“Thanks,” she said and took a sip. “So, what’s up? Are you ok?”
“I had a visitor this morning,” he said. “Do you remember Adele Silver?”
“No.” She shrugged.
“You should, you represented her, although it was several years ago. She’s that sweet old lady that lives around the corner from me on Kimball – in the red brick bungalow. Remember?”
Catherine shook her head.
“Years ago she had this noisy beagle that kept getting out of her yard. I’d help her catch him and she’d bake me a cake or bring me some butter cookies. When her husband died, I brought her to you to help her through probate. Still don’t remember? It was back when you were at Drexel, before ….” Liam caught himself and bit his lip. “Well, it was about six or seven years ago, about the time you left.” He lifted a stack of clipped papers from a chair, sat down, unwrapped a turkey sandwich and held it up. “You mind?”
Catherine shook her head and responded solemnly. “I remember the butter cookies. Her husband’s name was Lawrence?”
Liam nodded.
“I had a lot going on in those days,” she said to no one in particular.
Liam was silent for a moment. He tore the crust off his sandwich and took a bite from the corner. “Well, Adele came by my office this morning. She wanted help.”
“From a private detective?”
“She wanted help for Ben Solomon.”
She tapped her lips with the back of her pen. “Ben Solomon. Isn’t he the lunatic who tried to kill Elliot Rosenzweig at the opera?”
“He didn’t try to kill him.”
“Liam, he’s charged with aggravated assault and attempted murder. It was all over the papers. He had a pistol in Rosenzweig’s face, and who knows what he would have done if that football player hadn’t knocked him down.”
“There were no bullets in the gun.”
“You know that doesn’t matter.”
“It was an antique gun. The firing pin had been removed.”
“Then he truly is a lunatic.”
Liam shook his head. “Adele doesn’t think so. She wants me to go talk with him.”
Catherine rocked back in her chair. “And I’m involved… how?”
“Adele asked me to talk to you. He doesn’t have a lawyer.”
“Not a prayer. Look around. Where would I put another file? I don’t have any more flat surfaces. Besides, I don’t handle that kind of work. You know the firm’s client base, it’s institutional.”
“Whether you represent him or not, will you go with me to see him at the jail this afternoon? If you come along, they’ll let us use the attorney’s conference room. I promised Adele. She’s such a nice lady and she pleaded with me to help him. Apparently, she’s known him for a long time. Besides, she brought me some chocolate chip cookies.”
She sighed. “Liam, a thousand people saw this old man put a gun in Elliot Rosenzweig’s face. What could I possibly do for him?”
“You could listen to him.” He took another bite of his sandwich and blotted the mayonnaise from the corner of his mouth. “And get me into the attorney’s room.”
She shook her head. “Why do I do these things?”
“It’s me Irish charm.”
She shifted her eyes from her stack of work to her glib investigator, a man who had always been there for her, even in her dark days. He sat angled in his chair smiling, his right leg hitched over the arm rest, his green Ulster rugby shirt flopping over the belt of his worn jeans. His face had miles on it, more than his forty-one years would suggest.
“All right. I’ll go with you, but I’m not taking his case.”
Chapter Six
Catherine sat opposite Liam drumming her fingers on a square metal table in the middle of a windowless room on the second floor of the Cook County Jail. They waited in silence, staring idly at the chipped linoleum floors and dented metal door. Catherine fidgeted and smoothed the lap of her wool skirt.
The rattle of dangling keys announced the arrival of a female deputy who escorted Solomon, a thin old man in an orange jumpsuit, into the interview room. She unlocked his handcuffs and motioned for him to take a seat at the table.
“I’ll be right outside,” said the deputy, pointing to a phone on the wall. “Just call me when you’re finished.” She left and locked the door.
Liam stood and offered his hand to the prisoner. “My name is Liam Taggart. I’m a private investigator, and this is attorney Catherine Lockhart.” He gestured. “Adele Silver asked us to come and meet with you.”
Solomon inventoried his visitors. His expression displayed no emotion. “I don’t have any money.”
“I didn’t ask you for money.”
“Lawyers and private investigators don’t work for free.”
“Well, not on purpose anyway. Ms. Lockhart happens to be an excellent attorney, but she’s just come along as a favor to me. The clock’s not ticking. No one’s obligating themselves to do any work. We’re just here to talk.”
Solomon nodded and after a while said, “His name is Otto Piatek. He’s a Nazi and an SS executioner.”
“Mr. Solomon, no one can accuse you of aiming low,” Catherine said. “You picked one of the most honored men in Chicago society. What makes you think that Elliot Rosenzweig is a Nazi? Most people would find that very hard to believe. He might be the most charitable man in Chicago.”
Solomon defiantly stuck out his chin. “‘The bigger the lie, the more the people will believe it.’”
Catherine shrugged her shoulders. “Meaning?”
“Do you know who said that?”
“No.”
“Adolf Hitler, that’s who. Your Grand Benefactor, this Mister Charitable – he’s a fraud. He’s a Nazi and I should’ve killed him.”
“Is that why you took an unloaded gun?”
Solomon averted his eyes. He looked around the room, at the filmy lime-green wall and the soiled table top. Silent moments passed. He gazed upward and nodded his head, concurring with voices no one else could hear.
“Who are these young people, Hannah?” he said quietly to his voices. “It’s never been their struggle. To them it’s all ancient history. Like the Egyptian Pharaohs. Why should I expect them to care? Besides, Otto’s covered his tracks too well.”
Liam and Catherine exchanged glances. “Excuse me?” she said.
The old man focused his eyes across the table. “They tell me I’m being arraigned Wednesday,” he said to Catherine. “Attempted murder. I guess I don’t have a defense. I might as well plead guilty. The cards are stacked. I’ll read a prepared statement at my sentencing. That way at least it’ll get to the papers and the television reports.”
“There are defenses you could assert, Mr. Solomon. Perhaps you’re not well enough to appreciate the consequences of your conduct.”
Solomon laughed sardonically. “Insane? Should I plead insanity? You have no idea what insanity is, young lady. This whole world’s an asylum, waiting for the next rip in the fabric of humanity. And through that tear will crawl the minions of evil – incomprehensible evil – the next Auschwitz or Cambodia or Bosnia or Darfur. This generation’s Himmler, or Pol Pot or Milosovic. The next Aktion Reinhard.”
The old man straightened his body and shuffled to the door. “Aah, what’s the difference? You can’t put the pieces back together.” He rapped his bony knuckles on the metal frame. The deputy returned and replaced his handcuffs. He turned his head and said, “Thank you for coming. Tell Adele Silver I’m grateful for her concern.”
* * *
“What do you think?” Liam said on the drive back to the Loop.
“If he pleads guilty, he’ll spend the rest of his life in jail. If he prevails on a plea of insanity, he’ll spend it in a hospital. Either way, he’ll be institutionalized until he dies. He’s a very sad person, but Chicago’s safer with him off the streets.”
“I don’t know, Cat, he didn’t harm anyone. He had an inoperative weapon. He’s
lived here for fifty years and he’s never hurt a fly. Chicago won’t be measurably safer because Ben Solomon’s behind a locked door.”
“He may not have hurt anyone – yet – but he sure fits the definition of an obsessed stalker. Anyway, what can I do? You heard him; he doesn’t want our help. He’s going to plead guilty.”
Chapter Seven
“Cat, it’s Liam. Did you see the paper this morning?”
“No. What should I have seen?” The telephone handset was clamped between her cheek and her hunched shoulder while she thumbed through sheaves of papers on her desk.
“Ben Solomon. They released him today. They dropped the charges.”
“Why would the State do that? It’s a slam-dunk conviction.”
“Rosenzweig. He asked the State to dismiss the case. He said Solomon had suffered enough in his lifetime, that he’d been interned in the concentration camps and should never be interned again. He said he didn’t want to testify against Solomon. He’s a man of considerable influence, you know.”
“I don’t believe it. Is Rosenzweig a saint? Solomon assaulted him in front of a thousand people.”
“Nevertheless, he’s a free man. Rosenzweig said it was a case of mistaken identity and he felt safe from any future confrontations.”
“Liam, I don’t think Solomon believes he made a mistake.”
There was a pause on the phone. “Cat, I got a favor to ask.”
“Uh oh. I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Can you meet with Adele and me this afternoon?”
“Come on, Liam, you saw my office. I’m under enormous pressure here. I don’t want to get involved in this. Why is she focusing on me?”
“Because she thinks you’re the best lawyer in Chicago.”
“You probably told her that.”
“Many times.”
“Solomon’s been released, so why does she want to meet with me?”
“I’d rather let her tell you.”
“Damn it, Liam, I’m under water and I don’t have time for pro-bono work. They watch my hours like a hawk. If I don’t bill two hundred hours this month, Jenkins’ll be sitting on my couch lecturing me about law firm finances.”
Silence.
“I’ll take you to dinner, Cat. Anywhere you’d like. You’d be doing me a big favor.”
“It’s not fair to put it on that level.” She sighed and stared blankly at the telephone. “All right, three o’clock. Forget the dinner.”
“Cat?”
“Yes.”
“I think Adele is bringing Ben Solomon.”
“Then I changed my mind. I want dinner at Ambria.”
“Done. Dinner at Ambria. We’ll see you at three o’clock.”
* * *
Jenkins and Fairchild occupied the top three floors of the Marquette Building, sixteen-stories of brick and terra cotta sitting kitty-corner from the United States Courthouse. Built in 1895, the landmark building still had the original bronze panels above the entrance, depicting the life of Jacques Marquette, the French Jesuit missionary who explored Chicago in 1674. Colorful mosaic panels of Marquette’s encounters with the Calumet, built by the Tiffany firm, adorned the circular lobby.
Liam, Adele and Ben Solomon stepped out of the elevators into Jenkins and Fairchild’s reception area. In his poplin golf jacket, khaki pants and knit shirt, Solomon was nondescript, like a retiree waiting for an open seat at the North Avenue Beach chess tables.
Catherine’s secretary ushered the group to a conference room where they settled into soft leather seats around an oblong table.
“It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Solomon,” Catherine said. “I understand the charges against you have been dropped.”
He nodded and folded his hands before him on the polished slate table.
Silence.
“How can we help you?” She smiled.
Solomon fumbled for a starting point. He shifted his weight and tapped the tips of his fingers together.
After an awkward moment, Adele broke in. “May I?” she asked Solomon.
He shrugged and gestured for her to begin.
“I’ve known Ben for many years. He’s a respected member of our congregation, very learned, very well read. I’ve never known him to be irrational. He has idiosyncrasies, but,” she tilted her head, “who doesn’t?”
Solomon interrupted. “I want to sue Rosenzweig.”
Catherine studied the gaunt man with the wispy white hair. “According to the newspapers your case was Nolle Prosequied. It was dismissed by the State without prejudice,” she said. “If you sue Mr. Rosenzweig, for whatever theory you think you have, it’s possible the State will reinstate the charges and prosecute you for aggravated assault and attempted murder.”
“Rosenzweig’ll never testify. He’ll never take the stand. That’s why he let me go.”
“If you sue him, he may not remain so gracious. He’ll testify to defend himself.”
“Gracious? Ha. He’ll never expose himself to testimony. Believe you me, he’ll never show up in a court.”
“Mr. Solomon,” said Catherine slowly, “a thousand people saw you put a gun to his face. Any one of them could testify against you.”
“It wasn’t loaded.”
“It doesn’t matter; you could still go to jail. And, if you don’t mind my asking, what was the point of threatening Mr. Rosenzweig with an unloaded gun?”
Her tone of voice unnerved Solomon. “Well, maybe I do mind.”
Catherine stood and extended her hand to bid him goodbye. “I’m sorry, Mr. Solomon, but I don’t think I can help you.”
Solomon lowered his head. Tears welled in his reddened eyes. He mumbled softly, words ostensibly meant for no one but himself.
“Please, Ms. Lockhart,” Adele said. “I know his story. Sit down, please.” She tapped the table lightly. “If you would listen for just a little while. Please.”
Catherine sighed and returned to her seat. “Mrs. Silver, I’m willing to listen, but I don’t think that Mr. Solomon is ready to talk. To be perfectly frank with you, I’m not aware of any legal basis to bring a lawsuit against Elliot Rosenzweig. Even if Mr. Solomon believes him to be a Nazi, even if he was a Nazi, and Mr. Solomon was imprisoned and tortured, I don’t think there’s an existing cause of action that’s still available in 2004. I think it’s called a suit for reparations, but to tell you the truth, I’ve never done any research on claims by Holocaust survivors. In any event, because of the passage of time, fifty-odd years, wouldn’t the claims be time-barred?”
“Not the claims I want to file,” Solomon said. “If I sued Germany or any of the corporations that willingly did business with the Nazis, you’re right, they’d be dismissed. And they’d be dismissed if I sued for imprisonment or torture. Treaties and settlements have put those cases to rest. The doors are all closed. As you may surmise, I’ve done a bit of research.”
“Then, I’m confused. If the doors are all closed, how do you plan to sue Rosenzweig?” Catherine said.
“I got it all figured out,” Solomon said. “And Rosenzweig will have to answer for his sins.”
Catherine pursed her lips and shook her head. “I can’t be a party to groundless lawsuit imposed solely for the purpose of harassment or torment. After all these years. And why Elliot Rosenzweig, of all people?”
“Catherine,” Adele said, gently placing her hand on Catherine’s arm, “let me tell you about Ben and why we’re here.”
She placed her purse on the table and folded her hands in her lap. “Ben came to America in 1949. After the war. When he….”
“No, Adele,” interrupted Ben again. “If a lawyer is going to hear my story, it should come from me.” He paused and stared into the ether of the conference room.
The group waited patiently while Ben Solomon gathered his thoughts.
“Like I said, Elliot Rosenzweig is a fraud. His real name is Otto Piatek, and many years ago he was my best friend in the world. We grew up together in Poland.
A triumvirate we were; Otto, me……and Hannah. Inseparable. I never knew he survived the war until I saw him on TV a couple of months ago. For some odd reason, probably Hannah’s idea, I tuned into a public television special on patrons of the arts and there he was, sitting in his fancy office, calling himself Elliot Rosenzweig.”
“Could you be mistaken, Ben?” Catherine said. “It’s been fifty-nine years since World War II ended. Maybe he resembles Otto Piatek, or what you suppose Piatek would look like at age eighty-three.”
“Mistaken? No. I recognize his features. I know his voice. The camera zoomed in on his face and I jumped to my feet. I ran to the TV and watched the balance of the show inches away from the screen. Oh, it’s him all right. It doesn’t matter how many years have passed. It’s Piatek.”
Adele lifted her eyebrows and nodded, as if to say, “You see. I told you so.”
“There are look-alikes,” Catherine said. “Some people think I look like Beth Stone, the newscaster. I’ve been stopped on the street for an autograph.”
“I can see that,” said Adele. “Except you’re much prettier than Beth Stone. More classic looking.” She punctuated her opinion with a quick nod of her head.
“I don’t know about any Beth Stone, but that was Piatek on the TV,” Ben said flatly. “So I went to the library. I looked up some newspaper articles about Elliot Rosenzweig. It’s him. There’s no doubt in my mind. I read how he immigrated to Chicago after the war. A penniless camp survivor. So how does he find the money to set up some million dollar insurance company?”
“Doesn’t he say he met people and invested wisely?”
“You’re right, he met people. He met them in Poland and took everything they had.”
He spread his hands. “Anyway, so now this Nazi bastard is a multi-millionaire, with a grandiose estate in Winnetka, and he’s prancing around in the costume of respectability.”
Once We Were Brothers Page 2