Benny smiled and reached across to punch me gently in the arm. “You’ll be awesome. The jury’ll love you. Now what can I do to help?”
I gestured toward the article I’d just read. “Check with one of our students. Maybe Josh. See if he can run those two dates through the computer.”
“Which dates?”
I finished the sandwich half and took a sip of iced tea. “The ones we found in the Post-Dispatch: April 21, 1942, and November 11, 1943. Have him check the newspapers in the other five cities.”
“What other cities?”
“Chicago, Springfield, Memphis, Gary, and Indianapolis.” I checked my watch again.
“Rachel, go. I’ll hook up with you after court.”
I reached into my wallet and handed him a twenty. “Here’s for lunch.”
“That’s way too much.”
“Lunch is my treat. Gotta run.”
As I reached the door, I heard him call my name. I turned to see him standing at our booth. He gave me the thumbs-up. “Good luck, gorgeous!” he shouted. His booming voice turned heads throughout the restaurant. “Knock ’em dead!”
Grinning, I waved and turned toward the door, buttoning my coat as I headed into the cold, my thoughts churning anew as I tried to focus on the opening statement that I was supposed to deliver in less than thirty minutes.
Chapter Twenty-two
To her credit, Catherine Wagner kept her feelings hidden from the jury. I knew she didn’t like me professionally or, apparently, personally. I also knew that she was secretly, and occasionally not so secretly, leaning toward my opponents. A person with her Republican ties would naturally favor Kimberly Howard and Kimberly’s client. Especially Kimberly’s client. Beckman Engineering and its founder had long been stalwarts of the GOP in Missouri. Nevertheless, in the jury’s presence she was the very essence of the neutral judge.
And thus, when the jury was seated, she gave them a welcoming smile and announced, “We will now hear opening statements from counsel for the plaintiff and the defendant.” She turned to me with a cordial expression. “Ms. Gold?”
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
I stepped around the table and moved toward the jury box, stopping about six feet from the rail. I paused to study their solemn faces. I was wearing my first-day-of-trial outfit: a stylish worsted-wool sheath dress in a brown mini-check pattern under a matching jacket. The dress was fitted and hemmed above the knee. The jacket reached to mid-thigh. I had on sensible flats, gold earrings, no necklace, no bracelet. A serious outfit for a serious case.
“Cheating,” I said to them, my voice subdued. “That’s what this case is about. Cheating. When all the evidence is in, I will stand before you again and remind you of what I am telling you today. This is a case about cheating.”
I paused, scanning their faces. They were paying attention.
“We’re here,” I told them, “to prove to you that Beckman Engineering conspired to defraud the United States government out of tens of millions of dollars. Specifically, Beckman Engineering and five other companies got together in a secret scheme, and the goal of that secret scheme was to make millions of dollars by cheating on a series of government bids. Cheating. That’s what this case is about.”
I moved back to the plaintiff’s table, relieved that I’d gotten that far without an interruption. I’d sensed that Kimberly was about to leap to her feet with an objection, and it might well have been sustained. This was opening statement, not closing argument, and I’d opened out near the border between the two. Time to return to more familiar themes.
“My name is Rachel Gold,” I told the jury. I placed my hand on Ruth’s shoulder. “This is my client, Ruth Alpert. As Judge Wagner explained to you earlier, Ruth has a special title in this lawsuit. She’s not the plaintiff. The United States government is the plaintiff. Ruth is what’s known as a relator. That’s a fancy legal term for what many of us call a whistle-blower.” I watched the jurors carefully, trying to sense whether they were following me. It was so hard to read their faces.
“Ruth is the whistle-blower here,” I continued. “She’s the one with the courage to call your attention to a special type of cheating called bid-rigging. But the claim we’re here to present to you doesn’t belong to Ruth. It belongs to the United States government. We intend to prove that the United States government has been swindled by a group of companies who decided that they could make a whole lot more money by cheating instead of by playing fair.”
Now was the time to segue into the central function of the opening statement, which is to explain to the jury what you believe the evidence will prove. Unfortunately, that was a problem here. To begin with, our case still hadn’t fully jelled, and our proof was going to be disjointed. Ruth was my only friendly witness, and she had very little firsthand knowledge to offer. Most of our evidence would be coming from the mouths of hostile witnesses, many of them employees of Beckman Engineering. That meant I’d be fencing with witnesses over every point. Almost as bad, some of those hostile witnesses, such as Otto Koll, wouldn’t even be in the courtroom; I’d have to present their testimony by reading aloud excerpts from their depositions. And finally, as with most conspiracy cases, the key evidence was circumstantial. Max Kruppa’s American Express receipt was about as close to a smoking gun as I was likely to get, and it wasn’t that close.
All of which meant that I had an especially important job to accomplish in my opening statement: I had to prepare the jury for the fact that this case was not going to unfold before them in a neat, orderly fashion. I needed to help them understand that I was going to be building a mosaic of evidence, tile by tile. If everything broke our way, a clear picture would emerge when the mosaic was complete. If not, it wouldn’t matter to them because the judge would throw out the case long before they’d be called upon to render a verdict.
I moved back toward the jury box. “Evidence in a real trial,” I explained, “isn’t like evidence in those courtroom dramas on TV. In the real world, evidence arrives in bits and pieces. That’s because witnesses can only testify to what they witnessed, and no one person ever witnesses the whole story.” I shrugged. “In a real courtroom, you sometimes hear the end of the story first, and you don’t hear the beginning until the last day of trial. It can be confusing unless you have a blueprint.”
I paused. “When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a carpenter more than anything in the whole world. I even had my own tool belt. I wanted to build houses.” I smiled. “Well, that’s the analogy that comes to mind. Over the next two weeks or so, I’m going to be building a house in front of your eyes. I’ve ordered all the supplies, but they’re going to arrive at different times. You’ll see. A whole bunch of boards will arrive one morning, a truckload of pipe the next, electrical wiring that afternoon. Without a blueprint, you’d have no idea what this house is going to look like. But if I give you that blueprint, then when you see each piece of evidence arrive, you’ll be able to recognize it and know where it fits. You’ll be able to say, Oh, yeah, those are the bricks for the chimney. Ah, that looks like the paneling for the den. Hey, there’s the cedar for the deck out back.”
Several of them were smiling or nodding. They hadn’t zoned out on me yet. I leaned back against the edge of our table. “So let me give you the blueprint. Let me tell you what this house of evidence is going to look like.”
***
Thirty minutes later, I returned to my seat and watched as Kimberly Howard rose to address the jury.
“A blueprint for a house?” she said with mild disdain. “When you make the kinds of accusations that Ms. Gold just made, you better have a house that can withstand a tornado.” She shook her head firmly. “But the blueprint you just heard is for a house of cards. We’re going to show you that there’s nothing there, ladies and gentlemen. Those walls are paper-thin, and that, of course, is the problem with a house of cards. At the slightest bre
eze, the whole thing collapses. And let me assure you, ladies and gentlemen, my client plans to do a whole lot more during this trial than blow hot air.”
Two of the male jurors chuckled appreciatively, and Mrs. Trotter—the black cleaning woman—nodded her head.
Not a good sign.
Kimberly shifted gears and became entirely businesslike as she opened her loose-leaf notebook. For the next ninety minutes, she proceeded to escort the jury through what she believed the evidence in the case would show. It was an exhaustive—indeed, exhausting—presentation, and most of the jurors were looking exhausted by the time she rounded the final turn.
“As for damages,” she said, pausing as if to contemplate the topic, “I shall not have anything to say on the subject now. We shall learn that damages need never be considered unless the plaintiff establishes a right to recover them. Without liability, there can be no damage.” Another pause. “When we come to the conclusion of this case, I shall have an opportunity to address you again. I think you will agree with me at that time that there is no right to recovery here—that there is no liability.”
She closed the book and gave the jurors a firm smile. “I thank you for your attention. I shall look forward to addressing you again at the close of the case.”
She turned and moved toward her chair, glancing at me, her face set in grim determination.
***
I called Ruth as my first witness. Although she had no direct knowledge of the bid-rigging conspiracy, I knew that the jury’s interest in hearing from her would be especially high. She was, after all, the reason we were all here. She was also, like all qui tam relators, vulnerable to the charge that she was nothing more than an avaricious bounty hunter, in it just for the money—a charge Kimberly had already floated during her opening statement.
For that reason, I wanted her in the witness stand today, even if it was already almost four o’clock when she raised her right hand and swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I probably had no more than an hour’s worth of questioning and ought to be able to conclude her direct examination before we recessed for the day. It would be just enough time for Ruth to make a first impression on the jury, and Ruth made good first impressions.
It would also give Kimberly Howard and her troops all night to prepare for Ruth’s cross-examination, which was just fine. I was convinced that the most devastating cross-examination of Ruth was a succinct one demonstrating that she had no direct knowledge of any key issue in the case. But I suspected that Kimberly wouldn’t be able to resist the chance to grind Ruth into the ground right at the outset of the case. After all, she had deposed the poor woman for thirteen days. Within those 2,506 pages of deposition transcript—including almost 200 pages of questions and answers on various unsubstantiated charges that Ruth had taken paperclips, pencils, and other office supplies home over the years—were plenty of questions that Kimberly would be tempted to ask again in front of the jury.
I was hoping Kimberly would be tempted. I also hoping she’d underestimate the risk. Kimberly was an excellent cross-examiner, but she had a rigid authoritarian style. While that might play well when the witness was an arrogant corporate executive, Ruth was hardly that. Seated in the witness box in her floral-print dress with her big purse on her lap, she was a grandmother from Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. You could almost imagine her opening that big purse and removing a small tin of fresh-baked tollhouse cookies to offer to the jury and “to you, too, Miss Howard.” If Kimberly tried to take her on a Bataan death march during cross-examination, it could generate a lot of sympathy for Ruth—and thus for Ruth’s case. Or so I hoped.
The timing worked out perfectly. I spent an hour and fifteen minutes with Ruth on the stand. We went through her personal background and her years of employment at Beckman Engineering. Over Kimberly’s repeated objections, the judge allowed Ruth to give a brief description of the vaguely sinister hints she had heard within the office about the bidding process on certain federal government contracts and her difficult decision to take on her former employer in this lawsuit. It was like waving a red flag in front of the defendant’s table. Everyone on their trial team was glaring at Ruth when, at 5:17 p.m., I turned to Judge Wagner and said, “I have no further questions, Your Honor.”
The judge announced that we would be in recess until the following morning at 9:30 a.m. After the judge, jury, and court personnel filed out of the courtroom, Ruth and I started packing up for the night. Benny joined us at plaintiff’s table just as Kimberly and her entourage marched out of the courtroom, leaving in their wake three clerks and a paralegal to repack the trial boxes and transport the essential stuff back to whichever Roth & Bowles conference room was now serving as the Alpert v. Beckman war room.
“Way to go, Ruthie baby,” Benny said with a big grin. “You were kicking some major butt up there today, girl.”
Ruth covered her mouth and giggled. “Oh, my goodness, Benny, the things you say.”
He turned to me. “How’d the openings go?”
I shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”
“Oh, Benny,” Ruth said fervently, “you should have heard Rachel’s speech. My goodness, it was beautiful.”
“Hey,” Benny said, “you think I’m surprised? I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. She’s got the legs and she’s got the looks, and if I ever decide to make an exception for smart women with balls, Rachel Gold is first in line for the title of Mrs. Benny Goldberg.”
I glanced up from my trial notebook and placed my hand on my chest. “Oh, be still my heart.”
“So nu?” he asked. “What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”
I looked around to make sure no one from the other side was in earshot. “They’ll start with Ruth’s cross-examination,” I said softly. “That’ll take all morning. Maybe even into the afternoon.” I reached over and squeezed her elbow reassuringly. “But she’s ready.”
Ruth took a deep breath and sighed. “I hope so.”
“Who’s your second witness going to be?” Benny asked.
I frowned. “I’m not sure. A lot depends on how long Ruth is on the stand. I might read Otto Koll’s deposition. I might put the Max Kruppa documents into evidence. Or, I might even call the big guy.”
“Conrad?” Benny asked, surprised.
“Maybe.” I was packing up my stuff as we talked. “It depends on how things go.”
I didn’t want to put on any of my expert witnesses tomorrow. It was too early in the case for that. And I certainly didn’t want to spend half a day with one of the Beckman Engineering employees dueling over the meaning of various bid documents as the early momentum in our case slowly leaked out. If I was going to call Conrad Beckman to the stand, it was better to do it early on. That way he wouldn’t be sure how many cards I was holding.
I closed my large trial briefcase, snapped the clasp, and looked up with a smile. “Well, guys, Day One is history. Let me call Jacki and see what’s cooking.”
I called from one of the pay phones down the hall. Benny and Ruth were standing nearby. When the call ended, I turned toward them with a pensive expression and glanced down at my notes.
“What?” Benny asked.
“Jonathan called. He found a name for me. Kurt Lindhoff.”
“Who’s that?” Benny asked.
“He was on the St. Louis police force back in the forties and fifties. He’s dead, but his daughter lives here. She’s in her sixties, some sort of therapist. Apparently, she’s willing to talk to me tonight.”
“How does she fit in?” Benny asked.
I turned toward Ruth and gave her a sympathetic smile. “Her father was the homicide detective assigned to your uncle Harry’s murder.”
Chapter Twenty-three
At precisely eight o’clock, Ingrid Lindhoff opened the door to her inner office. “Rachel Gold?”
I stood up. �
�That’s me.”
She gave a formal nod. “Please come in.”
For some reason I’d pictured a marriage counselor as warm and bubbly and cheerful, but Ingrid Lindhoff was no Dr. Ruth. She had the lean, angular look of a long-distance runner, with slate gray eyes, high cheekbones, and thin lips in a square, compact face. Her outfit was no-nonsense: white blouse, beige skirt hemmed just below the knees, black flats. No perfume, no makeup, no jewelry. Her iron gray hair was cropped short, accentuating her widow’s peak.
She took a seat behind her desk and motioned toward one of the chairs facing it. Her office matched her appearance. Solid, functional furniture on a gray carpet, three drab pen-and-ink rural landscapes framed on the walls.
“Thank you for seeing me,” I told her.
“Your client was related to Harry Rosenthal?”
“Harry was her uncle.”
“I see.” Her entire demeanor was precise and reserved.
“I understand that your father investigated the case,” I said.
“Both cases. Mr. Rosenthal’s murder in 1943, and Mr. Bernstein’s murder the prior year.”
“I didn’t realize he was assigned to both.”
“He wasn’t assigned. He volunteered.”
“Oh, I see.” But I didn’t. She must have sensed it.
“You are Jewish, Ms. Gold?”
I stiffened slightly. “I am.”
“As you know, both victims were Jewish.” She leaned forward, steepling her hands beneath her chin. “My father was a German immigrant. His family moved to America when he was five. They settled in South St. Louis with the other German immigrants.” She paused. “My father was a proud American, Ms. Gold. It was at the crux of his identity. His patriotism was a prime motivation for his decision to become a policeman. He believed that it was his duty to stand guard over the American Dream. Those are his words.” Her eyes seemed to go distant for a moment, a wisp of a smile tracing her lips. “Kurt Lindhoff was the sort of man who could say something like that without sounding corny.”
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