by Michael Kahn
“No,” he said. “I don’t anticipate calling many witnesses. This is your ridiculous motion, not mine. You’re the one with the burden of proof.”
Rubenstein stared up at me, anger his eyes.
I returned to our table. Benny stood and leaned in close.
“You’re right about Rubenstein. I’ve seen him before, too.”
“Where?” I whispered.
“Not sure.” He leaned around me to have another look. “It’ll come to me.”
Just as we were taking our seats, the buzzer sounded and the bailiff announced, “All rise.”
The side door opened and Judge Howard Flinch entered with a flourish and charged up the three stairs to his bench.
“What the fuck?” Benny whispered. “Is this Halloween?”
Instead of the standard black judicial robe, Judge Flinch was wearing a scarlet one with five gold-braided stripes on each sleeve. In his right hand he was holding a large silver gavel. I looked at him closer. He appeared to have used extra wax on the ends of his mustache, which were formed into large curlicues.
Flinch gave the courtroom audience a big smile, pausing to nod at each of the cameras along the side walls. With the scarlet robe and flamboyant mustachio, the effect was almost surreal, as if we were attending an avant-garde staging of a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta—a crack cocaine version of Iolanthe. I half expected him to burst into song. Instead, he plopped down behind the bench.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “please be seated.”
As the crowd took its seats, he rapped the gavel three times. It sounded like three rifle shots.
“This Court will now come to order.”
He turned to me with a big smile. “Ah, Miss Gold. How are we today?”
I stood. “Thank you, Your Honor. With me are my co-counsel, Jacki Brand and Professor Benjamin Goldberg.”
“Professor, eh?” Flinch said, his eyebrows shooting up. “No pop quizzes today, sir.”
The judge chuckled in appreciation of his remark. Benny forced a smile.
“And Mr. Crane,” Flinch said, turning toward that table. “Here with your wolf pack, eh? Is that other gentlemen Mr. Rubenstein?”
Crane stood. “Yes, Your Honor. This is Kenneth Rubenstein, Chairman and CEO of Ruby Productions.”
“No bike shorts today, eh, Mr. R?”
The judge chuckled again, clearly enjoying himself.
“Okay, Counsel, it’s show time. Miss Gold, can you explain to the Court and to our viewers at home why we are gathered here today?”
That was the cue for Rob Crane to stand and again repeat his objection to the hearing, to repeat his contention that there was no issue in dispute because his client had never filed any court paper alleging a breach of the settlement agreement.
Judge Flinch rolled his eyes, mugging for the camera. “You need to get yourself some new material, Counsel. You made that same objection on Tuesday and I overruled it. Then you ran up to the Court of Appeals like a hysterical schoolgirl crying and wringing your hands and whimpering about that same objection and what did they do? Overruled it, too. I go turkey hunting each Spring down in the Bootheel, Mr. Crane. Over near Caruthersville. They got themselves a saying down there that fits your objection: That dog won’t hunt. Overruled. Miss Gold, you may continue. And be sure to give us a little background on your lawsuit for our viewers at home.”
I walked up to the podium and started by explaining the origins of the lawsuit, specifically, my clients’ objections to the use of public financing and the powers of eminent domain for the benefit of private developers through TIFs in general—and in particular to the loss of their homes and neighborhood for a fancy new gated community. I explained that while I was aware that Ruby Productions had been the beneficiary of this sort of public financing in other communities, neither my clients nor I had any interest in challenging those other developments.
“The lawsuit that I filed, Your Honor, was all about, and only about, my clients’ homes and my clients’ neighborhood. Period.”
I glanced back at Jacki, who nodded and pressed a button on the computer. The huge flat-screen monitor above the jury box flickered once and then displayed a black-and-white photo portrait of Nick Moran.
“As Mr. Crane can confirm,” I said, “we lawyers represent more than one client at the same time. The gentlemen displayed on the screen is the late Nick Moran. Mr. Moran was a talented carpenter and craftsman whose business was home renovations. I knew him. He rehabbed my kitchen and did some beautiful renovations on the coach house behind my house where my mother lives. He was a true artist and a wonderful man. He died earlier this year. According to the police report” —and here the image switched to a display of the newspaper article on his death— “he died of a heroin overdose in his pickup truck, which was parked along a lane in Forest Park that is well known to the police as an after-hours meeting place for gay men seeking anonymous sex. Mr. Moran was partially undressed, which suggested to the police that he died of the overdose while attempting to engage in a sexual act.”
I paused. The screen image switched back to the photograph of Nick Moran.
“A week or so after Nick’s death, his sister Susannah came to visit me. Susannah Beale is here today, Your Honor. She is seated in the first row behind me.”
I turned toward the gallery and nodded toward Susannah. She smiled and blushed slightly. I turned back to the judge.
“Susannah did not believe the police version of her brother’s death. She didn’t believe that her brother was a drug user. She didn’t believe that he was the type who sought out anonymous sexual encounters with other men in a park. She asked me to look into his death. I was reluctant to get involved. Nick was her big brother. She loved him. She looked up to him. She believed he could do no wrong. Frankly, that was my biggest concern. I did not want to break Susannah’s heart. How often these days have we learned dark and surprising secrets about people we know—especially, famous men, television preachers, U.S. Senators, governors—people who rail against homosexuality or adultery or prostitution but who turn out to be homosexuals or adulterers and johns themselves? Nevertheless, I agreed to investigate her brother’s death—to determine whether he had died of an accidental drug overdose or whether he had been murdered.”
The screen went blank.
“To borrow a line from the Grateful Dead, Your Honor, that investigation has been a long strange trip. As you will hear from the witnesses and see in the evidence, this long strange trip has taken me from that dark lane in Forest Park to what appears to be a massive criminal conspiracy involving the corruption of public officials throughout St. Louis County.”
There was a low hum of surprised voices behind me.
“Your Honor,” Crane demanded, getting to his feet, “I object. This is nothing but rank speculation and malicious character assassination.”
“Those are strong words, Mr. Crane,” the judge said. “But let’s give Miss Gold a little more rope. She’ll either hang herself or your client. Overruled. You may proceed, Miss Gold.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
The judge said, “I do hope we will soon be hearing from the lovely Miss Jacki.”
He turned toward Jacki and gave her big smile. She smiled back at him.
“We will, Your Honor.”
“Excellent.” He twisted on one end of his mustache and turned back to me. “Proceed, Miss Gold.”
I explained the initial stages of my investigation—of my source who witnessed the mysterious second pickup truck along Gay Way that night in Forest Park, of how I traced the license plate to the even more mysterious Corundum Construction Company, which appeared to exist nowhere outside the corporate records of the Missouri Secretary of State.
“But it was a construction company,” I emphasized, “and that meant that if it actually constructed something it
would leave a fingerprint in the form of a building permit. So I started searching through the building permit records in the city halls of every town and city in St. Louis County. And guess what? I started to find building permits. Like this one.”
The monitor displayed a blow-up of one of the Asbury Groves permits, with the name Corundum Construction highlighted in yellow.
“And this one.”
A blow-up of another permit.
“And this one.”
Another one.
“I started dropping by these houses,” I said, “hoping to find the pickup truck with that license plate number. Whoever was driving that pickup on the night Nick Moran died was probably the last person to see him alive. If I could just find that truck and talk to the driver, I might be able to tell my client how her brother died. So I kept looking and looking, and eventually—”
The monitor displayed the photograph I’d taken of the rear of the black Dodge Ram pickup parked in the driveway of 359 Dorantes Way in the town of Amity. The license plate was clearly visible.
“—I found it.”
I paused. Judge Flinch was leaning forward, staring intently at the image. I could hear whispering in the gallery behind me.
I said, “But something interesting happened along the way.”
A new image: a map of St. Louis County with five cities—Amity, Asbury Groves, Brookfield, Edgewood and Glenview Heights—highlighted in blue. Each of those towns had little yellow flags with the addresses of the homes with Corundum building permits.
Using a red laser pointer, I said, “This map shows the location of the Corundum Construction building permits. As you will hear today, there are four striking similarities about those permits.”
“First, all of them were issued in towns where Ruby Productions was the developer of a project that would receive millions of dollars in city funds through a TIF.”
“Second, each of the building permits was issued shortly after the city council voted to approve the TIF.”
“Third, every single one of those building permits was issued to a city official. In fact, it appears that Corundum Construction only did work on houses owned by city officials in those towns.”
“And fourth, each of those city officials voted in favor of the TIF.”
That drew a reaction from the gallery.
“Your Honor,” I said, “to give you a sense of the scale of what I am talking about, the TIFs in the five cities highlighted on the map total more than forty million dollars in subsidies given to Ruby Productions for its developments in those cities. That raised an obvious question: was there a relationship between Corundum Construction and Ruby Productions? And if so, was there any connection between that relationship and the death of Nick Moran?”
“Objection,” Crane said. “This is a settlement hearing, not a death inquiry.”
Flinch frowned and turned to me. “And your response?”
“That is my point, Your Honor. The efforts I am describing were part of a death inquiry that I was conducting on behalf of Nick Moran’s sister. I saw absolutely no connection between that inquiry and the lawsuit against the Ruby Productions TIF. But when word got back to Ruby Productions, they treated my actions, my death inquiry, as a breach of the settlement agreement. The purpose of today’s hearing is to prove that my investigation was focused on the death of Mr. Moran and not on any future possible lawsuit against Ruby Productions.”
“We will stipulate to that fact,” Crane said, “and this hearing can be terminated.”
“Objection overruled, Mr. Crane. You may proceed, Miss Gold. And I do hope we will soon be hearing from the lovely Miss Jacki.”
“Soon, Your Honor.” I checked my watch. “May I call our first witness?”
But the Judge’s docket clerk was standing. She handed him a note. He read it with a frown and then nodded at her.
“Something has come up, Miss Gold. It shouldn’t take more than five minutes, but I need to address it now. Court will be in recess.”
The bailiff called, “All rise!”
Chapter Forty-nine
As soon as the door closed behind Judge Flinch, Benny grabbed my arm and leaned in close. “We need to talk.”
I looked around. “Let’s go back to the attorney conference room.”
The three of us moved down the center aisle past the crowd, ignoring the questions shouted by the reporters, and ducked into the small conference room at the back of the courtroom. I closed the door and turned to Benny, who’d taken a seat at the table.
“Okay,” I said.
“You told me that Rubenstein looked familiar. I had that same feeling when I saw him this morning. It was weird. I kept looking over, trying to make the connection. And then—” he snapped his fingers “—bingo. I recognized him.”
“And?”
“Our T-ball team. He was that fucking asshole at the first game. The guy shouting at his kid and the other team and the umpire. The guy I wanted to kill but you told me to chill.”
“My God.” I said down, dazed. “You’re right. That’s him.”
“Maybe he got the hint. I don’t think he showed up after that first game.”
I stared at Benny. “Did we really have his kid on our team?”
“I assume. Why else was he there? At least for that first game?”
“Rubenstein?” I said, trying to remember.
“Dorian?”
I looked up. Jacki was leaning against the wall, her cell phone to her ear.
“Do you know where Rachel’s T-ball team roster is? The one from last summer…good…sure, I’ll wait.”
Jacki looked down at me. “She’s getting it. It must have the parents’ names.”
“Okay,” she said into the phone. “We’re looking for someone named Rubenstein. The kids are listed by first name only? Okay, there should be a column with the parent…see it?…okay…and the other one?” Jacki’s eyes widened. “Jeez. Thanks.”
She disconnected the call and looked down at us. “There are two sets of parents where the moms and dads have different last names. One is Barrett’s parents. His mother is Barbara Weiss. His father is Kenneth Rubenstein.”
I looked at Benny, and then Jacki, and then back at Benny again, my mind racing.
“How did I miss this?” I said.
“Did Barbara ever mention his name?” Jacki asked.
I thought back to our meeting. “No. The only name she mentioned…oh, no. She told me that her husband had a contractor inspect Nick’s work. The contractor’s name was Rudy.”
“Maybe the same Rudy who’s gone AWOL,” Benny said.
I leaned back in my chair. “That’s what he was talking about that day.”
“Who?” Benny said.
“Rubenstein. In the parking lot at the supermarket. When he accused me of being a hypocrite for refusing to talk to him without a lawyer but setting up a secret meeting with someone else without a lawyer. He was talking about Barbara.”
“You think?”
I nodded. “He must have had her under surveillance.”
“I know the type,” Jacki said. “Jealous husband. Bet he knew about her meetings with Nick, too.”
I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to make sense of this new piece of the puzzle, trying to figure out if and how it fit.
There was a knock. It was Judge Flinch’s docket clerk.
“Hurry, Counsel. The Judge is coming back to the courtroom in one minute.”
Chapter Fifty
“Make it snappy,” Judge Flinch said to me. “We’ll break for lunch in forty minutes.”
I turned to face the gallery. “Plaintiff calls Clyde Bennett.”
Four rows back on the other side of the aisle, a man with a bushy white mustache and horn-rim glasses stood up. He was in his early sixties and had on a navy blazer op
en over a white dress shirt buttoned tight against his large belly. He had been seated next to a nattily-attired criminal defense lawyer named Clarence Rogers, who looked up at him and nodded slightly.
Bennett scooted down the row and then walked up the aisle toward the front of the court. He was slightly bowlegged, had leathery skin, and moved stiffly, wincing every few steps.
“Over here,” the judge said, gesturing toward the witness box.
Bennett stepped into the box, raised his right hand for the clerk, and swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help him God.
“Mr. Bennet, my name is Rachel Gold. You are a member of the city council of Glenview Heights, correct?”
“Correct.”
He had a deep, raspy voice.
I gestured toward the monitor screen, which displayed a color photograph of an English Tudor home.
“This is your home, correct?”
He squinted at the photograph. “Correct.”
“Your home address is Twenty-Five Burwell Avenue in the city of Glenview Heights, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Please look at screen, sir. You are looking at Plaintiffs’ Exhibit Six. Is that the building permit issued by the City of Glenview Heights for the construction of an in-ground swimming pool and deck in the backyard of your home?”
“Appears to be.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes.”
“The building permit shows that the contractor is Corundum Construction Company, correct?”
“Correct.”
“And Corundum Construction Company did indeed install an in-ground swimming pool and deck in the backyard of your home, correct?”
“Correct.”
“That was about two years ago?”
“Correct.”
“How did you select Corundum Construction Company to do that work?”
He frowned, as if he were trying to remember. “I don’t recall.”
“Did someone recommend the company to you?”
He was looking down. “I don’t recall.”