The Dead Hand

by Michael A. Kahn

  “Rachel, haven’t you heard of GHB?”

  I frowned “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s a drug. A controlled substance. There are legitimate medical uses for it. It’s been used as a general anesthetic, although not much anymore. It’s still used to treat insomnia, clinical depression, and narcolepsy. But it has illegal uses, too.”

  “Really? Such as…”

  “It goes by many nicknames on the street. Bedtime Scoop. Cherry Meth. Easy Lay. Georgia Home Boy. In lower doses, it’s a recreational drug. But in higher doses—” he paused and leaned back in his chair, shaking his head sadly “—it’s been used as a date-rape drug.”

  “What does it do?”

  “Pretty much what you’d expect. It will induce dizziness, drowsiness, visual disturbances, agitation, amnesia. Often, unconsciousness, and sometime death.”

  “How is it taken?”

  “When used recreationally or as a date-rape drug, it comes in the form of a white crystalline powder. It’s odorless and, when dissolved in a liquid, colorless. The most common version tastes salty, but there are versions that are less salty. And depending upon the liquid, that flavor can be masked.”

  I absorbed that information, struggling to make sense of it.

  “And there,” I said, gesturing toward the autopsy report. “The GHB level?”

  “That is a level of concentration most likely the result of exogenous exposure.”

  “In other words, Izzy, he took GHB that morning?”

  “In my opinion, yes.”

  I leaned back in the chair. After a moment, I said, “Izzy.”

  “Yes?”

  I gestured toward the autopsy paperwork. “If you could figure all of that out from the autopsy report, someone else in your field—someone good—could do it, too, right?”

  “If they were suspicious and if they were up to speed on the latest research in that area, sure. But that’s not always the case with a county medical examiner, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “No.” I frowned. “Someone else asked for a copy of that autopsy report.”

  “When?”

  “Apparently, a few years ago.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. The police wouldn’t tell me.”

  “His sister? You said she was the one who insisted on the full autopsy.”

  “No. The records show that she received her own copy at the time it was created. This other copy—that was later. There’s no record of it.” I shook my head. “I keep wondering who. And why?”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  I spent the rest of that afternoon drafting court papers for Marsha Knight’s case, and the following morning I filed my motion to add the Cross Law Firm as a third-party defendant in Danielle Knight’s lawsuit against Marsha. The third-party petition was a straightforward malpractice claim. It alleged that if the court should void the divorce-case bequest to Marsha because of the Rule Against Perpetuities, then her loss was solely the result of her attorney’s malpractice, namely, his authorization of a property settlement for his client that violated the Rule Against Perpetuities.

  I filed the court papers at ten a.m., and arranged for the process server to deliver them to Danielle Knight’s attorney and to Norma Cross by noon. I met Benny for lunch at Pho Grand to go over our courtroom strategy for Cyndi Mulligan’s “bloodline” case, which was set for trial the following Monday. By the time I returned to the office that afternoon, my office phone voicemail inbox included three increasingly threatening voicemail messages from Norma Cross.

  The first was relatively civil, at least by Norma Cross standards: “This is Norma Cross. I just received a copy of your court papers in the Knight case. I am, to put it mildly, shocked. Shocked. Call me immediately.”

  The second message, received thirty-one minutes later, was a bit more heated: “This is my second call to you. I expect the professional courtesy of a prompt response. Call me to discuss your fucking ridiculous third-party claim against my law firm. How dare you? Call me. Now! I am waiting.”

  And she had waited, according to my voicemail system, for twenty-two minutes before calling a third time: “This is Norma. For the third goddamned time, bitch! Why don’t you suck it up, little girl, crawl out from under your desk, and call me? If I haven’t heard back from you in the next fifteen minutes, you’ll get my response by messenger delivery this afternoon.”

  And I did.

  At four-twenty that afternoon a delivery service dropped off a copy of Norma’s Motion to Strike Third-Party Petition and for Sanctions, along with a notice setting the matter for an emergency hearing the following morning at ten a.m.

  And at 10:06 the following morning, Judge Harry Ballsack’s courtroom clerk called out, “Knight versus Knight. Motion of the Cross Law Firm to Strike Third-Party Petition and for Sanctions.”

  And once again, the three of us—me in the middle, Tom Sterling to my left, Norma Cross to my right—approached the podium. This time, however, the Honorable Harry Ballsack scowled down at Norma Cross.

  “An emergency? Really? Where’s the fire?”

  “Right in this courtroom, Your Honor. This woman—”

  “Show some respect, Counsel. You are in a courtroom, not a barroom.”

  Norma frowned. “Pardon?”

  “This woman?!” the judge said, his voice rising. “She is a licensed attorney. You either refer to her as ‘counsel’ or you can refer yourself right out of here. Now take a deep breath and start over. As the Court previously asked you, what is the emergency?”

  “This attorney—”

  “You mean ‘counsel for defendant,’ correct?”

  “Yes.”

  Judge Ballsack leaned over the bench, his face red. “Then! Say! It!”

  I was beginning to enjoy this hearing.

  Norma stepped back from the podium, pursed her lips together, and then stepped forward. “Counsel for defendant has filed a motion to add my law firm as a third-party defendant.”

  “I see that, Miss Cross. The motion is in the court file. According to my clerk, the matter is set for hearing next Friday. Miss Gold gave proper notice under the rules of civil procedure. Again, Ms. Cross, what is the emergency today?”

  “Her motion is outrageous.”

  “So you say. I will now ask for the fourth and last time: what is the emergency today?”

  “Her motion needs to be denied immediately. It needs to be expunged from the public records of this court. Her accusations—”

  “Her, Ms. Cross? Who, pray tell, is this ‘her’?”

  She turned to me with a sneer. “This…woman. Counsel for defendant.”

  “And of what has counsel for defendant accused your firm?”

  “Malpractice. She has libeled and she has defamed my law firm and, even worse, she has besmirched the reputation and the honor of a dead man. I will not stand for it.”

  “And this is what you contend justifies an emergency hearing?”

  “Absolutely. So long as that defamatory third-party complaint remains in the court file, my law firm and our esteemed dead associate suffer ongoing irreparable harm.”

  The judge turned to Tom Sterling. “Your position, Counsel?”

  “We’re neutral, Your Honor. Like the last time, our dog isn’t in this fight. We’re just passive onlookers.”

  The judge snorted. “More like rubberneckers, if you ask me.”

  Sterling smiled and shrugged.

  The judge turned to me. “And you, Counsel?”

  “There is no emergency, Your Honor. This matter is set for a hearing next Friday. If Ms. Cross has an issue, she can raise it then. But, frankly, there is no issue. As we set forth in our court papers, Your Honor, the sole ground plaintiff asserts for voiding the property settlement is the Rule Against Perpetuities. While we disagre
e with that position, in the unlikely event that this Court were to rule in plaintiff’s favor, our position is that such a ruling would necessarily lead to a finding of malpractice by the law firm that represented my client in that divorce. That law firm is the Cross Law Firm. Ms. Cross has twice made reference to the document being in the public files of the courthouse. If that is her concern, there’s an easy solution. We don’t object to having our petition filed under seal. That should resolve Counsel’s problem.”

  “That,” Norma Cross, “would hardly resolve—”

  The judge banged his gavel. “Excellent point, Ms. Gold!

  He paused to glare at Norma.

  “This Court has heard enough. By the powers invested in me by the State of Missouri, I hereby deny the emergency motion of the Cross Law Firm. And while we’re at it, I will save all of you a trip down here next Friday.” He gave me a smile. “This Court grants your motion for leave to file that third-party petition and orders that said petition be filed under seal. Draft me an order, Ms. Gold.”

  He leaned forward and glared down at Norma. “Next case!”

  As I was over at the side table drafting the order denying Norma’s motion and granting mine, she stepped close, leaned over, and hissed, “You will regret this day, little girl. That’s my guarantee.”

  I ignored her and kept writing.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Shannon McCarthy shrugged. “It just didn’t make sense to me.”

  “What part?” I asked.

  “The way he died. Falling off that cliff or bluff or whatever it’s called.”

  “How so?”

  “Adam was a mountain climber.”

  “He wasn’t the first person to fall and die at Castlewood Park.”

  “Look, Miss Gold, I don’t know much about mountain climbing, but my brother was a serious one. He climbed Mount Ranier out in Washington after law school, and then a year before he died he climbed Half Dome in Yosemite. I’ve seen his pictures. Those are big-time climbs—and dangerous ones, too. Cliffs, glaciers, you name it. But Castlewood? On a sunny day? I’ve walked along that same gravel path. It was filled with kids and families.”

  Shannon McCarthy and I were seated at a small table near the back of the St. Louis Bread Company in South City. Her choice. Near her house. It was mid-morning. We both had cups of coffee and were splitting a bear claw.

  I had called Shannon yesterday afternoon to see if she had an hour to spare to meet with me. I kept it vague, saying that I had a case that involved a matter her younger brother had worked on. She’d agreed, somewhat reluctantly. From what I had been able to determine online, Shannon was in her late thirties, married, mother of two, and apparently not presently employed outside the home.

  “I spoke with Detective Aloni,” I said.

  “Okay.”

  Shannon was a large blonde—in both height and weight—with black glasses and thick, wavy, shoulder-length hair. There was a frazzled, agitated aura about her, accented by the way she flipped back her hair with her hands every few minutes She was wearing baggy gray sweatpants, a St. Louis Blues tee-shirt, and white tennis shoes.

  I said, “He gave me a copy of the autopsy report. He said you’d requested a full autopsy.”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “I just told you why.” She brushed back her hair. “Because Adam’s death didn’t make sense.”

  “What did you think the autopsy would show?”

  She shook her head. “Something to help me make sense of it.”

  “Such as?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Like maybe he had a heart attack. Or a stroke. Or maybe he’d been drinking.” She gave me a sad smile. “My brother liked to drink.”

  “But he wasn’t drunk,” I said.

  “No, he wasn’t.” She sighed. “I don’t know. I guess I hoped the autopsy would help me understand. It didn’t.”

  “Did you talk to Norma Cross?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  She shook her head and then brushed her hair back with her hand. “It was a mystery to her, too. She was ahead of him on the path. She didn’t hear him fall.”

  “Did Adam ever talk to you about Norma?”

  Shannon frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Just curious. Did he ever say anything about her?”

  She thought about it. “I think he liked her. I mean, she was his boss and all, but he seemed to like working with her. But she was also a tough cookie. Especially with the lawyers on the other side. But Adam liked that part.” She smiled. “He said it made her sexy.”

  “Anything else?”

  She stared at me. “What’s this all about?”

  “I’m trying to tie up some loose ends. Adam handled a divorce case for a woman I represent. It turns out, well, that he was more than just her lawyer.”

  She gave me another sad smile. “That’s my little brother, God bless him. Women liked him, and he sure liked women.”

  “Did he mention her? Marsha Knight?”

  She brushed back her hair and frowned. “Marsha Knight? I don’t remember that name.”

  “There were others?”

  “Oh, yes. Plenty of others. My husband used to say Adam had a zipper problem.”

  “What about his boss?”

  Her eyes widened. “Norma Cross?”

  I nodded.

  “Jesus. Was he sleeping with her, too?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She leaned back in her chair. “What are you saying?”

  I shrugged. “Just asking.”

  She frowned. “Norma Cross.”

  I took a sip of my coffee and waited.

  Shannon stared down at the table. She reached for her coffee cup, started to lift it, and then set it back down. She lifted her gaze. “What does that mean? I mean, if he was, you know, banging his boss?”

  On the drive to the restaurant I’d debated how to answer that very question, whether to mention Izzy Feigelman’s observation about the elevated level of GBH in Adam’s blood. I’d decided it was too soon and too speculative.

  I said, “It may not mean anything, Shannon. How often did you see your brother?”

  She thought about it. “Not that often.” She brushed back her hair. “My life is kind of crazy these days, and he was always working. We’d have him over for dinner every few weeks.”

  “Did you talk to him much?”

  “Not that much. We’d text more than talk.”

  “Do you still have any of those texts?”

  “Probably.” She sighed. “I used to look at them a lot after he died. I’m pretty sure I still have them. Let me see.”

  She took a cell phone out of her purse, opened the screen, and scrolled around.

  “Oh, my.” She looked up, tears in her eyes, and nodded. “I still have lots of them.”

  I gave her a sympathetic smile, thinking of all the texts from Jonathan that I’d printed out after his funeral.

  She took a bite of the bear claw and then a sip of coffee. I waited.

  After a moment, she said, “I’m okay.”

  I handed her one of my business cards. “My cell phone is here, Shannon. If you don’t mind, maybe you could send me those texts when you have some free time? I won’t disclose them to anyone without your permission.”

  “Okay.”

  “Going back to that Marsha Knight case, your brother’s opponent was a man named Irving Sliman. Did he ever mention Irving to you?”

  She frowned and brushed back her hair. “That name sounds familiar. I don’t think Adam liked him.”

  “Do you remember why?”

  “No. Maybe it’s in one of his texts.”

  Her cell phone dinged. She looked down, read some message, typed a response, and p
ressed Send.

  “I’m so sorry, Miss Gold, but I’m going to have to go.”

  “Don’t be sorry, Shannon. I really appreciate your making time to see me. And please call me Rachel.”

  She smiled as she stood. “Okay. Rachel.”

  “Take the rest of the bear claw.”

  She laughed. “No, thanks. Look at me.” She patted her stomach. “I already have too many bear claws in there.”

  I stood and reached out my hand. “I’m sorry for your loss, Shannon.”

  “Thank you.”

  We shook hands.

  She studied my face. “Please let me know if you find out something about Adam’s death. He was my brother. My only brother.”

  “I will.”

  We hugged, and she left. I sat back down, took a sip of coffee, made a couple of notes on my legal pad, took another sip of coffee, glanced over at the bear claw, and, finally, gave in.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  I watched as Jacki Brand leafed slowly through the document, which consisted of twelve pages of Adam Fox’s text-message correspondence with his sister. Shannon had forwarded the entire set of texts to me, and I’d printed out two copies—one for Jacki, one for me.

  Adam had died almost six years ago. Shannon’s saved texts dated back nine years, and thus covered the last three years of his life. For the most part, the texts were pretty much what you’d expect to see from two adult siblings—a married sister with kids and her bachelor brother. Sometime they’d text one another several times a day. Then there’d be days, and even a week or so, of silence, followed by a burst of texts—about dinner at Shannon’s house, about a birthdaya party for her son, about tickets for a Cardinals game. Adam occasionally sent his sister links to funny videos, to which she usually responded LOL!! Thanks, Bro!! Sometimes he’d break a week or two of silence with a What up, Sis? and then they’d exchange a few updates.

  Jacki closed the printout and looked at me. “Okay. And?”

  “Our start date is March tenth of that last year.”

  “What’s March tenth?”

  “The day Sliman told Norma about Adam’s relationship with Marsha Knight.”