Although the nickname Slimeball seemed an irresistible moniker for an attorney named Sliman, its provenance was disputed. Some claimed its origins could be traced to the local insurance defense bar, whose exasperated attorneys had the unenviable task of trying to negotiate settlement agreements with Sliman. Others, however, claimed the nickname was a natural outgrowth of Sliman’s second set of clients—the wealthy ones, many of whom sought him out because of his rumored connections to powerful public officials who, in response to a call from the Slimeball, would open governmental doors previously closed to those clients.
I fit into neither category. The goal of my meeting was a long shot, and my only angle was Sliman’s son, Marc. His only child. Marc Sliman was now the Sliman of The Sliman Law Firm. But up until two years before his father’s retirement, Marc Sliman had been a struggling worker’s comp lawyer. In his late forties, Marc Sliman had been, in the jargon of the legal profession, a ham-and-egger. His father, however, had always protected him, and when it came time for the father to retire, the son stepped into the role of the Sliman of The Sliman Law Firm. The transition had been less than successful. My sources tell me the law firm is struggling. In particular, many of the firm’s high-net-worth clients have moved on.
And thus the angle for my meeting.
Eventually, our drinks arrived and the supplicant pilgrimage ended.
“So,” Sliman said in his low, raspy voice, pausing to take a sip of his drink, “you represent the former Mrs. Knight?”
“I do.”
“I understand that you are not a lesbian, Miss Gold. Correct?”
I took sip of my iced tea and gazed at him. “Correct.”
“So I can assume you are not fucking your client, if ‘fucking’ is the correct term of art for the sexual act between two dykes.”
I took another sip of my iced tea and said nothing.
He smiled—or, rather, his facial muscles contorted his lips into something resembling a smile. “I understand the spoiled little snatch let it slip.”
“Let what slip?”
“That your client was fucking her divorce lawyer.”
“So she claimed.”
“While under oath, eh?”
“She did.” I took a sip of iced tea. “How did she know?”
Sliman shrugged. “I assume Jerry told her. Discretion was not Jerry’s strong suit.”
“And how did Jerry know?”
“Now, now, Counselor.” He wagged his index finger at me. “Only the client can waive the attorney-client privilege, and that privilege remains alive even after the client dies. Thus until you can find me a reliable spiritualist who can communicate with my late client and obtain from him an unambiguous waiver of his privilege, my lips must remain sealed.”
I smiled.
The waiter arrived, took our orders, and departed.
“You represented Jerry Knight,” I said.
“I did, indeed.”
“In more than just his divorce.”
Sliman nodded. “He was a good client.”
“And you represented his second wife, Danielle, right?”
“I did.”
“More precisely, your law firm represented his second wife.”
He nodded. “True.”
“Until you retired.”
“Until I retired.”
“Your law firm no longer represents her.”
“So it would seem.”
“Did she explain why she took her legal business elsewhere?”
“You would need to direct that question toward a member of The Sliman Law Firm, of which I am no longer.”
“And that member would be your son?”
Sliman took a sip of his drink and set the glass down on the table. “Are we playing Twenty Questions, young lady?”
“This is no game, Mr. Sliman.”
“Please, call me Irving. I’ve dated women younger than you.”
“Mazel tov.”
He gave me what appeared to be a genuine smile. He raised his glass of Scotch toward me. “L’chaim.”
I smiled. “L’chaim.”
We clinked glasses.
The waiter arrived with our lunches—a slab of rare prime rib and an iceberg wedge with ranch dressing for Sliman, grilled fish tacos for me. Unbidden, the waiter returned with another Scotch on the rocks for Sliman and another iced tea with lemon for me.
We ate in silence for a few minutes.
Sliman wiped his chin with his cloth napkin. “So, is the subpoena in your purse or do you plan to serve it on my son?”
“The latter.” Impressed, I checked my watch. “Just about now, I would assume. Which is why I wanted to meet with you.”
“And why is that?”
“To assure you that I don’t seek privileged communications between you and Mr. Knight, or between you and his second wife during the time you represented her. All I seek are communications between you and my client’s former attorney. Those communications are not confidential, and my client is entitled to see them.”
He nodded, cut another piece of his prime rib, and chewed it.
After a moment, he said, “I take it that the more direct route to those communications is not available.”
“Correct.”
He chuckled. “So Norma Cross destroyed the files.”
“She claims her engagement letter gave her permission to do so.”
“So she claims.”
“I will deal with her and her claims later,” I said. “I guarantee that.”
He nodded. “Word on the street is that you don’t fuck with Rachel Gold. I like that in a woman.”
I smiled. “I’ve heard the same about you.”
He shrugged. “I’m just a duffer these days with a ten handicap.”
“As you know, Irving, Danielle Knight decided that The Sliman Law Firm wasn’t good enough for her anymore. She took her business elsewhere. However, I’m assuming she didn’t think to take her dead husband’s files with her. When her fancy new law firm gets notice of the service of my subpoena on your old law firm, they are going to throw a hissy fit and do whatever they can to prevent your firm from producing anything from that file. That’s why I asked for this meeting with you. Because your law firm’s representation of Mr. Knight preceded your son’s tenure at the firm, I wanted to give you this heads-up in the hopes that you can explain the situation to your son and assure him that the documents I seek are not confidential.”
“Her lawyers will bring a motion for protective order,” he said.
I nodded. “That’s what I assume.”
“Who is the judge?”
“Ballsack.”
He smiled. “Harry, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Nasty little prick.” He took a sip of his whiskey and set down his glass. He gazed into my eyes, a hint of smile. “Harry won’t be a problem for you here.”
I smiled. “Thank you, Irving.”
“As some wise man once said, ‘What goes around comes around.’ It’s time little Danielle Knight learns that lesson.”
Chapter Fifteen
The doorbell rang.
I glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall.
7:35 p.m.
I turned toward my mother, who gave me a beatific smile as she pressed the side of her index finger against her lips.
“I’ll get the door,” she whispered, and then raised her eyebrows. “You go upstairs, and I’ll call you down.”
I shook my head. “This isn’t high school, Mom. I’m staying right here.” I nodded toward the front door. “Go ahead. He’s your guest.”
“Our guest, doll baby.” She paused to look me over, from head to toe. “You look absolutely gorgeous.”
“The door, Mom.”
“I’m going, I’m go
ing.”
I stood alone in the kitchen, bracing myself for the evening.
Abe Rosen.
He sounded like a character in an episode of Old Jews Telling Jokes. In my mind he was short and bald, bushy gray eyebrows, bushy gray mustache. Except, according to my mother, this Abe Rosen was my age. A younger version of an old Jew, except not one telling jokes. More like one of those intense pre-med types from college. I flashed back to Harold Mishken from my freshman year—five feet three, eyes blurred behind the thick lenses of his black horn-rimmed glasses, a mouth-breather with halitosis. And now he was coming to my house for dinner.
Oy.
Come on, Rachel, I told myself. Be a mensch. This wasn’t his idea. Who knows what my mother told him about me? The poor guy is probably a nervous wreck. Be nice to him.
I heard the door open.
“Oh, my goodness, Doctor,” my mother said. “Those are beautiful. Oh, and wine, too. Such a sweetie.”
A pause.
“Oh, Rachel,” she yodeled, as if she were Julie Andrews singing “The Lonely Goatherd” from The Sound of Music, “our guest has arrived.”
I took a deep breath, exhaled, and stepped out of the kitchen.
“Here she is. Dr. Rosen, my wonderful daughter, Rachel. Rachel, this is Dr. Rosen.”
As you probably figured out already, this was not the Abe Rosen I expected. Not even close. This version was tall—maybe six feet four. This version was trim and athletic. And blond and hazel-eyed. And handsome. Hollywood handsome. Maybe not leading-man handsome, but sexy sidekick handsome.
He stepped toward me and held out his hand. “Hello, Rachel. I’m Abe.”
We shook. “Hi.”
He was casually dressed—blue chambray shirt, sleeves rolled up, khaki slacks, brown loafers. Neat, but not too coiffed, which for me is a deal killer.
“Look at these flowers,” my mother said. “And a bottle of wine, too. The good stuff. Not Mogen David.”
“My pleasure, Mrs. Gold. It was sweet of you to invite me to dinner.”
***
Dinner was a delight.
Abe was charming and funny, and he was genuinely appreciative of being invited for dinner. As for the meal itself, my mother served up a Michelin Three-star version of her greatest Ashkenazi hits, which featured beet borscht with a dollop of sour cream, chopped liver with toasted challah, brisket, oven-roasted red potatoes, and sautéed French green beans.
In response to my mother’s nearly nonstop series of questions, I learned that Abe had grown up in Cincinnati and gone to Miami of Ohio, where he’d played forward on the varsity basketball team the year they’d reached the Sweet Sixteen before losing to Duke. From there he went to medical school at Yale and then a residency at the Cleveland Clinic, where he met his future wife, Sheila Bronson, who was doing her residency in plastic surgery. The two young doctors married, settled in Cincinnati, had two kids—both girls, now five and eight—and then, a year ago, divorced. His ex-wife Sheila, who’d grown up in St. Louis, wanted to move back home with the children to be near her parents. (Turns out she was three years ahead of me at Clayton, our rival high school. I didn’t know her, but, this being St. Louis, I knew her younger brother, Robby.) Wanting to stay close to his daughters, Abe moved to St. Louis, too, arriving a month ago.
Between dinner and dessert, Abe and I had a chance to talk a little more privately as my mother rattled around in the kitchen, insisting that we remain at the table.
He leaned toward me and, in a soft voice, said, “She’s quite a character, your mom.”
I nodded. “That she is.”
“She’s terrific. I hope this hasn’t been too awkward for you.”
“Actually,” I said with a smile, “it’s been a pleasure.”
He smiled, too. “Same here.”
“That’s good to hear. I can’t imagine what she told you about me.”
“Very low key. Just that you were—let’s see—an honors graduate of Harvard Law School, an esteemed trial attorney, and still as beautiful as when you were the captain of the cheerleader squad in high school.”
“Oy.”
“Believe me, Rachel, if it had been my mother describing me to you, you’d think I was on the cusp of winning the Nobel Prize in Medicine, having turned down a Hall-of-Fame career in the NBA.”
I laughed. “It must be one of the requirements to get certified as a Jewish mother.”
“What’s this about getting certified?” my mother asked.
She was standing in the doorway with her chocolate babka on a serving plate.
“Just joking, Mom. What can we do to help?”
“I have tea brewing in the kitchen.”
I stood. “I’ll get the teacups.”
“I have a plate with sliced lemons.”
“I’ll bring them in, too.”
Abe stood. “I’ll get the dessert plates.”
The babka was, of course, delicious. Like so many of my mother’s dishes, it came from a recipe her mother brought to America from Lithuania. Not a written recipe, of course. My grandmother had learned to cook from her mother and her aunts and her grandmothers in the crowded family kitchen in Vilna. After my grandmother was diagnosed with cancer, my mother spent hours in the kitchen cooking with her, watching carefully, measuring everything, and writing down the recipes, copies of which she gave to Ann and me. I’ve tried to make her babka. My version isn’t bad, but it’s nothing like my mother’s.
“Rachel has a case right up your alley,” my mother said.
“Mom.” I shook my head. “Abe’s not here to talk about lawsuits.”
“A medical malpractice case?” he asked.
“Absolutely not,” I said. “Don’t worry, Abe. I don’t do med mal.”
“Tell him,” my mother said. “She’s representing a widow whose husband got her pregnant. But only after was dead. Crazy, eh? Only in America.”
“It’s not that crazy,” I said. “She was impregnated with his sperm, which had been frozen and stored long before he died.”
“What’s the issue in the lawsuit?” he asked.
“Under her husband’s will, the little girl will inherit a fortune if she is in his bloodline. The son from his first marriage is challenging her inheritance.”
“On what ground?”
“That she isn’t his child.”
“Based on what?”
“Originally, it was based on the little girl’s birth date. She was born eleven months after the husband’s death.”
“But you said the mother got pregnant from a frozen sperm deposit.”
“Exactly. The son didn’t know that when he filed the lawsuit.”
“And now?”
“I’m hoping to end the lawsuit tomorrow.”
“How?”
“I’m taking the deposition of the custodian of the records at the sperm bank.”
“Which sperm bank?”
“Procreative Cryogenics. Their St. Louis office.”
He nodded. “They have an excellent reputation.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“I worked with their Cincinnati office for two patients of mine whose husbands were sterile. The donors, though, were anonymous.”
“Fortunately, this donor wasn’t. If all goes well tomorrow, the case will be over.”
Famous last words.
Chapter Sixteen
The deposition took place in my conference room. I had served the subpoena on the St. Louis office of Procreative Cryogenics seeking all records regarding Bert Mulligan’s sperm deposits. Although Cyndi no longer had the access number assigned to the vials of frozen sperm, you only needed that number if you wanted access to those vials, which no longer existed. Cyndi had used all five vials in getting pregnant with Carson. But since we only needed the records regard
ing those sperm deposits, I confirmed in advance with the company’s lawyer that the donor’s full name and Social Security number would be sufficient.
The witness for Procreative Cryogenics was George Luntz, a rail-thin middle-aged man in a white short-sleeved shirt, pencil mustache, and red bow tie. Also present were Bert Grimsley; Bert’s lawyer, Milton Strauss; and the company’s lawyer, a young male partner from Thompson Coburn whose name I’ve already forgotten.
The deposition lasted less than thirty minutes. After the court reporter swore in the witness, I asked Mr. Luntz the usual preliminaries—name, address, job title, job responsibilities—and then got to the point:
Gold: Mr. Luntz, I am handing you what the court reporter has marked as Defendant’s Exhibit A. Do you recognize it?
Luntz: Yes, ma’am.
Gold: Is that the subpoena served on your company, Procreative Cryogenics, LLC?
Luntz: Yes, ma’am.
Gold: Near the bottom of the first page of Defendant’s Exhibit A is a description of the documents you are required to bring to the deposition today. Correct?
Luntz: Yes, ma’am.
Gold: The documents sought by the subpoena consist of all of your company’s records for sperm deposits made by one Bertram James Mulligan, correct?
Luntz: Yes, ma’am.
Gold: The subpoena further identifies Mr. Mulligan by his Social Security number, correct?
Luntz: Yes, ma’am.
Gold: Are a sperm donor’s name and Social Security number among the information used as identifiers for persons making sperm deposits with your company?
Luntz: Yes, ma’am.
Gold: Very good, sir. What documents have you brought with you today?
Luntz: Well, I don’t have any with me.
Gold: What do you mean?
Luntz: I did not bring any with me.
Gold: Why not?
Luntz: Well, you see, we don’t have any, ma’am.
The Dead Hand Page 6