The Dead Hand

by Michael A. Kahn

Gold: Please explain.

  Luntz: We searched our files. We have no record of any transaction, sperm or otherwise, with that gentlemen.

  Gold: (Pause) You have nothing?

  Luntz: Nothing.

  Gold: No documents at all?

  Luntz: None, ma’am.

  Gold: Nothing under that Social Security number?

  Luntz: No, ma’am.

  Gold: (Pause) I have no further questions.

  Strauss: (Laughs) I guess I have a few follow-ups for you, Mr. Luntz. You’re saying you have no such records, eh?

  Luntz: We have nothing under that Social Security number.

  Strauss: Do you have any reason to believe that the number is wrong?

  Luntz: No, sir.

  Strauss: Does your company always obtain names and Social Security numbers for folks storing their sperm with you?

  Luntz: To the best of my knowledge, yes.

  Strauss: Any other ID numbers for them?

  Luntz: The specific vials of sperm will be given an access code.

  Strauss: Were there any access codes associated with the late Mr. Mulligan?

  Luntz: Not to my knowledge. That code would ordinarily be included with the other identification numbers.

  Strauss: And it’s not like the late Mr. Mulligan was just some Joe Blow off the street, right?

  Luntz: I’m sorry, sir. I’m not following you.

  Strauss: You know who he was, right?

  Luntz: I never personally met him.

  Strauss: But you know he was CEO and chairman of The Mulligan Group, right?

  Luntz: That’s my understanding, sir.

  Strauss: And The Mulligan Group, well, those folks own your company, right?

  Luntz: I believe so, sir.

  Strauss: So when you get a subpoena asking for information about the former CEO and chairman of The Mulligan Group, you’re going to do an extra careful search, right?

  Luntz: We do a careful search in response to every subpoena, sir.

  Strauss: And you did that careful search here?

  Luntz: Yes, sir.

  Strauss: That’s all I got. Counsel, he’s all yours.

  Gold: No further questions.

  Grimsley: Well, lady, looks to me like that lying bitch snookered you good. You and my father. You’re all toast. You better warn that gold digger—

  Strauss: —Whoa, Bert. This depo is over. We’re off the record now.

  Gold: No, we are still on the record. And so is this, Mr. Strauss. Get your obnoxious client out of my office immediately or I’m calling Judge Bauer.

  ***

  “Maybe he’s right,” Benny said. “Maybe you did get snookered.”

  I shook my head. “I believe her, Benny. Cyndi knew I was going to serve that subpoena. She was excited. She couldn’t wait to get the records. We both thought it would end the case.”

  We were in my office. Benny had dropped by after a faculty meeting to go to lunch. He found me seated at my desk and staring at the ceiling.

  “Have you told her?”

  I nodded. “I called her. After they left.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “It doesn’t make sense to her.” I sighed. “Or to me.”

  “You think someone’s screwed with the records? Maybe hacked their computer?”

  “It’s possible, I suppose. Something is definitely off.”

  “When’s the trial?”

  “A week from next Monday.”

  “Holy shit, woman. What are you going to do?”

  “Good question.”

  “You’ll figure something out.”

  “I hope so.”

  “You always do. What about your other zombie case? The one where you have the first wife instead of the trophy one?”

  I smiled. “Another hearing. Tomorrow morning.”

  “In front of old Hairy Balls?”

  “Ballsack. And remember: if you ever appear before him you had better pronounce his last name like the French author. Balzac—as in ‘zack,’ not ‘sack.’ Otherwise, he gets even nastier than normal.”

  “What’s this hearing about?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “It should be interesting.”

  Benny grinned. “Oh?”

  “I served a document subpoena on Jerry Knight’s divorce lawyer. Actually, on his law firm. Irving Sliman was his lawyer, but he’s retired. His son runs the firm. The subpoena asks for all non-privileged documents from Jerry Knight’s divorce file.”

  “So what’s in court?”

  “The second wife—Danielle—filed an objection to the subpoena.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “A whole grab bag—invasion of privacy, abuse of discovery, irrelevance.”

  “What about Sliman’s law firm? They were the dead man’s attorneys.”

  “No objection from them.”

  “Really?”

  “I actually met with Irving before I served the subpoena. I explained it to him. He’s okay.”

  “No shit? You telling me that in his retirement Slimeball has turned into Elmo?”

  “Hardly. I was hoping that there’d be a personal angle for him, and maybe there is. His son is definitely not a chip off the old block. Rumors are that the law firm is struggling. Jerry Knight was a good client of Irving’s, and when he died there were lots of matters that Irving was handling. I think the son is angry that Danielle yanked her business from his firm after Irving retired. I’m hoping I’ve hit a nerve.”

  Benny chuckled. “Nicely played.”

  “Maybe. We’ll see. Irving even indicated he might—just might—put in a call to Ballsack before the hearing tomorrow.”

  “What goes around comes around, eh?”

  “His words exactly.”

  “Beautiful. But enough of this law shit. Let’s eat, woman. I’m starving.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  As we approached the podium, Judge Ballsack leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and shook his head in annoyance.

  “Here again, eh?” he said in his high-pitched, nasal voice

  “But this time, Your Honor,” I said, “Mr. Sterling seems to believe that he does have a dog in the fight.”

  “That we do, Judge,” Tom Sterling said.

  “Hold your horses, Mr. Sterling—or your dogs or elephants or whatever. I’d like to first hear from the real party in interest here. Mr. Sliman?”

  Marc Sliman cleared his throat. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Judge Ballsack held up the court papers. “This subpoena was served on your firm, not on Mr. Sterling’s. It seeks documents from your firm, not from Mr. Sterling’s. It seeks documents from the file of your client, not Mr. Sterling’s. To use Mr. Sterling’s hoosier metaphor, if anyone’s got a dog in this fight, it’s you.”

  Marc Sliman nodded. “Certainly more than Mr. Sterling, Your Honor.”

  “However,” Judge Ballsack said, cupping his hand over his ear, “I am not hearing you barking.”

  Sliman shrugged and grinned. To state that he looked nothing like his father was to state the obvious. Marc Sliman was pudgy, slightly bucktoothed, and wore his thinning black hair in a comb-over. His gray suit looked two sizes two large, his dress shirt was wrinkled, and his thick-soled black shoes needed a shine.

  “Well?” Ballsack said, leaning forward, hand still cupped over his ear. “Are you going to bark for us?”

  Sliman shook his head. “No, Your Honor. Ms. Gold’s subpoena makes it clear that she does not seek any privileged communications between my law firm and the late Mr. Knight. Thus we have no objection.”

  Ballsack turned to Tom Sterling. “Well, Mr. Sterling, as they say out in Hollywood, that’s a wrap. Your objection is overruled.”

  “Your
Honor,” Sterling said, “before you overrule my objections, and I have more than one, I’d like to point out a few things of concern to my client. The first issue is that—”

  “—Sterling,” the judge snapped, his face red, “clean the wax out of your redneck ears. I have read your papers and I have overruled your objections, and thus whatever you claim you would like to point out is now moot.”

  The judge turned to me. “Draft an order denying the objections, young lady, and give it to my clerk.

  I nodded. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  “Wait.” He was looking beyond the podium, frowning. “Miss Cross?”

  I turned. Norma Cross was seated in the second row in the gallery. She stood. “Yes?”

  “Approach the bench,” the judge said.

  She did.

  “What are you doing in my courtroom?”

  She gazed up at him with her attempt at an innocent smile. “Oh, I just happened to be in the courthouse on another matter and decided to drop in.”

  He stared down at her. “Why is that?”

  She shrugged. “Curiosity.”

  “About this case?”

  “Yes. As the Court will recall, my firm’s records were the subject of a prior subpoena by Miss Gold.”

  “Yes, indeed. As I recall, that subpoena sought highly relevant documents in this case that your firm conveniently destroyed, correct?”

  “That subpoena sought client files that had been destroyed in the ordinary course of business and with the client’s express permission, as stated in the engagement letter.”

  “That’s what she said.” The judge leaned back in his chair. “What exactly are you afraid of, Miss Cross?”

  She gave him another smile. “In this case? With this lawyer?” She nodded toward me and chuckled. “Absolutely nothing.”

  There was a long moment of silence as the two stared at one another.

  The judge nodded. “Just curiosity?”

  “Exactly.”

  “They say it killed the cat. Be careful out there.” And then the judge banged his gavel. “Next case!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Although nearly three million people live in the St. Louis metropolitan area, it’s still a small town for us Jews. We typically are just two degrees of separation from every other Jew in the area. If you know someone Jewish who is from St. Louis, ask me the next time you see me. Odds are I know him or her, or at least someone in that family.

  Which is why I was having coffee and banana-blueberry bread with Abe Rosen at the Osage Café in the Central West End that Saturday morning. In addition to his connection to my mother via Dr. Kaminsky, I discovered that his ex-wife, Sheila (the one whose brother I know), and I were members of Central Reform Congregation, and thus my son, Sam, and her two daughters, Sofia and Madeline, attended religious school there every Saturday. Sam and Sofia, as I learned that morning, were actually in the same class.

  Abe had the girls for the weekend, and when he called on Friday to see whether I’d be free for coffee on Saturday after I dropped Sam off at religious school, it was—as my mother would say, and actually did say, and more than once—beshert, which is Yiddish for “meant to be.”

  Keep it casual, I reminded myself on the way over to Osage Café. No business.

  It was tempting, especially given his medical specialty, to ask him questions about the missing sperm donor records in my crazy paternity case for Cyndi Mulligan. But I had agreed to have coffee with Abe to get better acquainted and not to evaluate a prospective expert witness on artificial insemination issues. Fortunately, I’d spoken with a family-law lawyer earlier in the week, and he’d given me some good advice for my next move in Cyndi’s case.

  Abe was already there when I arrived, and as he stood to greet me I was once again taken by his looks. He was the blond version of tall, dark, and handsome, dressed today in faded jeans, a black T-shirt, and running shoes. He was apparently not on call, since he hadn’t shaved that morning, which added a scruffy (i.e., sexy) touch to his appearance.

  We talked baseball and food and music—each of which we both loved, though our tastes differed. As for baseball, he was, alas, a Reds fan—an understandable affliction traceable to his place of birth. As for food, my favorite restaurants were Thai and Indian while his were barbecue (Memphis style) and Greek. He was convinced that there was a gyro food truck up on Mount Olympus. As for music, I loved Tom Petty and Frank Sinatra while he preferred Bruce Springsteen and Willie Nelson. But with the exception of the Reds, these were differences of opinion I could tolerate—and even enjoy.

  “Jonathan was a Willie Nelson fan,” I said, “and, believe it or not, he was also a Johnny Cash fan, a Merle Haggard fan, and a huge Doc Watson fan. Never figured out how a nice Jewish boy from Brooklyn—a nice Orthodox Jewish boy—ended up such a big country music fan.”

  “Maybe his cantor sang with a twang,” Abe said.

  I smiled. “You might be right. A few years back, I was in a case with a Jewish lawyer from Alabama. He told me that when he was in Israel he went to Saturday morning services at a synagogue in Tel Aviv. They called him up to the bimah to recite the Torah blessings. He did it all in Hebrew—never said a word of English. Afterward, one of the congregants asked him what part of the South he was from. He asked the man how he knew. ‘Easy,’ the man said. ‘Your accent.’”

  Abe laughed. “Nice.”

  His smile faded. He took a sip of coffee and gazed at me. “How long has he been dead, Rachel?”

  “It’ll be three years this fall.”

  He nodded, his eyes sad. “Your mom told me you’ve raised his two daughters.”

  “My mom was a big help.” I smiled. “They’re wonderful girls. They call her Baba. They adore her.”

  “Your mom says they adore you.”

  “I do love them, and my heart goes out to them. To lose your mother when you’re just a child, and then your father.” I shook my head. “I can’t imagine.”

  “I can’t either. Though it’s not nearly the same, my father died during the summer after I graduated from high school. A heart attack. He’d been so excited about my basketball scholarship. The week after I accepted the offer from Miami of Ohio he bought season tickets, even though I told him I’d probably spend most of that first year sitting on the bench. He didn’t care. He was so proud. He was planning to drive down to Oxford for every home game. He even made me a blown-up copy of the seating chart at Millet Hall—that’s their basketball arena—so that I’d know where he’d be sitting. He placed a red circle around his seat.”

  He paused and took a sip of coffee. “Whenever I got in a game that year, I’d glance over to that empty seat.” He shrugged. “You eventually get over the pain of your loss, but you never stop missing them.”

  I nodded, thinking of my late father, and of Jonathan.

  He gave me a sheepish smile and shook his head. “Boy, this conversation has sure taken a cheerful turn.”

  “Well, on a lighter note, my mother was so proud when she came home from her annual exam with your partner.”

  “Oh?”

  “He apparently told her that she had the uterus of a forty-year-old.”

  He laughed and raised his coffee mug toward me. “Mazel tov to Sarah Gold.”

  We clinked mugs.

  The waitress arrived with a pot of coffee. “Care for more?”

  I checked my watch. “Whoa. We need to get back.” I looked up at the waitress. “We better get our bill.”

  She smiled. “It’s already been taken care of.”

  I turned to Abe. “Really?”

  “My pleasure. You’re a cheap date.”

  “My turn next time.”

  “Deal.”

  We shook hands in the parking lot.

  “This was nice, Rachel.”

  “I had fun. Take care
.”

  “You, too.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Throughout the first year of the divorce proceeding captioned In re the Marriage of Jerome R. Knight and Marsha B. Knight, Adam Fox personified a Cross Law Firm lawyer. In his role as Marsha Knight’s attorney, he was every bit as aggressive, uncooperative, obnoxious, and underhanded as his firm’s namesake, Norma Cross.

  Until suddenly he wasn’t.

  All was revealed in the hundreds of documents comprising the case file that I reviewed in a conference room at The Sliman Law Firm. Irving’s son, Marc, had met me in the lobby and escorted me to the conference room, where three cardboard storage boxes of documents awaited. Marc explained that he’d gone through the files and had removed just one folder on the ground that its contents were protected from disclosure under the attorney work product privilege. That folder was labeled “Trial Strategy” and contained, he explained, his father’s notes on potential trial exhibits, cross-examinations, and the like. Given that the case had settled before trial, I wasn’t that concerned about those documents.

  Reviewing the case file in a typical lawsuit—even a divorce case—can be a tedious, yawn-producing task. First comes the initial written discovery—the interrogatories and document requests written in eye-numbing legalese—which are followed by written objections to those written discovery requests, which are followed by negotiations over those objections, sometimes via correspondence, other times by telephone followed by correspondence confirming those negotiations, which are followed by supplemental partial answers to the written discovery requests, which are followed by more negotiations over the inadequacies of the answers, which are followed by a motion to compel more responsive answers, and so on and so on.

  But not so with the case file for In re the Marriage of Jerome R. Knight and Marsha B. Knight. Oh, there were interrogatories and there were letters and there were motions, but not of the usual versions. The divorce case was filed in February. The first sign of trouble came in May in the form of a four-page letter from Adam Fox to Irving Sliman that began: “This will confirm the agreements we reached today during our discussion of your client’s meritless objections to my client’s interrogatories and request for production of documents.”