The Mourning Sexton

by Michael Baron

  “Her father approached me.”

  Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you a friend of her father?”

  “Not really.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “We belong to the same synagogue. He approached me after services one morning last December. He wanted to hire me to file a lawsuit on his daughter's behalf. All I agreed to do was look at the file. Unfortunately, I discovered that the statute of limitations was about to expire.” He gave a shrug. “I filed the lawsuit.”

  “But you don't believe in it.”

  “I didn't back then.”

  “But now?”

  He gazed at her. “I do.”

  She took a sip of coffee. “What's my connection?”

  “You were close to her.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  He described the results of his search yesterday afternoon. After Judith's death, her personal belongings had been boxed and stored in Abe Shifrin's basement. In one of those boxes he'd found a shoebox filled with birthday and holiday cards that Judith had received over the years going all the way back to high school.

  “I went through the cards one by one,” he said. “During the last three years of her life, she received a few cards from some out-of-town friends, but the only people in St. Louis who sent her cards were you and her aunt Hannah. I matched the names on the cards with the birthday reminders on her personal calendars for the last several years of her life. The only two St. Louis birthdays on there all three years were yours and her aunt Hannah's. She had Judge McCormick's birthday on her calendar two years before she died, but not the last year.”

  “No one else?”

  There was a touch of sadness in her voice.

  Hirsch said, “There are others if you go back farther. She listed someone named Reggie Jordan for several years. Saved his birthday cards, too. Judging by what he wrote on them, I'd guess he was a boyfriend.”

  “He was.”

  “There was nothing from him for the last three years of her life. I assume they broke up.”

  “They did.”

  “During law school?”

  She nodded. “They met in college. He was a year older. After graduation, he got a job as a stockbroker. They broke up toward the end of her first year of law school.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “Not really. I met him once or twice on campus, but I didn't know Judith that well at the time. It wasn't until the spring of her second year that she started volunteering at the clinic. Reggie was history by then.”

  “Does he still live in St. Louis?”

  “I have no idea.”

  He glanced at his notes. “Do you know Judith's father?”

  “Never met him. Never want to.”

  He let that one sink in. He'd heard the spike of anger in her voice. She must have as well, because she was staring at her coffee mug.

  He asked, “Did she talk to you about her father?”

  She studied him as she sipped her coffee. “What does that matter?”

  “Her mother is dead. She had no siblings. That means her father is her closest surviving relative.”

  “So?”

  “So their relationship is relevant for damages.”

  She pursed her lips. After a moment, she nodded. “Okay.”

  Hirsch picked his words carefully. “I've spoken with her father about their relationship. I got the sense that it was somewhat troubled. He refused to go into any details. I'm not sure that he could even if he wanted to. He's been diagnosed with Alzheimer's. Although the disease is in an early stage, his memory is already erratic. What little he told me, though, is consistent with what I found—or didn't find. There were no birthday or Hanukkah cards from him. His birthday wasn't on any of her calendars. It was as if he didn't exist for her.”

  “Oh, he existed for her”—her nostrils flared—“that was the problem. Her father was a narcissistic bastard.”

  She shook her head in disgust. “What do you know about her mother?”

  “I know that she died when Judith was in high school.”

  “Her mother was an invalid. She was bedridden from the time Judith was in fifth grade and died when Judith was in high school. By then, Judith was cooking her father's meals, washing and ironing his clothes, darning his socks, cleaning his house, and listening to him whine every night and every morning about what a hard life he had.”

  She paused and shook her head sadly. “That was her junior year of high school. Think about what you were doing your junior year, and then think about Judith. He wouldn't let her go away to college, of course. Wouldn't hear of it. She attended Washington U, but she lived at home. While her college friends were partying or hanging out at coffeehouses or gathering in dorm rooms to talk into the wee hours about life, she was stuck at home cooking his meals and washing his clothes and cleaning up after him. He kept her trapped at home.” She paused and then smiled. “Until the great escape. It happened after her sophomore year of college.”

  “That's when she met Jordan?”

  “Yes. Reggie was everything her father wasn't. He was tall and sweet and bighearted and African American. Two weeks before the start of her junior year she moved out of her father's house and into Reggie's apartment.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh is right. Her father went berserk. Literally cut her out of his life—emotionally, financially, every way. He refused to see her or have anything to do with her. Total rejection.”

  “Did they ever reconcile?”

  “Never.” She sighed. “It so pained Judith. She used to talk to me about it. That's how I know all this. The poor thing was confused. One day she'd feel sorry for him, and the next day she'd hate him. She'd have these terrible waves of guilt and depression. She worked up the nerve to reach out to him when she was in law school, but he totally rebuffed her. She didn't give up, though. The last time she tried—” Dulcie paused, her eyes suddenly watering.

  She took a deep breath and seemed to will herself back from tears. “That last time was about a week before she died. It was the first night of Hanukkah. She made a plate of potato latkes and homemade applesauce and took them over to his house. She rang the doorbell. He opened the door, stared at her, and then closed it in her face. In her face.”

  The memory clearly infuriated Dulcie.

  “She called me that night sobbing. She was devastated. Absolutely devastated.” Dulcie stared at him. “Some father, eh?”

  He said nothing, letting the story sink in.

  After a moment, she gestured at his empty coffee mug. “You want a refill?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  The story of Judith and her father made him sad. He thought of the terrible remorse that must have haunted Abe Shifrin. He was well acquainted with that emotion. As he thought of that final confrontation between father and daughter, he could almost hear the sound of that front door closing. He thought of that sound reverberating in Abe Shifrin's mind. Echoing through the years. Echoing as he stood over her open grave as the dirt from his shovel clattered down onto her coffin. Echoing in the flare of the match as he lit that first yahrzeit candle in his empty home. Echoing in the clatter of bare tree branches in the winter winds as he lay awake in bed. There was an echo to hound you to your grave—or at least until the Alzheimer's finally silenced it.

  “Why me?” Dulcie asked.

  He looked up from his reverie, regrouping his thoughts.

  “Because I'm representing someone I never met,” he said. “I need to learn more about her. I need to find out what she liked and didn't like. Who her friends were. Whether she had any enemies. Did she have hobbies? Did she have dreams? Did she have plans for the future?”

  “That's a lot of information.”

  “For one life?” He shook his head. “Not really.”

  “What do you have so far?”

  “I have two photo albums from her childhood, a few graduation portraits, a box or so of personal papers. I have a packet of morgue
shots and another one of postmortem X-rays. I have a list of names I copied down from her calendars and holiday cards and personal papers.”

  Dulcie leaned back in her chair. After a moment, she said, “She loved Eva Cassidy.”

  “Who's that?”

  “A jazz singer. She's dead, too. Died in her thirties. Her favorite movie was Sleepless in Seattle.” She smiled at the memory. “Her second favorite movie was Cinderella. She owned both on videotape.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest as she thought back, her lips pursed in thought. “She loved Charles Dickens. I never met anyone who loved Dickens the way Judith did. Especially Great Expectations and Bleak House. She'd read each at least a half dozen times. Her favorite song was ‘Fields of Gold'—the version by Sting. Actually, she loved just about anything by Sting.”

  Dulcie's eyes seemed to go distant as she thought back.

  “Did she have a boyfriend after Reggie?”

  “No one special.”

  “How about anyone at all?”

  “She had a few dates. Nothing serious.”

  “Girlfriends?”

  She thought it over. “She never talked about anyone else to me, but that doesn't mean she didn't have other friends. I do know that she spent a lot of time on her own. Especially her last year. Or at least I didn't see her as often. But through it all, she never cut back on her time at the family justice clinic. Right up to the end. That was unusual.”

  “How so?”

  “I've had many dedicated student volunteers, but students tend to view the clinic as a law school thing. Once they graduate, they move on. But not Judith. She was there two evenings every week and all day every Saturday—summer, winter, spring, and fall.”

  “What did she do at the clinic?”

  “We provide legal services to abused women and their children. The real challenge is to gain their trust when they first come in. Judith had a wonderful ability to connect with the women, to gain their confidence and serve as a link between them and the lawyers who would deal with their legal problems. She was an incredibly valuable asset at the clinic. I miss her anyway, but I miss that part of her, too.”

  “Was she as close with anyone else as she was with you?”

  “I don't know. I never heard of anyone else. But you need to understand that we weren't friends in the typical sense.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I began as her professor, and then I was her supervisor at the clinic. There was the age difference and the authority difference. We'd have a cup of coffee together maybe once a week. Occasionally we'd go out to lunch. I'd do a lot of listening.”

  “To what?”

  “To her life. Judith talked about her life almost obsessively. Especially about her father. It was really quite sad. I suppose we're all hung up to a certain degree on our parents and on what we think they did or didn't do to us. But most of us are able to get on with our lives. Not Judith.”

  He handed her a photocopy of the list of names he'd copied down from Judith's personal papers. “Do you know any of these people?”

  She took a moment to scan down the list. There were thirty-seven names on it, including hers. “I recognize a few students. Barry Embry's one. He was in her class. I think he clerked for an Eighth Circuit judge after graduation. Linda Hartstein. I had her in a class. Bonnie Ross, too. A few other names look familiar.” She shrugged. “Maybe they were law students.” She looked up at him. “Maybe not.”

  “Could you check? You can keep the list. It's an extra copy.”

  She gave him a curious look. “Why do these names matter?”

  “I'm looking for connections.”

  “To what?”

  “To Judith,” he said, keeping it general, trying to convey through his tone and manner that he'd fully answered the question. “To her life.”

  She studied him a moment. “Okay.”

  “Thanks.”

  She folded the list in half and dropped it into her purse. “I won't be on campus tomorrow. I'll have time to check the school records the following morning. We can touch base later that day. I'll be at the clinic the entire afternoon. You can call me there.” She closed her purse and glanced at her watch. “Is that it?”

  “One more thing. How would you describe her relationship with Judge McCormick?”

  “Her relationship? She was his law clerk.”

  “Did she talk about him?”

  She leaned back in her chair. “Yes and no. The first year of her clerkship she talked about him all the time.”

  “Good or bad?”

  “All good. She worshipped the man. Thought he was a genius.” She shook her head in disbelief. “You worked with him, right? I had a couple of cases before McCormick back when he was a state court judge. We both know that when it comes to judges, he's no Learned Hand. But not to Judith that first year. You'd have thought she was clerking for Moses.”

  Hirsch nodded, surprised that she knew that part of his own history. Had she looked him up or known it all along?

  “The whole thing was strange that first year of her clerkship. Like she'd become a Moonie. Never complained about his temperament on the bench, even though it's awful. Never complained about working for him, even though he's supposed to be one of the worst judges to clerk for in this district.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. Former clerks I've talked to tell me he's arrogant and impatient and irritable. But to hear Judith talk about him that first year, you would have thought she was working for Mister Rogers.”

  “But that changed?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “I never found out. Around the middle of her second year, she stopped talking about him. Completely. A few times I tried to ask her how the clerkship was going, but she'd just deflect the question, telling me she didn't want to talk about work.”

  Hirsch asked, “Do you think they had an affair?”

  She stared at him. “The thought crossed my mind.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  She shrugged. “Pure conjecture. She didn't have a boyfriend, and he was divorced. The first year she adored him, and then all of sudden she wouldn't talk about him. He was a skirt chaser even when he was married. He had a reputation.” She leveled her gaze at him, her eyes cool. “Not unlike some other powerful men.”

  He met her gaze, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Maybe he changed. Sometimes that happens.”

  “Usually not.”

  She checked her watch, reached into her purse, took out a business card, and handed it to him. “I need to go. This has my office number and the number at the clinic. I should have something on those names the day after tomorrow.”

  He stood as she did. She slipped on her coat and turned to him as she buttoned it.

  “Thank you, Dulcie.”

  She shook her head. “No need to thank me. I'm not doing this for you. Judith was a wonderful person. If her death is someone else's fault, and if I can help make the case against that someone, I'm happy to do so. But not for you. And not for me. And not for her father. Just for her.”

  She turned and left.

  Just like that.

  He watched through the coffeehouse window as she stepped through the snow toward her car. He felt the ache of desire, something he hadn't felt in years. But he also felt the sting of knowing that she detested him.

  CHAPTER 11

  Missy Shields looked up from her milk shake and gave him an exaggerated eye roll. “What-ev-er.”

  She had that sorority thing down pat. French manicured nails, perfect makeup, eyes a vivid contact-lens blue, shoulder-length hair too blond and too puffy. Facial expressions announcing emotions like Kabuki masks—wide eyes, O-shaped mouth, hands pressed to cheeks, eyebrows arched. Prada bag on the seat beside her in the booth. BCBG suit with a frilly blouse unbuttoned at the throat to reveal a David Yurman platinum choker.

  But what made the persona noteworthy was what it hid. While Miss
y Shields might still affect the perky princess crowned Sweetheart of SAE's Spring Fling her junior year, she was now a young partner at Drahner Cortez LLC, known in the legal community as Drawn & Quartered. It was an aggressive litigation boutique headquartered in West Palm Beach with a nationwide class action practice. Missy Shields had earned her stripes in the Enron class actions down in Houston and in tobacco litigation in several states. Drawn & Quartered was one of six law firms serving as lead co-counsel for the plaintiffs in In re Turbo-XL Litigation, and Missy Shield was one of three attorneys from the firm on the case.

  Hirsch found her the same way he found Dulcie Lorenz, during that long afternoon of digging through boxes of Judith's personal belongings in Abe Shifrin's basement. Unlike Dulcie, though, he didn't actually find Missy by name. He'd come across two recurring telephone numbers on Judith's phone bills, both in the 561 area code. The first call was on November 9 of the year before Judith died. The calls continued on and off for about seven weeks—three calls one week, four the next, one the following week, eight the week after, and then gradually tapering off. There were no calls after the first of the year.

  He had dialed both phone numbers that evening. The first was answered on the fourth ring:

  “You have reached the law firm of Drahner Cortez LLC. Our office is closed now. If you know the extension of the party—”

  He had hung up, mystified. He recognized the law firm name but didn't make the connection to the Peterson Tire case.

  He had checked the front pages of his telephone directory, found the map of area codes, and confirmed that 561 was indeed West Palm Beach, Florida.

  Why did Judith call a south Florida law firm, he paused to count, thirteen times over a two-month period? A personal legal matter? Something else?

  He called the second number, also answered on the fourth ring:

  “Hi there,” a cheerful woman's voice said. “You've reached Rob and Missy. We'd love to talk but we can't come to the phone right now, so like please leave us a message at the beep and we'll—”

  He tried again an hour later, got the recording, hung up, tried back a third time, and Missy answered. He told her who he was and explained why he was calling.