“Uncle Hal?” Milton turns toward his younger brother in the backseat. “Really?”
Hal shrugs. “It’s been a weird couple days, Bro.”
“How so?”
Peggy sighs. “Wait until we get home, honey. I saved the papers for you.”
Fortunately, they have an attached garage, which allows them to bypass the reporters and television crews on the front lawn and enter the house directly from the garage.
Milton limps over to the breakfast room table, sits down, and kisses and hugs his two daughters.
Peggy comes back into the room with an armful of newspapers—the Post-Dispatch, the New York Times, USA Today.
“Here you go.”
She dumps the stack onto the table.
“Enjoy.”
At the top of the pile is the front page section of the Post-Dispatch from the day after the confrontation at the tunnels. The banner headline reads:
COURAGEOUS EX-PITCHER
SAVES BROTHER’S LIFE;
FELLS CORRUPT LAWYER
WITH EPIC BEANBALL;
RECEIVES HERO’S WELCOME;
ALL CHARGES TO BE DISMISSED
The article—and the headlines and articles in the other papers—all tell the same story: an innocent young man, wrongfully accused of the brutal murder of the wife of a corrupt powerhouse attorney, enlists his lawyer brother to represent him. They soon find themselves in a deathtrap sprung by the corrupt attorney. Just as that corrupt attorney is about to kill the older brother, our hero, a former All-American college baseball pitcher whose promising career was cut short by a tragic motorcycle injury, somehow summons the moxie and the grit and the muscle memory to hurl a ninety-mile-per-hour fastball smack into the head of the attorney, knocking him unconscious and saving his brother’s life.
The USA Today version got Milton’s name wrong, referring to him as Marvin.
The Associated Press photographer apparently got to the scene just as the police were arriving. Standing above the culvert on the railroad track side as the police scrambled down, he took those first photographs. In the most widely disseminated shot—appearing in perhaps a dozen newspapers and hundreds of online sites and then shared on tens of thousands of Facebook pages and Twitter tweets—Hal is looking up toward the camera as he kneels beside Milton, who grimaces in pain, holding his thigh. Hal’s face is a template of concern and compassion. To Hal’s left, spread-eagled on his back, is Leonard Pitt, eyes closed. Behind Hal is the slumped corpse of Billy Bledsoe.
The Buzzfeed website Photoshopped a Star Wars light saber into Hal’s hand and a Darth Vader mask on Pitt, with the headline: “The Force was with him!”
As Milton leafs through the newspapers, the doorbell rings.
“I’ll get it,” Peggy says.
“Where’s Hal?”
She pauses at the doorway and gestures toward the kitchen window. “In the backyard. Playing with the girls.”
She returns a few minutes later cradling a large gift-wrapped fruit-and-cheese basket and a bottle of champagne wrapped in red and white cellophane. Each has a small gift envelope attached.
“What are those?” Milton asks.
“From your law firm.” Peggy sets them down on the kitchen table.
“For me?”
“The basket is. The champagne is for your brother.”
She opens the back door. “Hal! Something arrived for you.”
Milton opens the envelope attached to the fruit-and cheese basket. The note reads:
Get well soon, Milton. We’re glad you’re safe!
Best wishes for a speedy recovery,
Your colleagues at Abbott & Windsor
“Nice!” Hal says, peering over Milton’s shoulder.
Milton nods. “Open yours.”
Hal removes the envelope attached to the champagne bottle, takes out the note, reads it, and shakes his head.
“Jeez,” his says, his face reddening, “this is getting ridiculous. Enough is enough already.”
Milton reaches for the note. “Let me see.”
Hal sighs and hands it to him:
A heartfelt toast to a genuine hero
We are forever grateful to you for saving Milton.
Your admirers at Abbott & Windsor
Chapter Fifty
Norman Feigelberg knocks on the door to Judge Stubbs’ chambers.
No answer.
He opens the door slightly and peers in. Rahsen Ahmed stands by the picture window that looks out over the Arch and the Mississippi River. Off in the distance, a tugboat pushes a string of four barges upriver toward the Eads Bridge, the boat’s propellers churning a cappuccino froth in their wake.
Rahsan turns and raises his eyebrows. “Yes, Norman?”
Norman blinks. “Oh, sorry. I was looking for the judge. I had a question about the jury instructions in the Sullivan case.”
Rahsan nods toward the private bathroom.
Norman frowns. “Again?”
“Three times a charm, Norman. Come with the territory. If a man eat o’ passel fiber, a man gonna evacuate a passel o’ fiber.”
“Is he feeling okay?”
Rahsan smiles. “Oh, he feeling much better than okay.”
“Really? Why?”
“Why you think, Norman? You see today’s Post-Dispatch?”
“Uh, no.”
“Then go downstairs, buy yourself a copy, and read yourself that lead story.”
Which is exactly what the Honorable Roy L. Stubbs is doing at that moment while seated on the toilet, his pants bunched around his ankles. The lead story describes the prosecutorial equivalent of a trifecta: in a joint press conference, the U.S. Attorney, the prosecutor for the City of St. Louis, and the prosecutor for St. Louis County announced the simultaneous filing of separate criminal charges against Leonard Pitt in each of those jurisdictions, including first-degree murder charges in the city (over Bledsoe’s death) and the county (over Cherry Pitt’s death), and various other felonies in federal court.
Judge Stubbs pauses to reread the fifth paragraph:
When asked during the press conference, City Prosecutor Harriet Carson confirmed that she would be seeking the maximum penalty for the felony charge. “If ever a crime merited capital punishment, this one does for sure. As far as I am concerned, Leonard Pitt is the poster child for the death penalty, and I believe the jury will agree.
Judge Stubbs is grinning. “Welcome to the big leagues, Leonard.”
Chapter Fifty-one
It’s evening now. Dishes washed, girls in bed, and Milton seated in the den, laptop on his lap, drafting the memorandum supporting that motion to compel. He’s working from home now but heads back to the office downtown Monday morning.
Peggy gazes at him from the kitchen doorway. “It drives me crazy.”
Milton looks up. “What?”
“You’re the one who’s the hero.”
He shrugs. “It’s not worth fretting over.”
“It is for me, Milton. You’re the one who figured out who the real killer was. Not Hal. You’re the one who had to deal with all those cops and prosecutors who were so convinced it was Hal that they stopped looking for the real killer. You’re the one who got him out on bail. You’re the one who set up that crazy rendezvous at those tunnels. Not Hal. And that, by the way, was truly crazy, Milton. Truly. And then you’re the one who sat out there all alone that night, exposed to harm from those horrible men. Not Hal. And finally, you’re the one who got shot by Pitt while Hal was standing back in the shadows inside that tunnel.”
“But don’t forget, Peggy—Hal saved my life. There’s no denying that.”
“But still. It drives me crazy.” She sighs. “I’m going to get some hot tea. You want some?”
“No, thanks.”
After Peggy goes into the ki
tchen, there’s the sound of the toilet flushing. A moment later, the bathroom door opens and Hal comes into the den.
“Wow, Bro, it’s good to be free again.”
Milton looks up. “Agreed.”
“I mean it, Milton. Without you, I’d be in jail facing life in prison.”
“And without you, Hal, I’d be dead.”
“Jeez, I’m getting too much credit for that. It’s really embarrassing.”
“But it got you that job offer, right?”
“True that! I’m psyched.”
“I checked them out. The company has a good reputation.”
“The people are great, their sports equipment is quality all the way, and my accounts are going to be high school coaches. Love those dudes.”
“What about your baseball career?” Milton asked.
Hal grinned. “The general manager tells me they’ll hold a spot in Spring training. I’ll keep throwing this winter. You never know, Bro. If I can hit that creep above the ear from sixty feet out, I ought to be able to hit the corners of the plate.”
“When do you start the new job?”
“In two weeks. Gave my notice at the country club yesterday. My last day is next Friday.”
“They’re going to miss you.”
“I’ll miss them, too. They’ve been totally nice about it. So have the members. All those moms—Jeez, they keep asking to take selfies with me.”
Milton wags a finger. “No more older women, Hal.”
Peggy steps into den. “How about no women, period?”
Hal laughs.
“Give that thing of yours a rest,” she says.
The doorbell rings.
As Peggy starts for the door Hal holds up his hand. “That’s probably for me.”
He opens the door and smiles. “Hey, Patty, how’s it going?”
In steps Patty, the cute lifeguard from the country club, eyes wide. “Wow,” she says, gesturing over her shoulder, “it’s like a total circus out there. All those reporters and cameras. It’s like totally unreal.”
She turns toward the den, smiles, and gives a little finger wave. “Oh, hi.”
“This is Patty,” Hal says.
Patty follows Hal into the den.
“You must be Mr. Bernstein,” she says. “Hal’s older brother.”
Milton nods. “I am, indeed. And this is my wife, Peggy.”
Patty smiles at Peggy. “Hi, Mrs. Bernstein. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Same here,” Peggy says.
Patty turns back to Milton and shakes her head. “Good grief, sir. That must have been like totally scary.”
Milton smiles. “I was a little nervous.”
“Oh, but your brother”—she turns, gives Hal an adoring smile, and looks back at Milton—“he was like SO awesome. We’re all, like, so totally proud. I hear people at the Club keep asking for his autograph.”
Hal stepped forward, embarrassed. “So we’re going across the river to this club in Belleville. To hear this band. Her older brother is lead singer. Patty drove in from Mizzou for the show. I told her I’d pick her up at her house, but she wanted to meet you guys.”
Patty nods. “For sure.” She turns to Peggy. “It must be like so awesome to have Hal as your brother-in-law, eh?”
Peggy nods. “Sometimes it makes me tingle just to think about it.”
Patty laughs. “LOL.” She looks at Milton. “You’re a pretty awesome dude, too, Mr. Bernstein.”
Hal says, “See you guys tomorrow.”
Peggy walks them to the front door. As she opens it, the cameras start flashing and a few reporters start shouting questions.
She closes the door behind them and walks back to the den, shaking her head.
Milton looks up from the computer.
Peggy rolls her eyes. “Your brother’s something else.”
“He’s resilient.”
“More like brain dead.”
“He’s Hal. Whatever his brain is lacking he makes up for with his heart.”
Peggy, mimicking Patty. “You must be Mr. Bernstein.”
Milton smiles. “Maybe my first groupie.”
“Belleville, Illinois? Isn’t she a little young to be going across state lines with your brother?”
“Are you referring to the White Slave Traffic Act, Chapter 117 of Title 18 of the United States Code, also known as the Mann Act?”
“I have no idea, Milton.”
“If so, the age of consent in Missouri is seventeen. The young lady is clearly older than seventeen. Thus under the Mann Act, as amended in 1978, the trip across state lines must be to engage in prostitution or debauchery.”
Peggy shook her head in amusement. “Debauchery?”
“That is the term.”
“How do you know this?”
“My criminal law professor covered that in class.”
“And you still remember it?”
Milton shrugged.
“You’re amazing.”
“I wish. In any event, tonight’s trip to the East Side will not violate the Mann Act. And if it does, this time my brother will be on his own.”
Peggy raised her eyebrows. “Debauchery, eh?”
Milton frowned. “Yes?”
“That’s an immoral purpose?”
“Under the statute, yes.”
She smiled. “I have an idea?”
“Oh?”
“How about transporting me upstairs for some immoral purposes?”
Milton smiles, closes his laptop, and stands. “My pleasure, Mrs. Bernstein.”
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