MS. BATTLE: We believe you. Thank you, ma’am. No further questions.
COURT: Any cross-examination?
MR. DAWSON: No, Judge. Nothing.
COURT: Mrs. Wynn, you are excused with the court’s thanks.
Nettie Wynn took some time leaving the witness box, the one that several minutes before seemed to overwhelm her slight frame. Now, as she stood, it was too small to hold her. Rush blinked hard.
Sitting across the way, Daniels glared not at Wynn, but at Rush. It was a cold look of someone betraying intentions. Rush felt it, and he almost missed saying good-bye to Mrs. Wynn as she passed by his table.
21
TWINS MOTEL
Just before midnight, Rush guided his rental car into the side lot of the Twins Motel, cut the engine, and turned off the headlights. The lot was littered with American-made cars and pickups in varying states of decay, but they cast similar low profiles across the checkered pavement. He sat in the car replaying the day in court, but what he really needed was to sleep.
The housing options for the trial were limited. Lynwood had one fashionable offering on the town’s square, the Chester—a quaint southern inn burdened with an English name and high expectations—but it didn’t offer rooms at the discounted government rate. The town’s other lodgings were roadside establishments with weathered vacancy signs and thin sheets. The Twins represented the middle of the middle and had the advantage of being less than five miles from the federal courthouse. Rush had no idea why the motel was called the Twins. Maybe it was because of the identical wings of prison cell–like rooms, or maybe the original proprietor had two children born minutes apart. It didn’t much matter.
Rush had gathered his files from the front seat and was reaching over to grab his suit jacket when a four-door sedan pulled in three rows behind him and a dozen spaces over. The driver left the engine running but cut the headlights. The shadows hid their features, but there were three men in the car, one of them in the back.
The two in front got out. Rush leaned over and lowered the passenger’s window several inches so he could hear the men in the quiet of the parking lot. Fatigue might be getting the best of him, but he thought the men were up to no good at that hour.
“Pulled in?” one man asked the other.
“I saw.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t know.”
“What?”
“I don’t fuckin’ see it. You?”
“Shut up.”
Both men glanced back to the outline of the seated figure in the back seat and started moving. They peeled off into separate rows. It wasn’t clear whether their hunkering was for stealth or to better search the cars.
Long before the trial, Rush had settled into a predictable pattern of comings and goings between the Lynwood regional airport, the Twins Motel, and the courthouse. With each successive trip, anyone who wanted to know when Rush was in town could find out. On at least one previous trip, Rush had noticed a vehicle following him the whole way from the airport rental lot to the Twins, but he’d attributed the experience to commuting habits in a small town.
Rush wanted to bolt from the car but stayed still. A confrontation seemed inevitable, as was its unfortunate outcome.
“Over here,” said one of the men.
“Where you at?”
“Here!”
Just as the men moved to within two cars of Rush, a large SUV pulled into the lot and made its way up the row. The two men on the hunt ducked down low. The SUV idled, its driver sitting high inside with an unobstructed view of the men.
Rush raised up and saw the standoff. The two men retreated to their waiting car and, without turning the headlights on, fled from the lot. The driver in the SUV parked in the newly available spot, and its driver walked off in the direction of the bar next door.
Rush remained plastered to the front seat. He waited another minute before gathering his files and dashing to the motel’s entrance. The front doors locked at eleven p.m., so he used a free elbow to press the intercom button.
“Can someone please let me in?” he yelled into the small black box.
“Depends. Who’s asking?”
“I’m in room 302. Rush. Adrien Rush.”
“Rush?”
“Yes.”
Seconds passed in silence.
“Hold your horses.”
He waited with his back to the door. A woman appeared, a 100 sticking out of her mouth, and she unlocked the door. Her name tag had black letters on white plastic, like something one might see in a RadioShack store.
“Come on.”
“Thank you, Glenda. Thank you very much,” Rush said.
He pushed past her to reach safety at the far end of the lobby. He forgot which way to turn to get to his room and glanced back to the entrance before committing to the left hallway. He thought the woman, who was still by the door, looked familiar, but didn’t remember where he might have seen her before. She took a long drag of her cigarette and disappeared.
Once inside the room, Rush stood frozen between the desk and the bed. After a moment he reached for the phone to call Mercer, hoping that a familiar voice might break the spell. But it was past midnight and his judgment-prone partner would see him for what he likely was: an overly imaginative DC neophyte. Rush wasn’t sure which was worse: being followed by the Klan or being laughed at by an FBI agent who doubted his capabilities.
Why risk both in the same night?
Rush went to the door, put the lock nut into the metal runner, and retreated to the edge of the bed. After evaluating the various creaks and moans in the room, he commandeered the desk chair and shoved it under the doorknob. The chair hit the door hard like a boxer’s uppercut, and it stayed in place all night.
. . .
The letter, postmarked in Cloutierville, a town near Lynwood, arrived at the bureau office on the day of Mrs. Wynn’s testimony. The envelope was addressed in handwriting to A. Rush, ZOG. The mail clerk didn’t catch the significance of the acronym but recognized Rush’s last name, so he left the letter under the door of the war room that evening.
Mercer saw the white envelope when he arrived at six thirty the next morning to gather documents for court. Battle soon joined him, while Rush dragged in last. Mercer placed the letter on the table all by itself, and the three stared at it.
“What’s ZOG mean?” Battle asked.
“Zionist Occupational Government,” Rush responded.
“So it’s not a fan letter.”
Despite the ominous envelope, Rush didn’t mention his late-night fears to his two colleagues. He didn’t know why; he simply didn’t say anything. He had been targeted before and stayed quiet about the abuse. He had been young and naïve and confused. Now, he was just stubborn.
“Not likely, but it’s evidence of something,” Mercer said.
Mercer retrieved thin rubber gloves from the kitchen and cut the envelope open at the crease on the end. He held his breath, peeked in, and pulled out the letter. After examining the message, he read it aloud:
YOU better be careful. The knights are
watching you. You Jew basterd.
Do NOT betray America or we will silence
you. You dismiss them charges or else.
“Adrien, you OK?” Mercer asked. His tone was uncharacteristically soft, almost gentle.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Rush answered. “Let’s get to court.”
“First things first,” Mercer replied. “And remember, they’re pathetic losers.”
At Mercer’s request, a forensics technician arrived to process the letter. The technician took a photograph of the original letter and the envelope with its stamp, and put them into separate sealed evidence pouches. He dated and signed both on the sealing tape.
Mercer, Rush, and the local chief deputy US marshal for the district met and discussed what to do. No one had the quick answer, and court started in thirty minutes. After the meeting ended, the deputy marshal went straight to the US a
ttorney, who ordered a security detail for Rush for the remainder of the trial. And without informing anyone, the US attorney visited the presiding judge over the lunch hour and told her of the threat.
22
TRIAL II
Deputy US marshals stood statue-still near the courtroom’s four corners as the proceedings commenced for the day. The marshals surveyed the crowd and periodically met one another’s gazes in a silent but continuing conversation.
The government called Rabbi Jonathan Steiner as its next witness. Steiner covered the distance from the double entry door to the witness box with the measured pace of someone used to walking among his congregation during services. He was sworn in by the deputy court clerk and sat down. The rabbi wore a business suit with some loose threads twisting together under the cuffs, a blue button-down shirt, and brown shoes. The knot of his tie was off center and pulled away from the collar button, betraying his habit of not looking in the mirror. His yarmulke was listing but saved by a hairpin.
MR. RUSH: Good morning, Rabbi. How are you?
RABBI STEINER: Fine, thank you.
MR. RUSH: Could you state your full name for the jurors and the court?
RABBI STEINER: Jonathan, J-O-N-A-T-H-A-N, Steiner, S-T-E-I-N-E-R.
MR. RUSH: What is your age?
RABBI STEINER: I’m fifty-eight.
MR. RUSH: Where were you born?
RABBI STEINER: Philadelphia. But I spent much of my youth in Israel.
MR. RUSH: What ages were you when you lived in Israel?
RABBI STEINER: From five to fifteen.
MR. RUSH: Are you married?
RABBI STEINER: I’m single. I live alone, but I’ve got a dog.
MR. RUSH: Tell the jurors about your educational background.
RABBI STEINER: I hold an undergraduate degree in philosophy from New York University and a doctorate in religious studies from Brandeis University. I also graduated from the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York.
MR. RUSH: What’s your current occupation?
RABBI STEINER: I’m the congregational rabbi at Beth El Synagogue in Lynwood.
MR. RUSH: Please tell the jurors what a congregational rabbi does.
RABBI STEINER: My role is similar to that of a priest or a minister at a church. I act as the spiritual leader of the congregation and manage the day-to-day activities of the synagogue along with our small staff. I lead services, perform weddings, and attend to funerals.
MR. RUSH: How many members are there at Beth El?
RABBI STEINER: Approximately thirty families, about a hundred members in total.
MR. RUSH: Is the synagogue Orthodox, Conservative, or Reform?
RABBI STEINER: We have some members of each branch of Judaism, but the synagogue is, generally, in the Reform tradition.
MR. RUSH: So you lead a diverse group of Jewish congregants?
RABBI STEINER: That’s true. The Jewish community in Lynwood is small, so to maintain a minimum for Jewish worship—what we call a minyan—we needed to band together, so to speak.
MR. RUSH: Where’s the synagogue located?
RABBI STEINER: It’s at 2926 Washburn Street.
MR. RUSH: When do you hold services at Beth El?
RABBI STEINER: We have prayer services every day. Three times. Our Sabbath starts on Friday at sunset and ends Saturday at sunset. We have a Friday evening Shabbat service and Saturday morning services with Torah study.
MR. RUSH: Were you the rabbi at Beth El on February nineteenth of last year?
RABBI STEINER: Yes.
MR. RUSH: If you remember, what was the weather like?
RABBI STEINER: It was cold and clear.
MR. RUSH: Tell the jurors what, if anything, unusual occurred at the temple that morning.
RABBI STEINER: As is my habit, I walked in the early morning from my residence to the shul—or synagogue—to lead Saturday morning services.
MR. RUSH: When you arrived at the synagogue, what did you see?
RABBI STEINER: I saw a crowd gathered outside the synagogue’s front entrance. That was unusual because it’s not a spot to linger. It’s on the sidewalk near an intersection.
MR. RUSH: So the crowd surprised you?
RABBI STEINER: Yes. I looked around to see a familiar face, but I didn’t know anyone. I saw police officers. One approached me.
MR. RUSH: What happened next?
RABBI STEINER: I asked him what happened. The officer looked at me and asked who I was. The kippah on my head probably gave it away, but I told him anyway. He said he needed to show me something. I followed him.
MR. RUSH: Go on.
RABBI STEINER: The officer moved some people back. The pole was right in front of me with a piece of charred wood tied to it.
MR. RUSH: What was your initial reaction?
RABBI STEINER: Confusion. It took me a second to absorb what I was witnessing.
MR. RUSH: What did you think?
RABBI STEINER: I, of course, know the cross as the Christian symbol, like the Jewish Star of David. Unfortunately, racists also have used the cross to claim God’s endorsement. Our temple building is nondescript. We very much try to avoid trouble. We have members who are Holocaust survivors, individuals who have suffered far too much in their lifetimes, and we’re protective of them.
MR. RUSH: Rabbi, what does a burning cross placed outside the temple mean to you?
RABBI STEINER: It means we’re not wanted. That harm is coming.
MR. RUSH: How did you feel when you saw the burning cross?
RABBI STEINER: Very upset, but I was even more worried about the older members. I didn’t want them to find out about the cross burning through the news. Max Konigsberg, who is a photographer, wears a long-sleeve shirt every day, even in August, to hide his registration number from Auschwitz. I wanted to be with him when he learned of what happened.
MR. RUSH: Were you able to tell the members, including the survivors?
RABBI STEINER: We held a special gathering of the temple’s members to explain it.
MR. RUSH: What was their reaction?
MR. DAWSON: Objection.
COURT: Overruled. You may answer, if you know. Let me clarify that. Don’t tell the jurors what the members may have said, just their reactions.
RABBI STEINER: Shock, dismay, anger.
MR. RUSH: What about your oldest member?
RABBI STEINER: Petra Růžičková? I can’t repeat in polite company what Mrs. Petra had to say about it. Rest assured, it wasn’t fear. Far from it. It was defiance. One shouldn’t challenge Mrs. Růžičková from Prague. That would be a mistake.
MR. RUSH: Nothing further. We pass this witness.
COURT: Anything, Mr. Dawson?
MR. DAWSON: Briefly, Your Honor. Mr.—sorry—Rabbi Steiner, do you know who put the cross in front of the synagogue?
RABBI STEINER: No, I do not know the identity of the person who did it.
MR. DAWSON: Thank you, sir.
COURT: Rabbi, you are excused as a witness. Members of the jury, let’s take a fifteen-minute break. My deputy clerk will escort you to the jury room.
After the jury and the judge left the courtroom in quick succession, Rabbi Steiner got up from the witness box and walked to counsel. He shook hands—or tried to do so—with both the government and defense as the lawyers milled about the podium in between the two tables. When the rabbi extended his hand to Daniels, the defendant looked stunned at the offering. After an awkward pause with no further move by anyone, the rabbi continued on his way.
. . .
The next witness to testify was George Stone, the night security guard at the state courthouse. Stone had had his suit pressed at the cleaners and had bought a new shirt and tie for the occasion. He looked vaguely anxious but not unhappy as he sat in the witness room waiting for his turn to testify. He wanted to get the testimony over with so he could spend the next several years boasting about it.
MS. BATTLE: Please state and spell your name for the jury and the c
ourt.
MR. STONE: George Stone. S-T-O-N-E.
MS. BATTLE: How old are you, Mr. Stone?
MR. STONE: I’m sixty-seven.
MS. BATTLE: How are you employed?
MR. STONE: I’m a security officer at the courthouse—not this one, the local one.
MS. BATTLE: How long have you been employed as a guard?
MR. STONE: Three years. I’m a transplant from New York. I was NYPD for seventeen years.
MS. BATTLE: You said that you worked as a police officer in New York City, correct?
MR. STONE: Right. I retired early with a partial disability. I got shot during a robbery call.
MS. BATTLE: You were shot, sir?
MR. STONE: Right in the ass. It hurt like hell. Sorry ’bout that. [Laughter.]
MS. BATTLE: All right then. Mr. Stone, were you on duty during the overnight shift on February nineteenth of last year?
MR. STONE: Yes. I was on duty with another guy, Allan Fast. We do the overnight security four days a week.
MS. BATTLE: What do you do?
MR. STONE: To be honest, we don’t do much. We split up the building, and we walk the halls and check the doors and the courtrooms in our assigned areas. We walk a lot. I mean a lot.
MS. BATTLE: So it’s usually pretty quiet in the building?
MR. STONE: That’s an understatement. That’s where Fast’s stupid jokes help.
MS. BATTLE: Did anything unusual occur during the early morning hours of February nineteenth of last year?
MR. STONE: Fu—I mean, absolutely.
MS. BATTLE: Tell the jurors what happened.
MR. STONE: I was upstairs and saw a damn cross burning on the grass right in front.
MS. BATTLE: How could you see the burning cross?
MR. STONE: I was at the front windows that run from floor to ceiling. I was staring out into the darkness, I guess.
MS. BATTLE: What happened?
MR. STONE: I heard shouting; the noise was all muffled, so I couldn’t tell exactly what was being said, but I saw movement out there. Then a huge explosion. A ball of flames shot up. I’ll be straight with you: I thought a person was on fire.
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