Trophy Widow

by Michael A. Kahn

  I leaned back from the counter. “Tell you what, Dick. I’m going to count to ten. Either you give me that name and number before I finish, or I am going to make sure your name and number are the lead story on every newscast tonight.”

  Rashita cackled. “You better do like she say, white boy.”

  “Ready, Dick? One—two—three—four—”

  “Here,” he said, scribbling out the name and number. “Take it, goddammit.”

  I took the slightly crumpled sheet of paper and looked down at it. Judge Joan Grady. Yes.

  I look up and smiled. “Thank you, Dick.”

  ***

  “But I thought you were the duty judge.”

  “I am, Miss Gold.” There was static on the line. Judge Grady must have been on a cell phone. “But you’re seeking a TRO for the shelter. That makes your case a civil equity matter. You need to call Judge Clausen. I have his number here.”

  “But he’s not the duty judge.”

  “That’s okay. The equity judges prefer to control their own dockets. You need to call Judge Clausen. Do you have a pen?”

  So much for sisterhood solidarity.

  I wrote down the phone number. Rashita and I were at the pay phone down the hall from the circuit attorney’s office. I fed more coins into the slot and dialed the number.

  Judge Clausen’s wife answered the phone with all the warmth she no doubt displayed for telephone solicitors. “He’s not the duty judge tonight, young lady.”

  “I know that, Mrs. Clausen. I called the duty judge. When she heard that I had an equity matter, she instructed me to call your husband.”

  “Oh, really? Which one is she?”

  “Judge Grady.”

  “Hmmph,” she sniffed. “Well, hold on.” And then, in a muffled voice, “It’s for you. I don’t know—some lady lawyer.”

  I could hear the television in the background. Sounded like the Honorable Martin Clausen was watching a Seinfeld rerun.

  “Hello?” The voice was raspy with age and cigarettes.

  “Judge Clausen?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Rachel Gold, Your Honor. I have an emergency motion for a temporary restraining order.”

  “Who’s the defendant?”

  “The city of St. Louis—or at least the health department.”

  “What’s the emergency?”

  I told him who my client was and described the current predicament of the residents. He listened quietly and said nothing when I finished.

  “This can’t wait until tomorrow,” I said. “I’ve got homeless women and children on the lawn.”

  I heard a deep inhale. “Okay, but I want the city represented.”

  “How do I arrange that?”

  “Call someone in the city counselor’s office. Tell them I’m hearing your motion in my dining room in one hour. Tell them to send someone.”

  “That office is closed, Your Honor. How do I get a home phone number?”

  “Go down to the Muny Courts, young lady. There’ll be an assistant circuit attorney in the warrants division. Tell him you want the home phone list for the city counselor’s office. If he can’t find it, then tell him he’s it.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Tell him that I expect him in my dining room when the hearing starts. Got it?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “See you in one hour, Miss Gold.”

  Click.

  I hung up and turned to Rashita.

  “Well?” she said.

  I glanced down the hall toward the warrants division. “Guess who we get to talk to again?”

  ***

  Judge Clausen was seated at the head of the dark walnut table in the dining room of his brick bungalow in south St. Louis. The polished surface of the table gleamed in the spotless room. Like most of his neighbors, the Honorable Martin Clausen was of German descent and no doubt a blood relative to some of the employees of Anheuser-Busch, whose enormous brewery and corporate headquarters anchored this part of town. I was used to seeing Judge Clausen in black robes. Tonight he could have passed for one of those brewery workers in his faded khakis, scuffed brown loafers, and black and gold Missouri Tigers T-shirt stretched tight across his ample belly. His thinning gray hair was slicked straight back. I watched him tug absently on one of his pendulous earlobes as he read through my three-page, handwritten Petition for Temporary Restraining Order, which I’d drafted up on my yellow legal pad between my phone call to him and the drive to his house. His wire-frame reading glasses were perched halfway down his broad nose, which was webbed with tiny red veins.

  I’d appeared before the Honorable Martin Clausen twice before—both times on motions in a lawsuit that settled before trial. What had been most striking about him in court was the absence of anything striking about him. He didn’t dominate the courtroom with his presence; instead, he seemed just another member of the courthouse staff, albeit one who happened to be seated higher than the others. He entered and left his courtroom without fanfare, leafed through papers or jotted notes as you presented your motion, appeared mildly distracted, rarely asked questions, and generally ruled from the bench without giving any reasons—just “motion denied” or “motion granted.”As he called the next motion, the winning lawyer would take an order form and draft up a terse order—Motion to dismiss called, heard, denied—and hand it to Clausen’s clerk, who’d pass it up to the judge as the lawyers in the next motion droned on. He’d glance at it for unnecessary words, scratch out any he found, scribble his name at the bottom, and pass the order back down to her, never once acknowledging the attorneys. After an hour in Judge Clausen’s courtroom, even a trip to the license bureau felt like an opportunity for profound levels of human interaction.

  Tonight, though, down from his perch on the bench, stripped of his black robe, and lacking his supporting cast of courtroom bureaucrats, he nevertheless radiated more judicial authority than I’d seen before.

  The dining room was silent, waiting.

  A scowling Dick Carple sat across the table from Rashita and me. He hadn’t been able to reach anyone from the city counselor’s office until after he’d arrived at Judge Clausen’s house. The judge was unwilling to delay the hearing another hour, which is how long it would take for someone from the city counselor’s office to get here. That meant that Carple was the man tonight. He glared at me, his expression suggesting that our relationship was still somewhat short of professional bonhomie.

  Judge Clausen studied the last page of my handwritten petition, his lips pursed thoughtfully. He fired up another Marlboro, exhaled twin streams through his nostrils, looked up at us, and rapped his knuckles on the table.

  “Court’s in session.” He turned toward Carple and removed his reading glasses. “Condemned the shelter without any notice, eh? A little extreme, counselor, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Hardly, Your Honor. Extremism in the defense of health is no vice.”

  I groaned. “Thank you, Senator Goldwater.”

  “It’s the truth,” Carple snarled at me.

  I ignored him and focused on Clausen. “Judge, the truth is that the city can’t just condemn a property and close it down without any advance notice or an opportunity for the property owner to be heard. The city ignored its own notice requirements. While extremism in defense of my clients’ health may not be a vice, a violation of my clients’ due process rights is not only a vice but an unconstitutional one.”

  “This was an emergency situation,” Carple said. “The health department has the authority to act without notice and close down a facility that presents a clear and present health hazard to its inhabitants.”

  “Judge, as Mr. Carple surely knows, the health department’s power to suspend due process is triggered only in the extraordinary situation of an imminent threat to life or health. Is the building about t
o collapse? No. Is there dangerous radiation or the presence of toxic chemicals? No. We’re talking, at most, of some rats.”

  “Some?” Carple said, outraged. “This isn’t the suburbs, Miss Gold. We’re talking city rats, not lab rats. You obviously know nothing about city rats.”

  I nodded. “You’re absolutely correct, Mr. Carple. That is why I’ve brought an expert on rats to this hearing.” I turned to the judge. “Your Honor, this is Ms. Rashita Jordan. She is a social worker at the Oasis Shelter. Through her profession and her own background, Ms. Jordan has extensive experience with rat infestations and is quite familiar with the buildings in question. She can assure the court that the health department has grossly exaggerated the rat problem at the Oasis Shelter. To her knowledge there is no rat problem.”

  Judge Clausen gazed at Rashita, who was glowering across the table at Dick Carple, her arms crossed over her ample chest. Carple eyed her warily.

  “Well, Mr. Carple,” the judge said, “do you have witnesses to counter that testimony?”

  “I’m sure I could find plenty of experts, Judge, but not tonight. Not on such short notice.”

  “Ah,” the judge said with the hint of a smile, “short notice. But at least you had some notice, eh? Unlike the women in that shelter.” He turned toward Rashita. “Ma’am, you’ve been a social worker at this shelter for a year?”

  “One year and two weeks, Your Honor.”

  He nodded. “You have female residents there?”

  “Yes, sir. Women and children. Lots of little babies.”

  “You know these women pretty well?”

  “I do, Your Honor.”

  He stubbed out the cigarette in the crystal ashtray. “You talk to these women?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “About intimate things—things that concern them?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  The judge nodded and lit another cigarette. He exhaled the smoke and asked her, “What about their health concerns? Do these women ever talk to you about their health concerns?”

  “Every day. That’s a big topic with them.”

  “How about their children? Do these women talk about health concerns for their children?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s one of my jobs—to make sure their little babies get the right medicines and see the doctors and keep healthy.”

  “Been there a little over a year, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “During that time, ma’am, has any resident of that shelter told you she’s been bitten by a rat?”

  “No, sir, Your Honor,” she answered, smiling.

  “During that time has any resident of that shelter told you that her child had been bitten by a rat?”

  “No, sir, Your Honor.”

  “During that time have you heard of any resident of that shelter being bitten by a rat?”

  “No, sir, Your Honor.” She was beginning to get some rhythm into her answers.

  “During that time has any resident of that shelter complained to you about rats?”

  “No, sir, Your Honor.”

  “During that time have you heard of any complaints about rats?”

  “No, sir, Your Honor.”

  Judge Clausen nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.” He turned to me. “Anything else you need to ask this lady, Miss Gold?”

  “None, Your Honor. You’ve covered all my questions.”

  He turned to Carple. “And you have no witness to counter this testimony, correct?”

  “Well, not here.”

  “Is that a no, Mr. Carple?”

  “It is.”

  Clausen put on his reading glasses and glanced down at my handwritten petition. After a moment he turned to Carple, peering at him over his reading glasses. “Mr. Carple, maybe the health department found a problem with rats at that shelter. Or maybe someone at City Hall found some other sort of problem with that shelter. But let’s assume for tonight that we’re talking about a genuine rat problem. Okay?”

  Carple nodded uncertainly. “Okay.”

  “Even so,” Clausen continued, “this rat problem hardly sounds to the court like the type of dire emergency that justines dispensing with the due process clause of our Constitution and throwing a bunch of women and children onto the street after dark. Whatever this so-called rat problem is, Mr. Carple, the residents of that shelter have been putting up with it without any complaint or injury for at least a year and”—he turned to Rashita—“how many weeks, ma’am?”

  “Two weeks, Your Honor, sir.”

  “At least a year and two weeks. Hearing no evidence to the contrary, Mr. Carple, I think we’ll let the shelter and its residents struggle with this rat problem on their own for a little while longer while your client gets its act together and gives them a proper notice and a genuine opportunity to be heard.” He turned to me. “I’ll grant your TRO, Miss Gold. Draft it up for me, but keep it short and to the point.” He looked at Carple. “You can use my phone, Mr. Carple.”

  Carple looked puzzled. “For what, Your Honor?”

  “To call whoever you need to call to let them know that I’ve entered a TRO and that the health department better have that shelter back in operation and those women and children and their belongings moved back inside it in exactly two hours.”

  I called Sheila Trumble as soon as Judge Clausen signed the order. By the time Rashita and I drove back across town to the Oasis Shelter, the jumble of TV news vans had been joined by several official city of St. Louis cars and vans, some double-parked on the street, others parked along the sidewalks. The yellow hazard tape was gone from the doors, and two minicam crews were filming city workers, their arms loaded with belongings, following the women residents back into the buildings. I didn’t see Sheila.

  A little toddler in a diaper and T-shirt stood alone in the middle of the lawn crying. I went over and kneeled beside him. “It’ll be okay,” I said gently as I stroked his hair.

  Rashita reached down and picked him up. “Where’s your momma, Darius?”

  That made him cry harder. As I watched the two of them—Rashita trying to soothe Darius while he cried for his mother—I could feel my fury spike again over the misery that Nate the Great had inflicted through this nasty little gambit.

  “Rachel?”

  Still angry, I spun toward a familiar face holding a microphone. Sherry McCutchen. I recognized her from Channel Five news. Behind her the minicam nightlights went on, making me squint as my eyes adjusted. I could see the red light on the camera blink on.

  “We’re standing here live with Rachel Gold, the attorney for the shelter. I understand you just returned from an emergency hearing before Judge Clausen, Miss Gold.”

  “That’s true. The judge heard the facts and ordered the health department to reopen this shelter immediately.”

  “Is there really a rat problem?”

  “My client has seen no evidence of such a problem, which means the real question is location. Is the rat problem here or downtown?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s no secret that certain city officials want this shelter closed. For their sake, these better not turn out to be imaginary rats.”

  “And if they are imaginary, then what?”

  But by now the adult voice in my head was shouting, Shut up, fool. It snapped me back to reality.

  “It’s too early in the case for that kind of speculation,” I said. “We’re pleased that Judge Clausen has allowed these women and children back in the shelter. Their comfort and safety is our first concern. We’ll deal with the other matters in due time.”

  I walked away from the camera, ignoring the shouted requests from the other reporters.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The hearing before Judge Clausen had been last Thursday night. This was Monday at noon. Last Thursday I’d hinted darkly
that someone in City Hall might be behind the phony rat emergency. Four days later I was meeting that same someone for lunch at Faust’s, one of the fanciest spots in town.

  The tuxedoed maître d’ responded with a dignified nod when I told him my name.

  “This way, mademoiselle,” he said, gesturing toward the dining area. I followed him to a private booth near the back of the restaurant.

  “The commissioner called from his car moments ago,” the maître d’ said, handing me a heavy cloth napkin. “He appears to be running a few minutes late and offers his apologies. Can I bring Mademoiselle something to drink while she waits?”

  “Some iced tea, please.”

  “With pleasure,” he said with a slight bow.

  I looked around the elegant dining room and recognized a few faces—a pair of corporate lawyers from Bryan Cave at one table, a paunchy alderman huddled in a booth with a redhead young enough to be his niece, sportscasters Bob Costas and Mike Shannon laughing at another booth. Other tables had what clearly were business lunches in progress—executive types talking terms or examining financial pro formas.

  Although Faust’s had been the scene of many unholy deals over the years, the legend behind its name was strictly local and mostly benign. More than a century ago, a Prussian immigrant named Tony Faust opened a restaurant downtown at Broadway and Elm. By 1890, Faust’s had become the restaurant of St. Louis—the place to see and be seen, both for local luminaries and visiting celebrities, including the stars who performed at the nationally renowned Olympia Theatre next door. The long bar on the first floor accommodated more than a hundred men (plus spittoons), while the ornate dining room upstairs served meals of such distinction that Faust’s was featured in newspapers across the country and throughout the world. By the turn of the century, Faust’s was as much the signature restaurant of St. Louis as Lüchow’s was of New York. Indeed, Tony Faust and August Lüchow teamed up for the 1904 World’s Fair in St. Louis and opened the Lüchow-Faust restaurant in the Tyrolean Alps section of the fairground.