The judge frowned. “Why exactly do you think that Ms. Cross would have your client’s file?”
“Because her law firm represented my client in the divorce case. Because her law firm negotiated and approved the deed of trust that is at issue in this case. And because that file belongs to my client. As discovery has shown here, that file will likely contain highly relevant evidence—evidence this Court will need in rendering its decision.”
The judge turned to Norma Cross and tugged on the flesh below his double chin. “Well? She seems to have a point there.”
Norma sighed and shook her head. “Miss Gold really needs to show some restraint. The answer is simple. We can’t produce what we don’t have.”
Judge Ballsack frowned. “Come on now, Miss Cross. Are you seriously trying to tell this Court that you don’t have your own client’s file?”
“Former client, Your Honor. Former. We certainly did have that file when we represented her. Absolutely. But that divorce was final almost six years ago. I brought with me today a copy of our standard form engagement letter.”
She handed one to his courtroom clerk and then gave Tom and me a copy.
“As the Court will see,” she continued, “that letter clearly states to our clients that we will maintain their files in our storage facility at our expense for five years after their case is closed, but that after those five years—unless they have requested their file within that period—the materials will be discarded. Of course, if they request their file during the period, we will have it delivered to them. Alas, Mrs. Knight failed to request her file, and thus it was destroyed in the ordinary course of business, along with any electronic documents related to that file. I can assure Miss Gold that there is no danger of any privileged communications from that file falling into Mr. Sterling’s hands, since we are diligent in insuring that all such abandoned files are shredded.”
She turned to me and shook her head in feigned reproach. “You should apologize, young lady, for wasting this Court’s valuable time. And mine. Enough is enough.” She turned back to the judge with a smile. “That’s all, Your Honor.”
Before I could respond, the judge slammed down his gavel. “Motion denied! Next.”
Chapter Twelve
I placed the white stone on top of Jonathan’s headstone, right next to the one that Sam and I had placed two Sundays ago. I took a deep breath, laid my hand on the cool granite, and closed my eyes.
After a moment, I shook my head and exhaled, “She’s horrible, Jonathan. Even worse than I thought.”
I’d planned on coming to the cemetery after the court hearing that morning, but not because of the hearing. I had good news to share with my late husband—good news about his two daughters—and the St. Louis County Courthouse was just ten minutes away from the cemetery.
But Norma Cross had darkened my thoughts on the drive over. I assumed she had lied to the judge, and I also assumed that I’d never be able to prove it. She’d destroyed Marsha Knight’s divorce file, and I was sure that she’d done that after I’d had her served with the subpoena for that file. The judge hadn’t bothered to look at the document she’d claimed was her law firm’s form engagement letter—the one that supposedly allowed the firm to destroy a client’s files after five years—but I’d studied my copy. There was nothing about that document—which was literally a fill-in-the-blanks form—that indicated when it was created, i.e., it could have been created the day before the hearing.
But the more important question—the more perplexing question—was why Norma Cross had destroyed Marsha’s divorce file. Was she just being obstinate, or had there been something in that file that she deemed harmful to her or her firm?
I’d called my client from outside the courthouse right after the hearing. Marsha Knight checked her file and called me back as I was pulling into the cemetery. She didn’t have a copy of any such engagement letter in her file. But, I reminded myself, Marsha’s records from the divorce were so spotty that the absence of an engagement letter wasn’t evidence one way or the other.
But enough about Norma Cross, I told myself as I turned from the gravestone.
At the foot of the two graves was a granite memorial bench with WOLF carved on the front. I took a seat there and tried to get my thoughts and my emotions under control.
Spending time at Jonathan’s grave gave me comfort, even though there was plenty there for discomfort, beginning with the side-by-side headstones of my husband and his first wife. The pair of dates etched onto each headstone was stark evidence of life’s unfairness. Robyn Wolf died of ovarian cancer at the age of thirty-three, leaving behind two young daughters. Jonathan Wolf died ten years later at the age of forty-four. He’d been determined to get home from a two-week trial in Tulsa in time for our wedding anniversary. Rather than wait for the next commercial flight, which included a change of planes in Kansas City and a one-hour layover that wouldn’t get him home until eleven that night, he’d hitched a ride on his client’s corporate jet, which took off in a thunderstorm and crashed ten miles east in an oilfield, killing all aboard.
Jonathan had been an Orthodox Jew. I’m raising his daughters and our son in the Jewish tradition, albeit at my Reform congregation. I still light the candles and say the blessings on Friday night and go to shul to say Kaddish on his yahrzeit and on my father’s yahrzeit, but Jonathan’s death—coupled with his first wife’s death and the tragedies that have befallen some of my friends—have made me wonder whether the only religion that makes sense out of life’s nonsense is the religion of the ancient Greeks. In a world ruled by a rowdy mob of egotistical deities, bad things happen to good people and good things happen to bad people because that’s how they roll up on Mount Olympus.
The other disquieting aspect of the paired gravesites is their location. To the left of Robyn’s headstone is a double headstone for her father (who had died two years before Robyn) and her mother (who was still alive), and to the left of those headstones is an entire row of tightly packed gravesites. To the right of Jonathan’s headstone stands a large memorial for the Schwartz family, several of whom are buried in a row. The result, when I sit alone on the memorial bench, is an acute sense of solitude. There is no room for me.
But with any luck, I told myself, that won’t be an issue for many decades.
“Guess who’s going to be a doctor?” I said softly. “Leah’s taking the MCATs this Saturday. Your mom would have been so proud.”
Leah was the older daughter, now in her senior year at Brandeis University. She’d been wavering for months between medical school and a graduate program in biochemistry—a decision that she and I had spent hours on the phone discussing. She called last Sunday to announce that she’d opted for medicine.
“And Sarah loves Hopkins. She’s having a wonderful time. We’re all going up for Parents Weekend—my mom, Sammy, and me. And speaking of your son, he had another great soccer game. He’s our star goalie. He made three terrific saves in the game.”
I sat in silence for awhile. The trees were in their full autumn colors, shivering and rustling in the occasional breeze. Red and yellow leaves floated down onto the graves.
Finally, I stood, walked over to place my hand atop Jonathan’s headstone, whispered good-bye, and headed down the pathway toward my car. As always after visiting his grave, I felt a little better—and almost serene.
The feeling lasted through the drive to my office in the Central West End and up to the moment I stepped into the reception area of Gold & Brand, Attorneys At Law.
Chapter Thirteen
“My mother?”
Dorian, my assistant, nodded. “In your office.”
I frowned. “Do you know why?”
Dorian smiled and shrugged. “She said she has a nice surprise for you.”
Puzzled, I walked down the hall.
A nice surprise?
I paused in my office doorwa
y. My mother was seated in one of the two chairs facing my desk, her head bowed as she read e-mails on her iPhone. She was wearing her workout outfit—a gray Johns Hopkins University sweatshirt, black stretch pants, and white tennis shoes. I smiled. According to what I’ve heard, among the older men who exercise at the Jewish Community Center, Sarah Gold is the redheaded Red Hot Mama of the fitness center. They flirt while she’s on the hip abduction machine and vie for position on the treadmill next to hers. On more than one occasion my mother has remarked that there should be a special place in Hell for whoever invented Viagra. I try not to think about the implications of that statement.
“Mom?”
She turned toward me and smiled. “Hello, doll baby.”
I came into my office, leaned over to give her a kiss, and took the seat next to hers.
“Is everything okay?”
Her smiled broadened. “Couldn’t be better.”
“Did you already exercise?”
“I’m heading there now. And then I’m having lunch with your client, Muriel.”
I had represented my mother’s friend Muriel Finkelstein and her neighborhood association in a crazy real estate case last year.
“Tell her hi,” I said.
“I certainly will.”
I gave her a look. “So?”
“You mean, so why am I here?”
“Yes, Mom.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I have some very good news.”
“Oh?”
“I’m coming from Max Kaminsky’s office. That’s why I’m dropping by. He’s only six blocks away.”
“Is everything okay?”
Dr. Kaminsky was her gynecologist.
“Couldn’t be better. He said I have the uterus of a forty-year-old.”
“That’s nice, Mom.”
“But that’s not why I’m here. Guess who I met in his office?”
“Who?”
“Abe Rosen.”
I frowned. The name wasn’t familiar. “Who’s that?”
“Who’s that? I’ll tell you. A nice Jewish boy, that’s who. Better yet, a nice Jewish doctor. He just joined Max’s practice.”
“He’s an ob/gyn?”
“He certainly is. Just moved here from Cincinnati. And he’s no dummy. He’s graduate of Yale Medical School. I saw his diploma. Not too shabby, Ms. Harvard Law School.”
“Okay.”
“And guess what else?”
I gave her a look. “What?”
She gave me a big wink. “He’s not married.”
“Okay.”
“And?”
I sighed. “And what?”
“And guess who’s coming to dinner tomorrow night?”
“Oh, my God, Mom. You didn’t.”
“I did. I told him I’d make him a nice brisket and my special chocolate babka.”
“He’s coming to dinner?”
“He certainly is.”
“He’s coming to my house?”
“At seven-thirty tomorrow. After Sammy is in bed. But don’t worry. I’m taking care of dinner. Everything from soup to nuts. You’ll be like a guest.”
“I cannot believe this.”
“You’re going to like him, Rachel. I promise.”
“I cannot believe this.”
She stood and gave me a kiss on my forehead. “He’s new to town. He doesn’t know many people. Think of it as a mitzvah.”
She paused at the door, turned back toward me, raised her eyebrows, and smiled. “A nice Jewish doctor.”
She gave me another wink and left.
Chapter Fourteen
Golden Bough.
I smiled.
Of course.
But first, some background:
There are three things that make St. Louis unique:
The first is toasted ravioli, an appetizer you will find on the menu of every Italian restaurant and sports bar in town and almost nowhere else in the nation.
The second is the word “hoosier”—a term the rest of the nation understands as a proud nickname for an Indiana resident but in St. Louis is a derogatory term for a white-trash resident of the South City portion of St. Louis. Indeed, many a resident of our town is baffled when first learning that the Indiana University sports teams are known as, and are actually proud to be known as, the Hoosiers.
And the third thing unique to St. Louis is our obsession with our high school. As we natives know, the most common question posed when two locals meet is: “Where did you go to school?” And unlike residents of other cities, we understand that the term “school”—even when you’re in a room filled with possessors of graduate and doctoral degrees—means high school. And we also know that the answer to that question will reveal a trove of sociological, cultural, and religious information that would make an anthropologist jealous.
The realm of St. Louis country clubs is as tiered and class-conscious as the realm of St. Louis high schools. And thus, when the conversation turns to golf or tennis among certain classes of men in our town, the inevitable question posed is, “Where do you belong?” If the one being asked that question had gone through a bris ceremony on the eighth day after his birth, his two most likely answers are “Briarcliff” or “Golden Bough.”
My sister, Ann, and her husband, Richie, are members of Briarcliff, which to me is the worst of the worst: an exclusive Jewish country club—and thus a place where my people, victims of discrimination and exclusion throughout their history, can discriminate and exclude their own people. Founded more than a century ago by German-American Jews—including Richie’s great-grandfather Hermann Marcus (née Chaim Marx)—Briarcliff strives for a goyishe version of Judaism, where corned beef is available only on St. Patrick’s Day, lox is listed on the menu as smoked king salmon, the Friday night seafood buffet features a full array of shellfish, and the golf course is packed on Rosh Hashanah. As the men in their tennis whites sip their single malts on the veranda after a rousing game of doubles, they can pretend that they aren’t stuck in a Yiddish minstrel version of a WASP country club.
But Golden Bough (a/k/a Goldenberg) has no such illusions. Founded by Eastern European Jews excluded from Briarcliff, it has become the proud land of pinky rings, Cadillac Escalades, high-roller junkets to Vegas, and bar mitzvah parties so lavish they could make a Chasid join Hezbollah. Among other dubious distinctions, Golden Bough has become the club of choice for the city’s high-end divorce lawyers, many of whose clients are, ironically, members of St. Louis Country Club, Bellerive Country Club, and the other exclusive Gentile clubs that would grant a membership to a Jew just after they admitted a Martian. Nevertheless, the husbands in those Gentile clubs are convinced that when your divorce calls for an aggressive, brilliant, and ruthless lawyer, you need a Jew, and the best place to find one is at Golden Bough.
And thus Irving Sliman, former president of Golden Bough Country Club, came to represent Jerry Knight, membership committee chair of Laclede Country Club. That was seven years ago. Since then, Irving took up golf and retired, and Jerry took up a new wife and expired.
Irving Sliman looked up with a cold smile as the elderly mâitre d’ pulled out the chair across the table from him and gestured for me to take a seat. He turned to Sliman with a slight bow.
“Your lunch companion has arrived, sir. This is Ms. Rachel Gold.”
Sliman gave me a nod. “Hello, Rachel.”
He turned to the mâitre d’, held up his whiskey glass, and rattled the ice. “Philip, tell Roger to get me another Glenfiddich. I’m sure that the young lady would like something to drink as well. Send him over now.”
The mâitre d’ nodded gravely. “I will do that, sir.”
While I never had a case against Irving Sliman during his years in practice, he had been such a presence in the St. Louis County Courthouse that the first time
you saw him you could sense his authority. He’d been immediately recognizable: short, rail thin, bald, angular features, always clothed in an expensive navy or gray pinstriped suit, starched white shirt, dark bow tie, shiny black wingtips, and black horn-rimmed sunglasses, which he wore even indoors, although he’d set them on the podium when addressing the judge.
Now retired, his calendar was still managed by his longtime secretary, Gladys Parsons. I’d set up this meeting through Gladys, though Sliman chose the time and the forum.
He still had those horn-rimmed sunglasses, now pushed up onto his bald head, but he’d swapped out his bespoke suits and elegant bow ties for flashy golf attire, which today featured a shiny yellow shirt, white belt, and purple-and-pink plaid slacks. On someone else his age, the outfit would have seemed clownish. Not on Irving Sliman, though. With his prominent ears and the dark bags under his gray eyes, he reminded me of a ferret—a truly ominous ferret. Even his hoarse, low-pitched voice exuded menace.
An older black man in a tuxedo, presumably the Roger that Sliman had instructed the mâitre d’ to summon, took our drink orders—another Glenfiddich on the rocks for Sliman, an iced tea with lemon for me. During the several minutes it took Roger to bring us our drinks, a procession of men of all ages stopped at our table to pay homage to Sliman, shaking his hand or patting him on the shoulder and saying how good it was to see him. It felt like a scene out of a Godfather movie. I recognized a state court judge, the managing partner of a major St. Louis law firm, a U.S. magistrate judge, a heart surgeon from Barnes-Jewish Hospital, and the head rabbi at one of the large reform synagogues.
Before his retirement, Irving Sliman had been the Sliman of The Sliman Law Firm, which, in addition to him, consisted of six paralegals, two contract lawyers (paid by the hour), and a registered nurse, all of whom handled the day-to-day tasks of his firm’s lucrative plaintiff’s personal injury practice. While Sliman tried the occasional lawsuit that didn’t settle, he’d built an equally lucrative parallel practice representing wealthy St. Louisans—mostly men, but some women—in matters of particular interest to wealthy St. Louisans, which ranged from disputes with local public officials to disputes with their spouses. He had, over the years, become the consigliore to many of those men, providing trusted counsel on a variety of matters, legal and otherwise.
The Dead Hand Page 5