The Dead Hand

by Michael A. Kahn

  “Such as?” Jacki asked.

  I looked at my notes. “Okay. Subpart (c) says that a lawyer shall not solicit any substantial gift from a client unless the lawyer is related to the client.”

  I looked at Jacki, and then at Benny, and then back at my notes. “Ready? Here is how subpart (j) reads: A lawyer shall not have sexual relations with a client unless a consensual sexual relationship existed between them when the client-lawyer relationship commenced.”

  Jacki frowned. “Okay. And?”

  I pointed to the page from the transcript of that phone call. “Look at what Sliman says to Fox. He’s very careful. ‘My draft solves the issue,’ he says. ‘I checked.’ Adam Fox asks him what he checked and Sliman says ‘Come on, Adam. We play by the rules,’ Then Adam says, ‘You mean 4-1.8? Come on, Irving. This is bullshit,’ and Sliman replies, ‘Your issue, not mine.’ I’m sure Sliman had raised that issue and that rule in their negotiations. But he never says it in that conversation.”

  I leaned back in my chair. “There.”

  “Holy shit,” Benny said.

  Jacki shook her head. “That’s extortion.”

  “Almost,” I said. “But only almost. Sliman never mentions the rule and doesn’t confirm Adam’s citation to the rule. He just tells Adam he’d better get the deal done as is.”

  “Or else,” Benny said.

  “But he never says ‘or else.’”

  Jackie nodded. “He didn’t need to.”

  I nodded. “Adam Fox knew exactly what Sliman meant: either get your client to sign off on this deal or I’m reporting you the Chief Disciplinary Counsel, and if that happens, young man, you just might lose your law license.”

  “Man, oh man.” Benny shook his head. “Adam Fox fucked his client every way possible.”

  Jacki turned to me. “So what’s this mean for your case?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m still trying to sort this out.”

  “When did Fox die?” Benny asked.

  “Several months later.”

  “How?” Benny asked.

  I reached into my briefcase, pulled out a printout of a newspaper article, and handed it to Benny. “Here.”

  He started reading it. “Jeez.”

  “What’s it say?” Jacki asked.

  “Poor bastard fell.”

  “Fell?” Jacki said. “Where?”

  “Castlewood State Park. According to this, he was on some hiking trail along the bluffs overlooking the Meramec River. Slipped, fell over the edge, landed headfirst on the rocks below. Dead by the time the ambulance arrived.”

  “Was he on his own?” Jacki asked.

  Benny kept reading. He shook his head. “No, he was on some sort of law firm outing. A team-building exercise, according to Norma Cross.”

  “She was there?”

  “Apparently.”

  “What’s a team-building exercise?” Jacki asked.

  “Not clear from this,” Benny said. “Seems she takes lawyers from her firm on different types of physical challenges—biking, kayaking, hiking, swimming. Builds camaraderie, she claims.”

  “Was Adam married?” Jacki asked.

  Benny scanned the article and shrugged. “Doesn’t say.”

  “He wasn’t,” I said. “I found his obituary. Survived by his mother and an older sister.”

  “Fell off a cliff,” Jacki said.

  “That sucks,” Benny said.

  Jacki turned to me. “What’s the next move?”

  “Irving Sliman,”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m meeting him tomorrow afternoon.”

  “No shit,” Benny said. “Where?”

  “At his country club. For drinks.”

  “Sliman?” Benny said. “Why him?”

  “See if he’ll tell me about his meeting with Norma Cross.”

  “Which meeting?” Benny asked.

  Jacki said, “The one mentioned in the file. After the divorce was final.”

  “I haven’t seen that one. What is it?”

  “Three months after entry of the final judgment,” I said, “Irving Sliman has his secretary send Norma Cross an e-mail asking her to meet him at the St. Louis Club.”

  “Regarding the divorce?” Benny asked.

  “Maybe. At least that’s what Norma thought. She sends back an e-mail suggesting that Sliman must have meant to send it to Adam Fox instead of her, but Irving’s secretary responded that no, he wanted to meet with her, and only her.”

  Jacki snorted. “That was then. Don’t think Norma would agree to such a meeting these days.”

  I looked a Jacki. “Really? Why?”

  “You told me that Irving is protective of his son, Marc, right?”

  “Definitely.”

  “And Norma would know that.”

  “Probably.”

  “A few months ago,” Jacki said, “I was in Judge Warren’s court on motion call. Norma Cross and Marc Sliman were on a case that got called up before mine. On opposite sides.”

  “A divorce?” Benny asked.

  “Yep. And it was nasty.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “Norma had filed a motion to disqualify Marc as the husband’s attorney.”

  “On what ground?” I asked.

  “Pretty lame, I thought. Apparently, he’d represented the wife’s brother in a worker’s comp claim. Norma made it sound like it was some sleazy undercover operation to get confidential information about her client. Marc tried to defend himself, but it was painful to watch. He was clearly upset, and he’s just not that articulate. He claimed that the worker’s comp case had been resolved before the divorce case was even filed, that he didn’t know who his client’s sister was at the time, and that they never talked about her or her marital problems. He was rattled, though, and pretty hard to follow.” She shook her head. “Marc Sliman is definitely not Irving Sliman.”

  “What did the judge do?” Benny asked.

  “He granted Norma’s motion. Disqualified Marc from the case. Poor guy was practically in tears walking out of the courtroom.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “It tells me that Irving Sliman has his own agenda for our meeting.”

  “How so?” Benny asked.

  “I didn’t think he’d agree to meet me again.”

  “Why not?” Jacki asked.

  “I assume he knows exactly which of his documents I’ve been allowed to review, which means he knows that I’ve seen the transcript of his final call with Adam Fox and that I’ve seen the last e-mail exchange with Norma Cross, all of which means he can assume I want to ask him about that final call and that meeting with Norma.”

  I leaned back in my chair, looked at Benny, and then at Jacki. “But he’s still willing to meet with me.”

  “Doesn’t mean he’s willing to tell you anything,” Jacki said.

  “True.” I shrugged. “But it also doesn’t mean he isn’t.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Philip, the elderly mâitre d’, once again greeted me at the entrance to the dining room at Golden Bough Country Club, although this time he greeted me by name.

  “Ah, Miss Gold,” he said, with a smile and a slight bow. “So good to see you again, young lady. Please follow me.”

  He led me down a wide carpeted hallway off the dining room to a door with a brass plaque that read Pere Marquette Room. He knocked twice.

  “Yes?” said the familiar raspy voice from inside.

  Philip opened the door and leaned in. “Your guest has arrived, sir.”

  “Show her in.”

  The maître d’ turned to me as he stepped back from the door and gestured with his other hand. “Please, Miss Gold.”

  As I entered the room, Sliman lifted his empty whiskey glass toward the maître d’ and rattled
the ice.

  Philip nodded. “I will tell Harold. Miss Gold, what can we get you to drink?”

  I checked my wristwatch. Twenty to five. Close enough. “I’ll take a glass of red wine.”

  “Pinot noir?”

  “That’s fine. Thanks.”

  As I took a seat across the table from my host, I heard the door close behind me. Judging from Sliman’s outfit—navy sports jacket, white dress shirt with the top button unbuttoned, gray slacks—this was not a golf afternoon. His black horn-rimmed sunglasses rested atop his bald head.

  We exchanged the obligatory pleasantries and small talk, though I was a bit surprised by just how much Irving Sliman knew about my private life. He asked about my mother, my sister and brother-in-law, my two stepdaughters, and my son—and all by name. It was at once charming and unsettling. And also, as I recalled, an essential element of the Sliman modus operandi. Whether cross-examining a witness, conferring with a government official, negotiating a deal, or meeting a new client, Irving Sliman came armed to the event with a deep knowledge of his counterpart’s personal details.

  The waiter arrived with our drinks, and when he left I shifted the conversation to my agenda—or at least what I assumed was my agenda.

  “I reviewed documents from your law firm’s file on the Knight divorce.”

  Sliman nodded. “So I understand.”

  “I assume you know which documents I was allowed to review.”

  “I would hope that my former firm complied with the court’s order.”

  “From one of those documents—the transcript of a telephone conversation between you and Mr. Fox near the end of the case—it appears that Mr. Fox was aware that you were aware that Mr. Fox was in a sexual relationship with his client, Marsha Knight.”

  “So it would appear,” he said, his voice neutral.

  “I saw no document in that file to indicate that you’d hired a private investigator to do any surveillance of Mrs. Knight.”

  “There is no such document. There was no such investigation.”

  “Which means that either you or your client figured out that Mrs. Knight was sleeping with her lawyer.”

  He took a sip of his whiskey. “That seems a reasonable inference.”

  “And based on our last conversation, Irving, in which you invoked the attorney-client privilege on the subject, I assume it was your client who discovered the affair, not you.”

  He smiled. “Perhaps, Rachel, you should change your last name to Marple.”

  “I prefer Gold.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  I paused to take a sip of wine.

  “Jerry and Marsha Knight were separated at the time the divorce papers were filed,” I said. “Jerry was living in his apartment. That means he didn’t have access to Marsha’s computer or cell phone, which means that he didn’t find out about her sexual relationship with Mr. Fox by peeking at her texts or e-mails. And you’ve confirmed that he couldn’t have found out through a private investigator, since none was hired. So that means he found out by accident. Pure luck. Right?”

  Sliman took a sip of his whiskey and set the glass down. He stared at the glass for a moment and then raised his eyes, slightly amused. “Why should I answer that?”

  “Why not? Your client is dead. He won’t care.”

  “He may be dead, but his attorney-client privilege lives on.”

  “True. You mentioned the privilege last time, too. But he waived that privilege long ago.”

  “How so?”

  “Your client discovered the affair. But whatever he told you about that affair you apparently passed along to Marsha Knight’s lawyer, namely, Adam Fox. Thus whatever privilege might have existed prior to that was waived by your disclosure to her lawyer.”

  “Perhaps.” He gazed at his whiskey glass a moment and then stared at me. “But back to my question: why should I tell you?”

  On the drive to the country club I had considered possible responses to that very question. One option was to explain that I could subpoena him for a deposition and force him to answer my question—and if he refused, I could seek a court order requiring him to answer it. But I knew enough to know that such a threat was not a viable option with this man. To paraphrase that old Jim Croce song, you don’t tug on Superman’s cape, you don’t spit into the wind, you don’t pull the mask off that old Lone Ranger, and you don’t mess around with Irving Sliman.

  “Because,” I said, “the only other person with any interest to protect would be your late client’s widow, Danielle. Given that there is no attorney-client privilege regarding Mr. Knight’s communication with you, the only reason to protect her would be out of some sense of loyalty.”

  I paused to take a sip of wine. “I was taught that loyalty is a two-way street. Danielle certainly hasn’t been loyal to you, or to your law firm, or to your son. I’m not asking you to take sides or be anyone’s advocate, Irving. I’m only asking you to tell me the truth.”

  He chuckled. “Not bad, young lady. A clever pitch. It might even persuade someone other than me. But that’s no matter, since I don’t need persuading. You’re right about the waiver of the privilege. I disclosed Jerry’s discovery of his wife’s infidelity with his express consent. He understood that such a disclosure to opposing counsel might, well, shall we say, provide him some bargaining leverage. Pure speculation, of course. But it was my client’s decision, not mine.”

  I smiled. “So tell me. How did he find out?”

  “The great Branch Rickey once said that luck is the residue of design. Not so here. The discovery was pure coincidence. My client had spent the prior weekend with his daughter, Katie, and dropped her off Sunday night after dinner. When he got back to his apartment, he discovered that she’d left her history textbook there. Ever the dutiful father, on his way to the office early the following morning he drove by the house to drop it off. But as he pulled up he saw an unfamiliar car in the driveway. Curious, he jotted down the license plate and then backed up his car to the end of the block to wait. The house was only three doors down, so he had a clear view of the front door and the driveway. At roughly seven-twenty a.m., about ten minutes before his daughter’s alarm would go off, the front door opened. Who should step out onto the porch? Adam Fox, accompanied by Marsha Knight in a flimsy negligee. They kissed. Passionately, according to Jerry. Adam got into his car, pulled out of the driveway, and drove down the block to the stop sign, where Jerry lightly tapped the horn once, Adam looked over, eyes wide, and quickly drove off. Jerry waited a few minutes, drove over to the school, dropped Katie’s textbook off at the front office, and then came directly to my office.” He took another sip of whiskey and leaned back in his chair. “All in all, a most productive morning for Jerry.”

  “Did Adam tell Marsha what happened?”

  “I have no idea. Probably not.”

  “Did you ever ask him?”

  “Never. I never even mentioned the incident to him.”

  “Other than that reference to his violation of that ethics rule.”

  “Actually, his reference, not mine. An oblique and ambiguous reference at best, I think you would agree.”

  “That was the first time?”

  “That was the only time, at least on the record. And as you know, Mr. Fox merely stated a number. He didn’t identify the name of that rule or where it could be found. You have apparently located one such rule with that particular number within the Missouri Code of Professional Responsibility. I commend your ingenuity, Rachel. Of course, there are many subparts to that rule, assuming that is the one that Mr. Fox was referring to.”

  I took of sip of wine and gazed at him. “Tell me, Irving. Why did you agree to meet me today?”

  “Why not? I am retired. Why should an old man in his dotage spurn an opportunity to meet with an intelligent and beautiful young woman?”

  I smile
d. “That’s your story and you’re sticking with it, eh?”

  He chuckled. “I am, indeed.”

  “So the case settles,” I said. “Final judgment is entered, and then three months later, according to the final document in that file, you meet with Norma Cross.”

  “I did.”

  “At your request.”

  “Correct.”

  “Why?”

  He frowned. “It’s complicated.”

  “Try me.”

  “Within the legal community I had a certain reputation, a persona, you might say, that was no doubt effective in many of my dealings with other attorneys and their clients but was, I concede, somewhat of a caricature. Indeed, the Riverfront Times once labeled me the Godfather of the St. Louis Bar. As you might imagine, during the months after that article appeared, more than one attorney and even a few judges called me Don Corleone or Tony Soprano. It was amusing, I suppose, but also a bit irritating. I was proud to be an attorney, Rachel, and I tried to adhere to the Code of Professional Responsibility. During my forty-five-year career, I never had an ethics charge filed against me. Never. And while I had several opportunities over the years, many quite tempting, I never had sex with a client. Never. And thus Mr. Fox’s malfeasance bothered me. I brooded over it for a couple months, and once or twice even considered filing my own ethics complaint, but eventually decided that instead I would simply disclose his malfeasance to his boss. There is, I acknowledge, more than a little irony in disclosing an employee’s ethical violation to someone as ethically challenged and morally compromised as Norma Cross, but I decided to do it anyway. Let her deal with it.”

  “So you told her at that meeting at the St. Louis Club.”

  “I did.”

  “How did she respond?”

  “She was angry. But then again, she is always angry.” Irving Sliman took a final sip of his whiskey, set the glass down, and gazed at me for a long moment. “She was also dismayed.”

  “Okay.”

  “Unusually dismayed,” he said.

  “How so?”

  He pursed his lips and rubbed his chin. “Let’s just say I detected a personal element to her dismay. Very personal.”