Bearing Witness

by Michael A. Kahn

  I walked out without responding. I found Ruth seated in the courtroom with her knitting on her lap. “Well?” she asked.

  I gave her a wink. “They’re starting to worry.”

  ***

  “How are you feeling?” Jonathan asked, studying me with concern.

  “Okay, I guess.” I sighed. “I need someone to clone me. Trial starts next Monday and I have too much to do.”

  It was eight-thirty that night and I was sitting in Jonathan’s breakfast room. I took of sip of my second cup of tea with honey and lemon. I’d come by for dinner. Leah and Sarah were upstairs getting ready for sleep; the housekeeper had just finished the dishes. I glanced at my watch. I had to leave for the airport in about thirty minutes to pick up Benny, who was coming back from Chicago after taking the deposition of Otto Koll.

  It had started snowing again. Out the window I could see the wispy flakes floating by. I thought for a moment of Ozzie. I’d put him in the backyard after dinner. He’d be okay. It wasn’t supposed to snow hard, and if it did he could find shelter on the back porch. I reached for another piece of homemade rugalach, a yummy Jewish cookie that Jonathan baked on Sundays with his daughters.

  I leaned back in my chair. The breakfast room was a circular nook that protruded from the edge of the house with windows on all sides. Jonathan had left the light off so that the room was only dimly lit from the kitchen. The shades were open. With the snow gently falling all around us, it seemed that we were all alone in a snug igloo in the middle of a fairyland.

  “I love this room,” I said.

  We sat in silence. It was a cozy silence. After a while, I noticed that he was staring at me. I gave him a wink.

  He smiled. “What?”

  “Distract me, handsome. Tell me about Spider. How goes it with those bank subpoenas?”

  “Slow.”

  “What now?”

  “We’ve traced the Spider funds through a series of bank accounts all the way back to 1955, but that’s where the trail ends.”

  “Why?”

  “From 1955 until 1964, the funds were at Mercantile Bank. That account was opened on May 23, 1955, with a deposit of nine hundred fifty thousand dollars. I’ve seen the microfilm of the check. It was drawn from an account at the Gravois State Bank and Trust.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “It used to be on the south side, down by Bevo Mill.”

  “Used to be?”

  He nodded. “It went under in 1962. We’ve traced the bank’s records to a microfilm storage facility in a Utah salt mine.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. Actually, lots of old Utah salt mines have been converted into storage facilities. Anyway, the only records on microfilm for that bank were its loan accounts and certain types of trust accounts.” He shook his head in frustration. “There are no records on this account. We don’t know who opened it or where the money came from.”

  “Maybe that sleazy lawyer can tell you. What’s his name?”

  “Paulie Metzger. We’ll find out on Wednesday.”

  “Is that when he goes before the grand jury?”

  Jonathan nodded. “Grand jury in the morning, and if that doesn’t pan out, me alone after lunch.”

  I giggled. “Someone better tell Paulie to eat a light lunch. Oh, wait,” I said, suddenly remembering. “That’s going to be in Jefferson City, right?”

  He nodded. “Why?”

  “When are you going?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon.”

  I mulled it over. “I’ve got to go down there, too.”

  “What for?”

  I explained. Two months ago I’d served written requests for disclosure on various state and federal agencies seeking to find out whether any of them had ever investigated Beckman Engineering for business misconduct. It was a total fishing expedition, a shot in the dark, but two weeks ago I’d received a response from the Missouri Trade Commission: in 1978 they’d conducted an investigation of Beckman Engineering regarding “certain averments of antitrust infractions.” I called the commission’s general counsel the day I received their response. Although he was reluctant to disclose the results of an investigation that had been closed for almost two decades, he finally agreed to let me, and only me, review the file, but only if I did so in his office in Jefferson City. He refused to tell me anything in advance about the contents of the file. I realized that the materials would most likely prove irrelevant to my lawsuit, but I couldn’t be sure without examining them, and that fact kept pestering me as the trial date approached. With so much at stake in the case, I’d never forgive myself if it turned out that there was something valuable in a file that I’d neglected to examine.

  “Would you like to drive down with me?”

  I shook my head. “I can’t take that much time. But maybe I’ll take the train down Wednesday morning. I could bring along some pretrial stuff to do on the ride, review the commission’s file when I get there, and hitch a ride home with you.”

  He smiled. “Sounds great.”

  ***

  As Jonathan was saying good-bye to me in the foyer, Leah came down the stairs in her pajamas. She was carrying a gift-wrapped package.

  “Daddy,” she said, holding out the package, “I forgot about this. It was in my backpack.”

  He kneeled down. “What is it, honey?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s for you.”

  Jonathan’s smile faded. “From you?”

  She shook her head. “A man gave it to me.”

  I tensed.

  “Who was the man?” Jonathan asked in a calm, fatherly voice. He took the package from her.

  She shrugged again. “I don’t know. He came up to me on the playground at recess.”

  “At school, honey?”

  She nodded. “He asked me if I would give you this present.”

  Jonathan held the package to his ear in an almost casual way. “Did he know who you were?”

  She nodded. “He called me by my name.”

  I could feel my heart pounding.

  “He called you Leah?” he asked, not a trace of alarm in his manner.

  She nodded.

  “Did he tell you his name?”

  She shook her head. “He said you’d be able to figure it out when you opened your gift.”

  He gave her a reassuring smile. “What did he look like?”

  She shrugged. “Big.”

  “Do you remember his hair?”

  “No, he was wearing a ski cap.”

  “Do you remember anything else?”

  She frowned for a second and then shook her head.

  Jonathan kissed her on the forehead. “Thanks, honey. You can go up to bed now.”

  “Aren’t you going to open your present, Daddy?”

  “Later. Good night, Leah.”

  “Good night.” She turned to me. “Good night, Rachel.”

  I forced a smile. “Good night, Leah.” My voice was hoarse.

  Jonathan waited until he heard her enter her bedroom upstairs.

  “Oh, God,” I said.

  He felt around the edges of the package. “I think it’s a book.”

  ***

  The state troopers responded quickly. Within twenty minutes there were two investigators in the kitchen, both wearing rubber gloves. I stood next to Jonathan and watched as they carefully opened the wrapping paper. They’d already dusted it for prints and had lifted several. No doubt all belonged to Leah.

  I looked up at Jonathan. My heart went out to him. Although he appeared as implacable as ever, he had to be churning inside. I wanted to comfort him somehow, but I knew that reassuring words were just words now. His car had been vandalized, two thugs had tried to beat him up, and now this. I put my arm around his waist and gave him a squeeze, kn
owing even as I did it that his ordeal had moved beyond the hugs and kind words. There’d be bodyguards for his daughters, increased surveillance, and heightened security as his investigation pressed on.

  I glanced over at the wall clock. I had to leave in a few minutes to pick Benny up from the airport. Although I wanted to remain here by Jonathan’s side, I knew it was probably better that I go. The men in this house were in their criminal investigative mode, and there were more investigators on the way, including two FBI special agents. There was nothing helpful I could add, and soon I’d just be in their way.

  “It’s a book,” one of the investigators said as he pulled back the wrapping paper.

  The other said, “Dust it.”

  “Check inside first,” Jonathan told them.

  With the wrapping paper open but still shrouding the book, one of the investigators lifted the cover and flipped quickly through the pages.

  The investigator turned to Jonathan and shook his head. “Nothing inside.”

  He closed the cover and removed the wrapping paper. I was staring at a hardbound copy of Mein Kampf.

  ***

  Not even once?” I asked when Benny finished his description.

  We were parked in front of his house. On the drive from the airport I was still so freaked out that I had to tell him about Jonathan’s “gift” and get my chance to vent before I’d listen to his account of Otto Koll’s deposition.

  Benny shook his head. “Nope.”

  “Rats,” I said.

  Benny shrugged. “Hey, it could have been worse.”

  I gave him a look. “It could have been better.”

  “It’s really not bad, Rachel. As soon as I realized his dodge, I just started firing questions at him. He may not have taken the Fifth, but he did the next best thing. We’re talking two solid hours of ‘I don’t remember.’ To every goddamn question I asked him. ‘Were you active in the German-American Bund?’ Answer: ‘I don’t remember.’ ‘Did you ever attend a meeting of the German-American Bund?’ ‘I don’t remember.’ ‘Did you ever meet with representatives of Beckman Engineering to discuss an upcoming bid on a wastewater treatment plant for the federal government?’ ‘I don’t remember.’ Over and over and over.” He paused to give me a wink. “I think the transcript is going to read better than you think,” he said. “Trust me, kiddo. You read that bilge to the jury and it won’t take them long to figure out that ol’ Otto has suddenly contracted the most suspect case of amnesia in medical history.”

  “Maybe,” I said, “but I’m going to need more than Otto Koll’s amnesia to meet my burden of proof.”

  “Keep your fingers crossed,” he said. “Sounds like Harold Roth’s journal might blow them right out of the water.”

  I held up my fingers. They were crossed.

  Benny grinned. “Hey, what’s the worst that could happen? Even if his journal turns out to be the mad ravings of a lunatic, you can still use it to squeeze another hundred grand of settlement money out of them.”

  “Harold Roth is no lunatic, Benny,” I said.

  “Then all the better, eh?”

  I gave him a weary smile. “What a day.” I leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Thanks, Benny. You’re the best.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.” He opened the car door. “Take care, gorgeous.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The skies were blue, the sidewalks were shoveled clean, and the temperature was a sunny forty-two degrees. I’d been hunkered down in my office since seven-thirty that morning grinding through myriad trial preparation tasks. After three hours of that drudgery I needed some physical activity, so I decided to walk to Harold Roth’s apartment. It was just twenty minutes by foot.

  He’d told me not to be late, and that was fine with me. I was eager to see his journal and hear any other nuggets of information he was willing to share. If he was willing to talk, I was ready to listen. My briefcase contained a fresh legal pad, a portable dictation machine, and three blank cassette tapes. Depending on what he had heard and what he had observed back then, Harold Roth might be an important witness for me. I smiled at the irony of calling Stanley Roth’s uncle to the witness stand.

  On the way over to Harold’s apartment I ran through my schedule for the rest of the day. Since I’d be in Jefferson City for most of tomorrow, my pretrial preparation schedule had become even more compressed. I’d allowed myself two hours for Harold—perhaps an overly optimistic estimation of how much time he’d be willing to give me. Then came Otto Koll. The court reporter in Chicago had promised to modem down a copy of his deposition transcript by one o’clock. I’d budgeted ninety minutes to read the transcript. Which reminded me: I made a mental note to ask Harold about Otto Koll; in fact, I’d ask him about the founders of each of the five companies. He seemed to have recognized Kruppa’s name.

  The rest of the afternoon was booked solid. Professor Kenneth Chalmers, my economist, was arriving at three this afternoon so that we could go over his testimony. It would be our third session. Chalmers had performed a computer analysis of the relevant bids and awards over the past twenty years and compared them to a control group of federal contracts in another area. His conclusion: the most likely explanation for the pattern of bids and awards was an agreement among the six bidders. It was a complex mathematical analysis, and it was also a critical building block in my proof of the conspiracy. Thus the real challenge for us was to come up with a way to present it to a jury of laypeople.

  Benny was also coming by this afternoon, and he was bringing along my law student volunteers to start getting the trial exhibits and related computer records in order. That would be at least a two-day project.

  ***

  The walkway to Harold’s apartment building was unevenly shoveled. I got increasingly irritated as I skirted icy patches on my way to the entrance. Surely Harold was not the only elderly tenant, and even if he was, the landlord owed him better treatment than that. I rang the bell to apartment 3C to let him know I was here, and then I pushed through the broken security door and headed up the stairs.

  Unlike last time, he wasn’t waiting for me when I reached his landing, but his door was slightly ajar. I knocked gently, holding the doorknob as I did so that the door wouldn’t swing open. I listened for the sounds of his footsteps. When I didn’t hear any, I knocked harder. No sound.

  Remembering his hearing aids, I opened the door a little wider and called, “Mr. Roth?”

  Again no sound. I leaned my head in and called louder, “Harold? It’s me, Rachel…”

  My voice trailed off because suddenly I knew. I knew without even stepping into his apartment.

  Oh, God, I said to myself as I stumbled back a step. Oh, God.

  I flashed back to my father, who had died of a massive heart attack on the morning after Thanksgiving two years ago. My mother had found him on the kitchen floor when she came down to make breakfast. The sports section of the Post-Dispatch was clutched in his left hand, his reading glasses were hanging from one ear. The mug of coffee on the kitchen table was cold.

  I took a deep breath, steeling myself, and stepped into his apartment. I turned left and moved slowly toward the tiny kitchen, wincing as I peered around the doorway. On the little kitchen table there was a half-empty mug of black coffee—cold—but the room was empty. I moved farther down the hall, conscious of the silence in the apartment and the loud thumping of my heart. The bathroom was empty. So was the bedroom.

  Standing at the bedroom door, I slowly turned. The living room was at the other end of the narrow hallway. I stared down that hallway, almost woozy with anxiety.

  He might not be there, I thought, trying to persuade myself to start down the hall. He might still be out. It could have taken him longer to retrieve his journal than he anticipated. Maybe the sidewalks near the bank weren’t shoveled.

  I took a few tentative steps towar
d the living room, cringing each time the floorboards creaked. I paused when I reached the front door, remembering with a wave of dizziness that it had been open when I arrived.

  But he’s old. Maybe he forgot to close the door when he left. You’ve done that yourself.

  I moved on toward the living room. One step, another, and then I saw him.

  I backed against the wall. For one eerie moment, I thought he was alive. I thought he was smiling at me. I thought he was about to say something.

  “Oh, God,” I moaned, covering my mouth.

  I squeezed my eyes closed.

  When I opened them, nothing had changed. He was still seated in his easy chair, his feet flat on the floor, his arms on the armrests. He was wearing the same white tennis shoes and black trousers as yesterday, but his shirt today was brown flannel, buttoned to the collar as before. His head was tilted slightly back and to the side, and his eyes were open. His face was set in a grimace that I’d first mistaken for a smile. There was a neat black hole above his right eyebrow and a corresponding stain on the nubby brown fabric behind his head.

  ***

  The indignity of it bothered me, even though Harold Roth was long past caring about such things. Like all murder victims, he was now stuck in that grisly way station between person and dearly departed. He was “the body.” Never mind that this body still had a head, was still dressed, was still seated in his favorite chair with his eyes open, his mouth frozen in that awful smile, half his brain bunched against the back of his neck. He was no longer a person. He was a corpse.

  They milled around him, the uniformed cops, the evidence techs, the two homicide detectives, the police photographer, the ambulance jockeys. Some talked homicide talk, the two uniformed cops talked bowling, the ambulance driver played Game Boy. And throughout it all, there in the middle of the crowd, untouched by the commotion, sat Harold Roth, gazing across the room at the darkened screen of his battered portable television.