An Eye For Justice

by Mark Young

  They were in Friedman’s book lined chambers. He sat at his desk in shirtsleeves having discarded his black gown. Browder stood apart, leaning back against the door jamb nonchalantly studying his finger nails. Morganna sat across from Friedman, scrolling through some case law on her tablet. They had been arguing the point back and forth for nearly ten minutes, and it was clear Friedman was going to exclude the hypnosis induced testimony, the effect of which would be catastrophic for Hannah’s case. It would take out Hannah’s identification of August Matthes and her eye witness testimony of his taking of the pendant and the brooch, not to mention the murder of Helena and Hannah’s grandfather. That is, it would take out the absolute heart of her case, leaving them with nothing.

  ‘Your honour,’ Morganna said, whilst speed reading some case law. ‘My understanding of the law on this complex subject, whilst far from expert, is that many cases turn on what the witness testified to prior to hypnosis. That testimony is not tainted by hypnotherapy, it pre-existed hypnosis and should stand in the normal way. I appreciate that it appears you are going to throw out the ID of August Matthes from the death camp and the actual taking of the jewellery. However, it is clear that Hannah Cohen recognized and identified August Matthes, later at the displaced persons camp in Seedorf. Now that ID, your honour, is independent of any hypnosis. That memory pre-existed, although Hannah may not have appreciated its significance prior to these latest developments. When you combine this with the corroborative fact that Angel Milken currently has custody of the jewellery in issue in this case, and was previously known as Franz Bauer, who my client alleges is in fact August Matthes, that part of her testimony - the ID of Matthes at the DP camp - must stand.’

  ‘So you keep Angel Milken in the frame, eh, Miss Fedler?’ Friedman said, a faint gleam of admiration flickering in his eye at her hastily discovered powers of persuasion. ‘Mr. Browder?’ he said, turning to look at defense counsel.

  ‘Absolute poppycock, judge,’ Browder said, contemptuously. ‘Plaintiff only gets the significance of the later DP camp ID because of what she gleans from the hypnosis session, so it all has to go.’

  Friedman held his hand up as Morganna was about to come back at him. ‘I’ve heard enough,’ he said. ‘If you don’t agree my ruling, Mr. Browder, appeal. You’ve cut a huge swathe of their case away, and if you can’t win it now, you need to think about another career.

  ‘So, I’m not going to chuck it all out. The later DP camp ID stays in, because I believe what Miss Fedler says is right.’ He looked at both attorneys, neither of whom were happy, but Morganna couldn’t resist a quick smile. She’d fought, instead of run, and she’d got something. The game was still on - just. And if she could get Milken in the box, even for just one minute, then she’d try a few tricks of her own.

  Chapter 28

  Browder was feeling particularly pleased with himself as he entered the penthouse suite at the top of K Tower. He’d stopped off earlier at a bar where lawyers congregated at the end of each day, and he’d got to regale a couple of them with his exploits in the Southern District Court that day, and now he felt a warm pleasant alcoholic glow around him.

  As he came into the study Angel Milken was sat at his desk reading, his face illuminated by light from a single lamp. Browder came to a halt in front of the desk and waited, the alcohol he had imbibed earlier giving him a measure of calmness he didn’t usually feel in the presence of the great man.

  Milken looked up, a thin dry smile on his face. Browder could see he had been reading a transcript of the days hearing, in both English and German. ‘And so, Charles, you have been celebrating, Schmidt tells me, yes?’ Milken said with a dry laugh.

  Browder shivered, realizing Schmidt must have been watching him in the bar earlier, and Angel was letting him know he knew about it. ‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry, I should have come here straight away,’ Browder said.

  ‘No, no, Browder,’ Angel said, waiving him into the chair opposite. ‘You certainly did very well in getting the main testimony excluded, it was masterful, and I am most grateful for your endeavors.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Browder said, preening with pride.

  ‘But, Charles, we are still left with the Bauer allegation. What is your advice?’ he asked.

  Although slightly drunk, Browder was ready for the question. ‘Sir, I don’t believe its necessary for you to testify,’ he said.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘They will have nothing left, sir. Because I will dismiss the central part of the Cohen woman’s testimony in my closing speech. I will say her words are simply the rantings of a severely disturbed individual who has tried to use dubious hypnosis methods to conjure up a story for the jury,’ Browder said, watching the boss, eager for approval.

  ‘I disagree,’ Angel said slowly, leaning back in his chair. Because the day in court had gone well, Angel was feeling expansive and a little more talkative than usual. ‘I did study law you know, Charles, many years ago, in Germany, before the war. The receipt for the jewellery I purchased in Munich needs to be personally validated by me with testimony. As does my refutation of the Jewesses allegation regarding what occurred at the DP camp. The jury need to see me. I have no fear of what these swindling Jews can do, and I will face them down tomorrow. Arrange it,’ he said dismissively, indicating the meeting was over.

  * * * *

  As Christoff, Hannah and Pascal piled into the kitchen chattering away about Van Gogh and his lost painting, they found Calver there hunched over the table hugging a half empty bottle of Scotch. Pascal rolled her eyes and made sign language behind Calver’s back that Christoff and Hannah should leave, which they did, silently.

  Pascal went and got a tumbler and then sat down opposite him. She noticed his eyes were very bloodshot and didn’t seem to be focusing. She held out her hand for the bottle and said, ‘gimme.’

  He looked up, and it was clear he hadn’t realized she was there. His eyes slowly cleared. He looked down at the bottle with surprise, and then handed it to her. He rubbed his hands across his eyes. ‘Jury’s out and I’m going down, Courtney. Thanks a bunch, mate,’ he said

  She poured some scotch into a tumbler. ‘What d’you want me to do, Calver?’ she asked, wearied by his self-pitying whining. ‘We know they looped the tape. We even half know how they did it, and who got that for you?’ she asked. ‘That’s right, me. But we can’t prove it. And the people with the proof will never talk. They’re more scared of Schmidt and his crew than they’ll ever be of us. Again, Calver. What d’you want me to do about it?’

  * * * *

  I got up from the table, unsteady on my feet, the room spinning. I knew she was right. She couldn’t do any more. That afternoon, the judge had summed up and sent the jury out, so come morning I’d get a verdict. And then I’d be going back to jail, probably for life without parole. I picked up the bottle from the table and staggered out, and then weaved my way towards the bedroom, determined to obliterate the fear with drink.

  * * * *

  As Calver staggered out of the kitchen, Pascal raised her cell-phone and tried Bob Jeffries again, but he still wasn’t picking up. She knew it was too late for Calver, but if she could get something, if Bob’s world class tech boys had found anything in the CCTV digital file, it might give Calver some hope. And it would be there for an appeal. She sent a text chasing Bob. To it she attached a picture of a naked woman, hating herself but knowing it was more likely to get Bob’s attention than anything else.

  * * * *

  Cara was in bed again. She was looking at the smartphone but she was frightened to touch it. As soon as her hand had slipped under the pillow and felt it she had remembered everything. But she also remembered other things, like when Daddy had hurt her, he had always had the phone with him. As she studied the dead black screen she began to cry. Then, after a moment, she looked up and caught Rupert staring at her sternly from the edge of the bed. His one glass eye looked so real, and he seemed to be saying, ‘stop crying, you silly little foo
l. Only little girls cry.’

  She sniffed and rubbed her nose. ‘You’re right, Rupert,’ she muttered, and reached down and powered up the phone. After about 5 seconds it began to ring. She immediately jumped back, frightened, and then quickly switched it off.

  * * * *

  Schmidt sat with Wilkins in the bar where Pascal had seen them before. They were in a booth and Schmidt was listening to Wilkins and sipping scotch.

  ‘So, boss, I told you before, the crew, when they were in O’Leary’s house, they ripped it apart. Nothing. No phone. And now the guys on the street. Same. Nothing.’

  Schmidt didn’t seem to be listening. He’d known they wouldn’t find anything. O’Leary had been cleverer than he looked. Kiddie fiddlers usually were. A life spent hoodwinking the world usually taught a guy how to deceive. Schmidt toyed with the burner in his left hand. It was programmed with just one number: O’Leary’s, and it was set to phone that number every 5 minutes. It was on speakerphone.

  As Wilkins signaled the waiter for another round, the burner suddenly vibrated in Schmidt’s hand and started emitting a live dial tone. Schmidt smiled and slowly placed the vibrating phone on the table. Then it stopped.

  ‘So,’ Schmidt said. ‘Its out there.’

  ‘How you going to get them to answer, boss?’ Wilkins said.

  ‘Oh, they’ll answer all right,’ Schmidt said. ‘They’ll just have to know who’s calling them. Curiosity trumps caution every time, and we know what curiosity did, don’t we? Kitty, Kitty. We just gotta wait, and then kill ourselves a cat.’

  * * * *

  Southern District Court

  Day 12

  As Michael Milken wheeled his father into the Southern District Courtroom a distinct hush fell on the place. This was despite the fact that the public and press areas were now stuffed to the gills with assorted media, including foreign outlets, punters, lawyer groupies and the usual courtroom nut-jobs. It was a strange turnaround; for weeks of testimony the court had essentially been empty apart from judge, clerk, stenographer, lawyers and the parties themselves. But now look at it?

  Morganna turned from the onlookers to study Angel Milken as Michael maneuvered the old man into place at the defendant’s table. The wheelchair was an old battered manual job, no doubt chosen for effect, and Angel had a ratty green tartan blanket spread over his knees, making him look distinctly old and infirm. But the face itself didn’t look old at all, it was still finely sculpted and distinguished by dramatic planes underneath a large cerebral looking forehead. Then you had that single fierce, almost eagle like grey eye, staring out indomitably at the world, offset dramatically by the contrasting black patch covering the other eye. Interestingly there were virtually no modern photograph’s of Angel Milken anywhere, so this was the first real opportunity Morganna had had to get a look at him.

  She cast a sidelong glance at Hannah and stiffened, shocked by what she saw. Hannah’s face was white as snow as she watched Milken, her eyes crawling over his face, registering every crag and line. It really did look like she was seeing a ghost.

  Then Browder was rising to his feet and formally calling Angel Milken to the stand. There was a slight delay as Milken was helped into the witness box and settled down, and then Browder was away with the basics of name, address and similar as he sketched out the witnesses background. Milken’s voice in answering was loud, firm and authoritative and he seemed to be completely relaxed.

  ‘Now your original name was not Angel Milken, correct?’ Browder said, quickly getting into it.

  ‘My original name was Franz Bauer, which I changed to Angel Milken soon after I arrived in this great country back in 1947. I was born in Cologne, Germany on 3rd May 1923.

  Browder studied his notes. ’Now you know that there have been allegations against you suggesting you are not who you say you are, and there is also an inference that you were present when some very valuable jewellery went missing in April 1943. To start with can you tell us what you were doing and where you were around this time?’

  ‘Certainly,’ Milken said. I was a Sturmbannfuhrer, or major, in your parlance, in the Waffen SS. Panzergrenadier division, Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler. In August 1942 we were pulled out of the line from Rostov where there had been a massive soviet counter-attack, and we were sent back to France for re-fitting. In February 1943 we were put back into the line at Kharkov to try and hold the city, which then changed hands a couple of times following vicious fighting and huge casualties. After that we were in almost continuous combat, fighting the red army. Then on 5th July 1943 our division spearheaded the southern pincer movement in the greatest tank battle in history at Kursk, and this lasted way into August of that year. After that we were in a state of almost constant retreat under fire.

  ‘So to answer your questions specifically, I was in combat in southern Russia in April 1943.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr. Milken,’ Browder said, voice dripping with servility. ‘Now, again you will have heard that it is alleged that this jewellery appears to have originally gone missing at one of the camps, and we have heard testimony that Dutch Jews were sent to places the names of which are now burned into the psyche of peoples all around the world. Places such as Auschwitz- Birkenau and Sobibor. Were you ever present or did you ever visit any of these places during April 1943, or indeed at any time?’

  Again, without hesitation Milken responded. ‘Absolutely not. We were a combat unit. As I’ve said, in April 1943 I was fighting for my life deep in Southern Russia. Despite being an SS man, I did not agree with the extermination of the Jews. Indeed my view was that far too many resources were diverted to this dubious end, when they should have been used to help our brave and courageous fighting troops. I’ll admit I, like many Germans of my generation, did hate the Jews. I considered them to be an existential threat living amongst us, but my remedy would have been just to cast them out of our territories.’

  ‘Thank you again, Mr. Milken. Moving on, following the end of the war, I understand that you were interned in a displaced persons, or DP camp, in Seedorf?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Tell us about that?’

  ‘As our world collapsed around us, a major concern for those of us who wanted to go on living, and many didn’t, was not to fall into the hands of the red army. Or be identified as being a member of the Waffen SS - revenge, as we observed on many occasions, would be swift and brutal. So I discarded my uniform in the ruins of Berlin in April 1945 and was soon after taken prisoner by the Americans who after a short period transferred me to Seedorf.

  ‘After becoming aware that I spoke perfect English they employed me to do translation work and as they got to trust me, they involved me in helping track down wanted Nazi’s. In order to get to that level of trust, I had concluded that I would have to come clean about my identity, which I quickly did, and which ironically I believe actually enhanced their trust in me.’

  ‘Now, perhaps the most outlandish allegation leveled against you in this case,’ Browder said, pausing for a beat to turn and look wide-eyed at the jury, ‘is that whilst in the DP camp you took on the identity of Franz Bauer. That in fact you were someone else, and that you did away with the real Franz Bauer, and then became him?’

  For the first time Milken smiled thinly, his bloodless lips creasing slightly at the edges, whilst his single eye remained trained directly on the centre of the jury box. ‘Hah,’ he said, impatiently. ‘Is that really a serious question for me?’

  ‘I am afraid it is, however absurd, Mr. Milken.’

  ‘Of course that did not happen. How could it? I was surrounded by soldiers and military police, as well as Jews eager for retribution, and other inmates, all with their own agenda. How would I have achieved it? It is fantastical and a nonsense. Indeed you have my original identification documents there,’ he said pointing at the bundle of dog-eared papers sitting on Browder’s table. ‘It would simply not have been possible to do what you suggest.’

  Browder nodded, then tur
ned to glance at Hannah sitting quietly at the plaintiff’s table, her eyes locked onto Milken’s. ‘Do you know, or have you ever met the plaintiff in this case, Miss Hannah Cohen?’ Browder said, holding out his hand in Hannah’s direction.

  Milken didn’t really look at Hannah. He said, ‘Never. I have never met this person, on my honour.’

  Hannah snorted, unable to keep quiet any longer. ‘On your honour,’ she muttered loudly enough for the judge and jury to hear, prompting Friedman to intervene. ‘We are all getting a might emotional, and I want everybody to calm down, especially the Plaintiff,’ he said, looking directly at Hannah, not unkindly.

  Hannah slowly regained her composure and then nodded.

  ‘Good. Proceed, Mr. Browder.’

  ‘Thank you your honour,’ Browder said, turning back to Milken, who appeared completely unmoved by Hannah’s outburst. ‘I am now handing you, Mr. Milken, Exhibit “HC6” being a receipt for the purchase of a pendant and brooch,’ he said, passing to Milken a single yellowing sheet of paper.

  Milken took the paper and placed it down in front of him and then looked up, along with the jury, at a blown up photograph of it on a large screen, which also contained an image of a certified English translation alongside it. It showed a simple and brief receipt, although the description of the jewellery was very detailed. It confirmed the sale of a jewel encrusted antique pendant and matching brooch, by Pieter Kopp, licensed jewelers and antique dealers of Schlossstrasse 26, Munich to a Mr. Angel Milken of New York City. The receipt showed a date of 7th June 1953.

  ‘Please explain what this is, Mr. Milken?’

  ‘Its the original receipt for my legitimate purchase of the jewellery that the plaintiff alleges I somehow obtained illegally,’ Milken said.

  ‘And it’s been validated?’

  ‘Yes it has,’ Milken said. ‘I believe you have an exchange of correspondence with Pieter Kopp’s heirs, who incidentally still run the dealership, comprehensively confirming the position. And I also understand you have an experts opinion that the jewellery in the TV clip seen by the plaintiff that started this whole farce, is the same jewellery referred to in the invoice.’