girls. They’re home all day with a babysitter. They love Ozzie, and he keeps them company.”

  Ozzie climbed onto my neighbors’ porch and turned back toward me as he sat down. David’s car was in the driveway behind mine. As we walked to our cars I tried to decide whether to raise the subject of when we’d see each other again. His distraction over Bruce Rosenthal’s death made him seem distant. Having never before spent the night with a rabbi, I wasn’t quite sure of the protocols.

  David stopped when we reached my car and took my hand. “That was a marvelous evening, Rachel,” he said softly. “When can I see you again?”

  I blushed with pleasure and squeezed his hand. “Whenever you’d like.”

  He thought for a moment. “How about Sunday afternoon?”

  “Sunday?” I repeated, mentally checking my calendar. “Well, I have a game—hey, how would you like to play softball on Sunday afternoon?”

  “Softball?” he said with a frown. “I don’t—”

  “Come on, David. It won’t be so bad. I’m on a coed team in the lawyers’ league. We’re going to be one short on Sunday. They’ll let us play that way, but we could really use another man.”

  “I haven’t played in a long time,” he said reluctantly.

  “Big deal. It’s not like we’re major leaguers out there. It’s fun. My best friend Benny Goldberg’s on our team. I really want you two to meet. We can all go out to dinner after.”

  He sighed in surrender. “Okay.”

  I stood on my toes and kissed him on the lips. “It’s Diamond Number Two at Forest Park. The game starts at three-thirty.”

  He beeped his horn as he pulled away, and I honked back. Ozzie was curled up on my neighbors’ front porch as I backed out of the driveway. I waved and called, “Bye, Oz.” He lifted his head and his tail flopped three times on the porch.

  I drove off with a feeling of total contentment, humming a Smokey Robinson tune, blissfully unaware that Bruce Rosenthal’s grisly death had sounded the opening chords of a nightmare symphony.

  Chapter Two

  The outlook wasn’t brilliant for our Mudville nine that day. We were trailing 5 to 2 with just three innings left to play.

  Our opponents were the coed team from the law firm of Crowley & Gillan, a products liability defense firm. Their players seemed determined to project the same tough-as-nails persona on the diamond as they did in the courtroom. They were a fierce and humorless group who argued every close call, slammed their bats in disgust whenever they made an out, exchanged brutal high-fives on good plays, and generally demonstrated how a group of obnoxious litigators can ruin a perfectly pleasant game. The Crowley & Gillan women were just as ferocious as the men. Their catcher was a good example: she stood nearly six feet tall, hit with power to all fields, blocked the plate like an offensive tackle, and from behind bore a striking resemblance to Philadelphia’s John Kruk.

  You can usually spot a serious team by their uniforms, and Crowley & Gillan was definitely a serious team. They had black-and-silver jerseys, black baseball pants, stirrup socks, and cleated Nikes. Their baseball caps featured a black-and-silver raider’s logo, and their jerseys had
each player’s name in block letters on the back and the team name—the Defense Verdicts—in script on the front.

  By contrast, we looked like a New Age softball “family” from the Lacto-Vegetarian League. I was on the pitcher’s mound in my Chicago Blackhawks hockey jersey, faded Levi cutoffs, and Grateful Dead baseball cap. Playing first base was Benny Goldberg, looking, as he would say, “full figured but très elegant” in his Black Dog T-shirt, gray sweatpants, and Portland Beavers baseball cap turned backward. At shortstop, dressed in black with his long red hair pulled back in a ponytail, stood Donny Stockman, a flamboyant criminal defense attorney (and, thank heavens, a former varsity baseball player at Vanderbilt). At third base was Diane Correa-Valdes, a Hispanic labor attorney who was dressed for a role in a Janet Jackson music video.

  But dress codes can be misleading, as Crowley & Gillan soon discovered. They had won the league championship last year and arrived that day with a definite attitude—two of the players had actually snickered when we showed up. But five innings later they were clearly unsettled by their mere three-run lead.

  As I finished my warm-up tosses, Benny lumbered over to the mound.

  “How you feeling, gorgeous?” he asked.

  “I’m okay.” I scanned the sidelines again. “I wonder where David is? He promised me he’d be here.”

  “Can you believe the women on that fucking team?” Benny said, shaking his head in disgust. “They have better builds than your new secretary. I hear their catcher got drafted by the Packers. I don’t know about you, but I think a little chromosome testing might be in order.”

  “Let’s go,” I told him. “Get back in position.”

  “Hey,” he said, stepping back to look at my legs, “you’re kind of bossy for a chick in Daisy Dukes.”

  “Benny,” I said in a warning tone. “Number one, these are not Daisy Dukes. Not even close. Number two, I’m bossy ’cause I’m the captain. Now get back in position.”