by Todd Cohen
“Now, give me the number!” he yelled. “Give it to me!”
“Okay, here it is, 516-767-2324. Just don’t expect her to be on my side. That is not likely after I caught her in the act!” I explained. I think I was just aimlessly babbling at this point. Not helping my cause at all. They were going to call Shari one way or another. And whatever she would say would be out of my control.
“How did you know the painting was worth millions?” asked the officer.
“I saw it last night, a Jackson Pollock. Could be the one that sold for a hundred forty million a few years back.”
“And how do you know that?” asked the officer inquisitively.
“Art, sir—it’s my hobby. I collect art, and help out with the Art and Exhibition Committee at the Parrish Art Museum,” I said. The Parrish was completing its move from the Southampton Village, to a rural location on Montauk Highway in the town of Water Mill. The new place, just east of Duck Walk Vineyards, consisted of two ultra-long ultra-high open barns to show off their art. The new Parrish was not yet opened, yet the building was nearing completion. Good timing. Had it been completed, the art on display there could have been destroyed!
“You saw the painting last night and now it’s gone?” said the officer sarcastically. “And how about Mrs. Weisberg, did you see her last night and now she’s gone? Have you heard from Mr. Weisberg?”
“Only when he called me to help him out with his house. He called me to ask for my help.” I pulled out my mobile phone and showed him what I thought was an overseas number. “Officer, if you don’t mind, I am going to try to call back Mr. Weisberg.” I didn’t wait for his permission. I just redialed the number, right in front of the officer. Surprisingly, I had not tried to call Weisberg before all this. Just shows how overwhelmed I was, in a state of panic. The dialing was complete and I heard: “. . . Your number did not go through. Please check the number and try your call later.”
I hit redial and hoped for a different result, but:
“. . . Your number did not go through. Please check the number and try your call later.” It was to no avail. The number was not a New York number or even a United States cell phone number. It did not have any recognizable area code, and when I tried a third time, I got the same recording. I had no way to get in touch with Charlie, period. And who even knows whether he was still in Asia!
“And how long have you known Mrs. Weisberg?” he asked.
“I thought I answered this question,” I responded, trying not to snap. Now he was starting to really irritate me. Each time he asked this question, he appeared to be approaching it from a different angle, a different vantage point. Did he feel I was going to crack and confess? The officer was beginning to remind me of the evil, Jew-killing Nazi Dr. Szell (played by Laurence Olivier) from the movie Marathon Man. Dr. Szell used a dental drill bit to torture the Jewish marathoner grad student Tom Levy (played by Dustin Hoffman). Levy, like myself, got innocently caught up in a twisted mess. In one horrific scene, he is kidnapped and then tortured by Szell, who repeatedly asks the restrained Levy “Is it SAFE?” Each time the same question is posed, Szell changes the intonation, i.e., “IS it safe?” And each time Levy fails to provide an answer, the crazy Nazi dentist drills into his healthy teeth, resulting in the ultimate torture.
I knew the answer to the “Is it safe?” question, I thought to myself. It wasn’t safe then, and it is not safe now. I could hear the chilling screams coming from Levy as his teeth were being destroyed!
“No wonder I don’t like going to the dentist,” I thought to myself. I also thought that this McElroy guy was not just pulling my leg, he was pulling my teeth. This was my torture now. It was either cry or smile at the situation, and I chose the latter.
“What are you smiling about?” asked the angry McElroy.
“Just a stupid thought,” I said.
“This is serious business Dr. Dawson, and no laughing matter.”
Over the next fifteen minutes, Officer McElroy was clearly reenacting Olivier’s award-winning role, by asking the same question over and over again. Each time with a different tone, in a slightly different way. Would I crack or slip up? Was he trying to break me down? Whatever it was, he was just plain annoying me!
“So, did you talk with Mrs. Weisberg at all before she collapsed?” he asked.
“What do you mean? I just found her dead. Right now. Right before I called you. I only met her a few times, just in passing. Neighborly stuff,” I said.
“Did Mrs. Weisberg spend the night with you?” he asked.
“I told you no, Officer, I didn’t even know she was in town.” At that precise moment I knew my talking was not helping the matter. I was more than digging my own grave—I was burying myself!
“We’re done with the questioning,” the officer said as he abruptly got up, came around the table to my chair, and grabbed my wrist. He quickly cuffed my right hand and then my left, and escorted me to a cell in the back! “No more talking, Dawson,” he retorted.
This was no laughing matter. I could see by the officer’s expression. I was more than a suspect!
Chapter 37
Fingerprinted, mug shot taken, and strip-searched! I handed the officer my cherished Barenaked Ladies concert T-shirt that I had purchased from a Westhampton Beach Performing Art Center concert a few years ago.
How ironic, I thought.
I also tossed my jeans to the officer. I turned over my phone and bracelet, and emptied the rest of my pockets. There were just some spare bills I had taken from my sock drawer and the folded-up crossword-puzzle paper. No wallet!
“Nothing else, Dr. Dawson?” asked the booking officer.
“No, sir,” I replied.
He went through each of my pockets a second time and found nothing else. All the contents were put in a large manila envelope labeled matthew dawson, with my date of birth. I then got to take a world-class Westhampton Beach Police Department shower and was given a beautiful pair of matching Westhampton Beach Police Department jail attire. Oh, how stylish!
“You can put it on now, Dawson,” said the officer.
I slipped on the attire and was led to my cell. It was made of cinder blocks covered with the usual jail-cell steel bars. There, I paced and paced and paced. Back and forth, forth and back, in my own little cell. All by my lonesome. Westhampton Beach was never a heavily trafficked area for hardened criminals. Yes, there was the usual vandalism or theft, but nothing on the scale of the crime occurred at the Weisbergs’.
And now I, “Dr. Goody Two Shoes” was being accused of the murder and the art heist of the century. Me, MD, the one who wouldn’t even write off a cup of coffee on my income tax return for fear the IRS would negate it in an audit.
After moments of silence, a guard came back to my cell with a peanut butter sandwich and water. “Oh, how thoughtful,” I said inside my head.
“I only thought they give you bread and water,” I said to the guard. There was no response.
I wolfed down the sandwich and swallowed the water in what seemed like one large gulp.
“Guard,” I called. “Don’t I get one phone call?”
“Yup.” He opened up the cell and grabbed me by my shoulder and took me to a phone down the hall from the cell.
“One phone call, Doctor, that’s all you get,” as the guard stood ten feet back from the phone.
“One call,” I said to myself. After they had confiscated my cell phone, that was all I got. Just one phone call.
And whom did I call? My attorney? No! My wife? Not on your life! My mother? Are you kidding me? No! I called Shaw.
Shaw always told me, “You don’t need an attorney, you don’t need a tax accountant, and you don’t need a financial advisor. All you need is me!”
“I don’t know why I didn’t just call my damn attorney—Mr. Seth Eisenberg, Esquire. Certainly, a decent guy. A real gentleman! He would have known what to do.”
No, “Shaw” thing! I called Shaw!
Chapter 38
One hour later Officer McElroy came to my cell. “You have a visitor.”
It was Dr. Alexiev Shaw.
“A fine mess you got yourself into this time, Ollie!” Alex joked.
It was no time for joking! “Alex what’s going on? How long am I going to have to be in here?”
“Do you want me to tell you? One, you, my friend, are the leading suspect in the murder of Mrs. Angela Weisberg. Two, you are the leading suspect in the theft of the Jackson Pollock. They have a search warrant for your Hamptons home and are preparing to search your premises. Three, they called your lovely and delightful wife, who was absolutely useless in attesting to your character. You could imagine what nice things she said. No help AT ALL! What did you do to her?”
“Don’t get me started, Alex!” I said. “What do we do now?”
“Tomorrow we have a hearing in Riverhead. You will plead not guilty. Hopefully, you will be released on your own recognizance for a one-million-dollar bail bond. And then I’ll need your help.”
“Alex, I know you are good with everything, but this is murder. Grand larceny. And a Pollock, no less! I need some serious legal help.”
“Yes, you are right. I know my limitations. And there aren’t many. I called an old friend of mine, who will meet you at the courthouse,” Alex ended.
“An old friend?” I thought Alex was my old friend?
Chapter 39
I was brought by minivan to the courthouse in Riverhead. Cuffed all the way, and the ride was painful. En route, the driver hit two potholes and my head hit the top of the van. Just the beginning of another fun day out in the Hamptons, I said to myself. Riverhead was the capital of Suffolk County and had none of the grace or beauty of the Hamptons. It stood between North and South Forks of Long Island at the head of a river.
The courthouse was located in a desolate industrial area, not too far from the largest outlet this side of the Mississippi, Tanger, and way too close to the Riverhead Penitentiary.
Officer McElroy opened the van door, grabbed my throbbing hands, and walked me onto the stairs leading up to the Suffolk County Riverhead Criminal Courts building. It was a relatively modern concoction of concrete and glass and had none of the old-world grandeur of more popular courthouses such as the one in Baltimore from the movie And Justice for All, featuring Al Pacino. No, this was a relic that could use a facelift. But who am I to criticize? I was in the hands of the legal system, and let’s hope there is “justice for all.” As I reached the main courthouse entrance, there was Alex with his “old friend.” Old friend, my ass, I thought. There stood what looked like a five-foot-eight-inch, striking thirty-eight-year-old defense attorney who closely resembled at first glance Cameron Diaz. And she was dressed to the kill.
Chapter 40
As I studied her more closely, I realized that Cameron Diaz was not Cameron Diaz at all. She was Amy Winter. The same Amy Winter I shared my first slow dance with in seventh grade, and my first kiss! I did not and could not forget that magical day in 1972.
September 30, 1972
After the religious service we all piled into a limo and ended up at Leonard’s Palazzo—colloquially known as Leonard’s—on Northern Boulevard in Great Neck. It looked like a large White Castle. But please, do not confuse this glitzy, gaudy catering hall with the hamburger joint. The castle structure had a massive parking lot in front, almost the size of a football field. It was more like a Sands Point estate, and if it were in D.C., it would be compared to the White House. As we entered, a stately doorman escorted us downstairs to the wine cellar for the “cocktail hour.” The bartender was feeling benevolent and gave me a glass of some sweet, fruity drink with a splash of alcohol. After only a couple sips and some pigs in the blanket, we were escorted back upstairs to a large “ballroom” for the main event, featuring a seven-piece live band, “a Hank Lane Special.” The band played pop music, and four sexy dancers decked out in black and white, wearing bell-bottom pants, grooved on the dance floor, hoping to get everybody “grooving.” Yes, grooving.
I was very shy and had not yet had my first dance, date, or even a kiss. But if I were to do any or all of the above, it would be with the girl on the other side of the room. She was in almost all my seventh-grade classes but hardly even knew I existed. She was my secret heartthrob, and only one other person knew that information, my mother!
My mind wasn’t hearing the band at this precise moment but was hearing something else. I had faded back to last week’s conversation with my mom. The one where I told her about the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. And then she started singing that classic Frank Sinatra song “Once in Love with Amy.”
Tear up the list, it’s Amy. Mom’s rendition seemed to evoke a silky-smooth young version of Sinatra. She had quite a good voice and actually acted as if she were singing on Broadway. At least in her mind. She was always belting out tunes from South Pacific, Oklahoma, and other classics, but this one only appeared after my maternal confession.
“You know, Matthew,” she said, “I was your age when I first heard that song.”
“I looked it up, Mom. Sinatra first sang that song in 1948. You were fourteen,” I responded.
“Well, that’s close enough,” she said as she continued to sing.
“But once in love with Amy . . .”
By Amy she meant Amy Winter. Yes, Amy Winter. As I heard my mom singing in my head, even though the band was playing something else, I walked nervously across the parquet floor to this five-foot-tall girl with light ocean-blue eyes and long blond hair, wearing a silky white dress and shiny white patent-leather dress shoes. There she was, all alone, just waiting to be plucked like a petal from a flower.
Now was my chance, I thought to myself.
The band struck up another tune, and this time my obsessive focus on the song about Amy shifted to the Gilbert O’Sullivan slow dance they were playing, “Alone Again (Naturally).”
Perfect, I thought.
But its somber lyrics only made me more nervous . . . as I meandered closer to her.
“Do you want to dance?” I asked as my heart pounded in my chest.
“Sure,” she replied as we listened to . . .
“I remembered I cried when my father died
Never wishing to hide the tears”
“Oh, could you give me a break?” I said sarcastically to myself.
As we walked toward the dance floor, I wrapped my shaking hands around her back. Moving close, she wrapped her hands around my waist. She put her head on my shoulder, and we danced slowly. At that instant, everything fell into place. My hands stopped shaking, and my pounding heart started to settle down. Although the room was filled, I felt as if it were just the two of us. How does our song go? Yes. “Once in love with Amy.”
By the time the song finished, the beat switched to the more upbeat Sammy Davis Jr. hit “The Candy Man” and back to another slow number, “Summer Breeze,” by Seals and Croft. Imagine two slow dances with Amy. This must be my lucky night!
We went to the sidelines and chatted after that. The whole evening was very, very special. Not just because it was Marty Scheinberg’s Bar Mitzvah. It was special because of Amy. And that evening, before my parents picked me up, I kissed her, right on the lips.
“Those delicious lips,” I muttered inside my dizzying brain. The kiss must have lasted only five seconds, but it seemed to last forever.
Chapter 41
October 2012 Riverhead Courthouse
Amy had grown up to be very different than I remembered and radically unlike, in appearance, my soon-to-be ex-wife. Where Shari was small, Amy was tall. Where Shari had short legs, Amy had killer long legs. Where Shari had brown eyes, Amy’s were a light ocean blue, just like I remembered. And oh, did she smell great, some fragrant perfume—I think it was Vera Wang!
“Dr. Dawson, I am Amy Winter. Alex filled me in on your predicament. You have to do exactly what I tell you. Nothing more, AND nothing less. You are going to plead not guilty. I am going to dem
onstrate that you are not a flight risk. And I am going to ask that you be released on your own free will. You are going to agree to post the requested bail. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, I do!” I replied. I think she had no clue who I was and how we were connected. She did not seem to recognize me or show any sign of prior knowledge of me. But my memories were as clear as day: the fireworks created by our first encounter. Here my life was in jeopardy, I was facing a future behind bars, and my heart was racing like a bat out of hell! I didn’t have time to explain or even tell her where and when we’d met. Or even under what circumstances. It would only have confused the matters at hand.
The judge and county prosecutor were conferring and then separated.
“All rise for the honorable Judge Nielson.”
Judge Nielson had straight greyish-black hair, at least what was left of it. It seemed just like in Night Court, but this appearance was during the day and for real.
The judge asked, “How do you plead?”
“Not guilty, your honor!”
“The prosecution has made a motion that you are a flight risk. They say you lost your job, your wife, and your money. They say you are an art expert and had the expertise and the motive to steal the Jackson Pollock painting. They also say that your fingerprints were all over the Weisberg residence, including Mrs. Weisberg’s body, and that all evidence points to you having an affair with Mrs. Weisberg. What is your response?”
“Not true, your honor. Yes, I lost money, like many people did in the—” I was interrupted by Ms. Winter, who motioned me to be quiet.
“Your honor, Dr. Dawson is a well-respected physician. Yes, it is true that he was recently released from Mount Sinai Medical Center. And yes, it is true that he is an avid art aficionado. And yes, Dr. Dawson recently left his wife after he caught her philandering. But no, he was not having an affair with Mrs. Weisberg. In fact, he only met her on a few occasions and just in passing. He had no knowledge that she was even out in the Hamptons. Dr. Dawson is a decent man. A pillar of society! He is not a flight risk, your honor. I ask that you release him on one million dollars bail.” Ms. Winter was cool, calm, and collected as she presented her argument, and evidently surmised it would be sufficient.