The Mourning Sexton (16 page)

CHAPTER 26

J
immy Beau Redding.

Known to all as Jumbo Redding.

They'd been the least likely twosome in the entire prison population: the national trial lawyer with the Harvard law degree and the small-town deputy with the GED. But by the end they were inseparable. Hirsch dearly loved the man. Loved him like the brother he never had.

At first glance, Jumbo Redding seemed to fit a rather distinct stereotype. Southern drawl, scraggly goatee, enormous bald head, tattoos, fifty pounds overweight. A mouth breather as a result of a nose broken that was never reset. If you were asked where to find him at dinnertime, you'd guess perched on a stool at the counter of a diner hunched over a platter of grits and fried catfish, big spoon in that big fist, shoveling food into that big mouth.

Indeed, even the solemn Japanese waiter was taken aback when Jumbo asked, without bothering to open his menu, “Y'all got some of that chutoro tonight?”

“Uh, yes, sir. We do, yes.”

“Glad to hear. What about your kanpachi? How's that lookin' tonight, pal?”

“Very fresh, sir. Very fresh.”

“Then give me some of them, too. And some tekka-maki, a little of that edomai-zushi, maybe couple of them hotategai, and, oh yeah, how about some nice pieces of that sawara.” He'd looked over at Hirsch and sighed with pleasure. “Sawara is Spanish mackerel, Rebbe, and that's some fine shit. Gives me a chubby just thinking about it.”

Hirsch couldn't help but grin as he watched Jumbo eat his sushi, clearly savoring each piece. One might not expect
deft
to have any descriptive relevance to a three-hundred-pound ex-con, but there was no better way to describe Jumbo's skills with chopsticks.

If told that he was presently employed, you'd conjure an image of him driving a forklift on a loading dock or hanging off the back end of a garbage truck. You'd be wrong. You'd be wrong about a lot when it came to Jumbo Redding. If told he'd served time, you'd guess a county jail for drunk and disorderly, and not a club fed for an embezzlement scam based on a software program he'd created—a program so innovative that he'd earned big bucks in prison selling the copyright to a major software company.

You'd never guess he'd turned Hirsch on to
In Search of Lost Time.
His recommendation had been, well, classic Jumbo: “Give ol' Marcel a shot, Rebbe, 'cause ah swear that little French faggot can write like a motherfucker.”

Despite fingers the size of knockwursts, he was a banjo virtuoso, as Hirsch learned during their prison jam sessions. Jumbo would soar off on elaborate riffs, his fingers a blur, and then glide back into the melody just at the right beat.

And he was a blues fan, with a passion that extended far beyond a personal blues library of nearly five hundred CDs covering the greats from all periods and regions of the country. He'd made the pilgrimage to John Lee Hooker's birthplace in Clarksdale, Mississippi. He'd played “Come on in My Kitchen” with T-Model Ford in a juke joint in Water Valley, Mississippi. And the week after his release from prison, he'd driven south past Tunica to the crossroads of Highway 49 and Old Highway 61, gotten out of his car at midnight, and stared up at the full moon while imagining another midnight seventy years earlier when Robert Johnson stood at that same spot beneath that same moon and sold his soul to the devil for the guitar skills that made him father of the blues.

“So how's your job?” Hirsch asked.

“Indoor work, no heavy lifting.”

Jumbo was chief of computer security for a Fortune 500 company that had recruited him from prison. On the morning of his release, a limo waiting outside the prison gate had whisked him to an airport near Allenwood, where his new employer had chartered a jet to fly him to its headquarters in Nashville. Heady stuff for a high school dropout.

Jumbo shrugged. “It's that old theory in action, I guess. Hire a thief to catch a thief.”

“But it must feel good to have their trust.”

Jumbo chuckled. “Come on, Rebbe. Them Nashville boys trust me 'bout as fer as they can throw me, and those sumbitches can't even lift me.”

“What makes you think they don't trust you?”

“They hired a specialist to shadow me. Fellow named Ernie Strahan. Works for an outfit called eZone Security. Ol' Ernie checks in on me once or twice a week. Makes sure I'm not siphoning off the company's assets to some Swiss bank account.”

“At least they told you about him.”

“They didn't tell me jack.”

“How'd you find out?”

Jumbo smiled and took a chug of his Kirin beer. “Guy with my record, I figured they'd have someone shadowing me. Hell, wouldn't you? So I wrote me up this reverse shadow program that lets me know whenever Ernie is out there in cyberspace peering over my shoulder. He has no idea, of course. In fact, he has no idea my program's been monitoring his e-mails as well. Figure I might as well know what he's telling my bosses. Guess what else I found out? Turns out ol' Ernie's getting a little strange on the side. Her name is Sherry. Been tempted once or twice to send ol' Ernie an e-mail suggesting I might just tell his old lady 'bout lovely Sherry if he gets out of line. But I figure what the hell, no reason to rattle the poor bastard. They pay me good money and give me nice benefits and I ain't tempted. At all. You got to remember, Rebbe, I'd have never strayed if it weren't for Amber, God bless her perky little butt.”

Jumbo had been deputy chief of the Jonesboro Police Department—a position he reached in just six years because of his astonishing computer skills, all self-taught. Among other things, he had redesigned the department's computer network and written a software program (eventually licensed to a major player in Silicon Valley) that enabled his department's computers to communicate with computers from other police departments around the state and across the Mississippi River into Tennessee. That feat brought him to the attention of three Memphis officials who'd been nosing around for a computer wizard to implement their scheme to embezzle money from the city's health insurance fund. To lure him into the conspiracy, they enlisted the services of a drop-dead-gorgeous hooker named Amber. Although she was expensive, they got their money's worth.

So did Jumbo.

“Amber done things to me that month,” he told Hirsch in prison, “that nearly make this jail time worth it.”

The waiter removed their empty sushi platters and placed down Jumbo's order of shrimp and vegetable tempura. The man could eat.

“So, Rebbe, let me hear 'bout this big case you got yourself into.”

Hirsch started with Abe Shifrin's parking lot plea and brought him up to date.

Jumbo pondered the situation as he chewed on a shrimp.

“If that pathologist fellow is right, then the big question is ‘Why.' You think she was banging the judge, or you think she caught him in a compromising position in that big tire case?”

“The latter. She was bothered about something having to do with the case. Whatever it was, it seemed to have soured her view of the judge as well.”

“What makes you think she had anything worthwhile on her computer?”

“She had no computer at home. She sent personal e-mails from her office. Maybe she used her computer for other purposes, too.”

“If so, that stuff may still be floating around in that network. Judith Shifrin, eh?” he said, jotting her name down on a napkin.

“You think you can get in the network?”

“Can I get in? Come on, Rebbe. Does the wild pope shit in the woods?” He took a long pull on his Kirin beer, set the bottle on the table, and gave Hirsch a wink.

“Let's just say, ‘Been there, done that.'”

“You already found a way in?”

Jumbo smiled as he chewed on another piece of tempura.

“When?” Hirsch asked.

“This morning.”

“From where?”

“From Branson. Before checking out.”

“You broke into the federal court Web site from your hotel room?”

“I wouldn't exactly call it breaking in. That makes it sound kind of, well, intrusive, if you know what I mean. I just poked around a little on the outside, found me an unlocked door, and sort of poked my head inside and took a gander.”

Hirsch shook his head in disbelief. “I thought the FBI was in charge of Internet security for the federal courts.”

“That's what I hear.”

“Will they be able to figure out you got in?”

“I don't think so.”

“What if they do?”

“I suppose they'll try to plug the hole.”

“But aren't you worried?”

“I'll find another way in.”

“No, I mean about them connecting you to the, uh, to the security breach?”

Jumbo gave him a puzzled expression. “Connecting me?”

“What if they trace it back to your hotel room?”

Jumbo smiled. “Oh, I doubt that'll ever happen.”

“How can you say that?”

“They gotta first find some fingerprints in their network, and then they gotta figure out them fingerprints belong to someone who was in there without permission, and then they gotta figure out how to trace that someone back to his origin. That's a whole lotta figurin' for a federal employee, Rebbe. But even they do all that figurin', they'll end up at a computer in the Justice Department in Washington, D.C. That oughta stop 'em. But if some smart guy figures out that maybe somebody was accessing that computer from a remote location and then figures out how to track down that remote location, he's gonna learn the meaning of remote. He's gonna find hisself inside the computer network of a Nigerian telephone company. Believe me, Rebbe, the trail dies right there.”

Hirsch smiled. “I guess you're good.”

Jumbo shrugged. “Everyone's good at something. I just thank the Lord for giving us Bill Gates, 'cause if weren't for computers, Rebbe, I'd be pumping gas at the Sinclair back home. Listen, I got one more day before I got to be back at work. How 'bout I drop by your office tomorrow morning with my laptop and take another look around that courthouse network, this time with your gal in mind?”

“That would be great. Thanks.”

“My pleasure.” He finished off his beer and stifled a belch. “So how you and Marion getting along?”

Hirsch smiled. “I'm still having trouble keeping up.”

“You ain't the only one, Rebbe. Marion done things with that harp that still leaves 'em scratching their heads.”

Jumbo's arrival at Allenwood had coincided with Hirsch's decision to take up the harmonica again. During the quiet hour after lunch, while his cell mate played bridge in the common area, Hirsch had worked on his old camp repertoire. One afternoon he was seated on his bed with his back to the door playing “Streets of Laredo.” As the final chord faded, a voice behind him said, “Ain't bad, Tex.”

He turned to see Jumbo filling up the doorway. The big man was beaming as he held up a banjo, which looked like a toy instrument in his massive hands. Hirsch had avoided him since Jumbo's arrival, assuming from his appearance and rasping breath that he was the nightmare spawn of a backwoods coupling of siblings.

“Mind if I sit in?” Jumbo had asked.

He started dropping by at the same time each afternoon.

They'd been playing together for a few weeks when he asked Hirsch, “You really a fan of this hillbilly music, Rebbe?”

He'd taken to calling him “Rebbe” after learning about Hirsch's sessions with Pinky Green.

“Reason I ask is y'all don't seem like much of a country boy. Guy been through what you been through and lost what you done lost and coming from a people that's been taking it in the shorts since the time of ol' Ramses, well, jes' seem to me that Marion Jacobs makes a whole lot more sense than Camptown Races.”

“Marion who?”

“Jacobs.”

“Who's she?”

“Him. His stage name was Little Walter.”

“Who's that?”

Jumbo shook his head patiently. “You best come on back to my cell. Time we begun your education.”

Lesson One was Little Walter's “Sad Hours,” a 1952 cut from of one of Jumbo's collection of Chess Records. Lesson Two was “We're Ready” by Junior Wells. Lesson Three was “Help Me” by Sonny Boy Williams. By then, he was hooked on blues.

Hirsch paid the bill, and the two of them headed toward the front of the restaurant.

As they stepped outside, Jumbo said, “I got my banjo out in the car. I was thinking maybe we could drop by your apartment, see if we're as good outside of prison as we used to be inside.”

Hirsch smiled and nodded. “That sounds good.”

“Sure do, don't it?”

CHAPTER 27

T
he following morning, Jumbo came down to the office and spent several hours on the computer before heading back to Memphis. Unfortunately, Hirsch never saw him. That's because the emergency motion to appoint a guardian for Abe Shifrin arrived about an hour before Jumbo did.

The court papers stated that the preliminary hearing was set for eleven o'clock that morning, which gave them just two hours to prepare. There was no question that Rosenbloom had to be there. Although Abe Shifrin's mental capacity might be the ostensible subject of the proceeding, they both knew the real objective was to get Hirsch removed from Judith's lawsuit. Indeed, paragraph eight of the Emergency Motion of Petitioner Hannah Goldenberg for Appointment of Guardian Ad Litem alleged:

8. The risks of irreparable harm to Respondent Abraham Shifrin and his heirs caused by said mental incapacity are/or disablement of Respondent are exacerbated by the fact that the principal attorney handling said wrongful death action and advising Respondent concerning settlement of same is David M. Hirsch, a felon who has already been convicted of the crimes of embezzling client funds and otherwise defrauding clients, all in willful violation of his fiduciary and professional duties to his clients.

“Nasty little cocksucker, eh?” Rosenbloom had said after reading that paragraph.

When he finished reading the petition, he stared at the signature block. “Who the fuck is Ken Felts?”

That was the first of the two questions they sought to answer in the two hours before the hearing. The second question was who could they propose as co-counsel for the wrongful death action?

Rosenbloom found out the answer to the first question by calling a few colleagues around town. He learned that Kenneth M. Felts was a solo practitioner in his fifties with a specialty in real estate law. After law school, Felts went to work for Emmanuel Castleman & Associates, Attorneys at Law. Back then, Manny Castleman had the largest condemnation practice in St. Louis County. He and his three associates represented a wide variety of property owners in proceedings that challenged the monetary value placed on their property by the city, county, or state government authority in the condemnation proceedings. About fifteen years ago, when Manny was in his sixties, the chairman of Emerson, Burke & McGee convinced him to join the law firm and bring along his lucrative book of business. Ken Felts decided to go off on his own, but the other two associates went with Manny to the new firm. One of them was Marvin Guttner.

“There's your connection,” Rosenbloom said to Hirsch. “I'll bet Felts is Jabba's bitch on this one.”

Hirsch had the answer to the second question the moment they found out that the judge assigned to hear the guardianship proceeding was Ann Burke.

“Your Honor,” Rosenbloom said, cutting off Ken Felts in mid-sentence, “we will stipulate that Mr. Hirsch has been convicted of those crimes. I will remind opposing counsel that Mr. Hirsch has been punished for those crimes, has served his time, and has returned not merely to society but to the practice of law under my direct supervision. Unless Mr. Felts would now like to impugn my character as well, perhaps he could move on to something remotely relevant to these proceedings.”

“I object to that statement,” Felts said, glaring at Rosenbloom in outrage, his fists clenched on his hips.

Hirsch was seated back at counsel's table watching the proceedings. Felts and Rosenbloom were up at the bar facing Judge Burke, who listened to them with her arms crossed over her chest, her lips pursed in concentration.

Even standing, Felts was only slightly taller than Rosenbloom seated in his wheelchair. Physically, they were opposites—Rosenbloom big and hulking and bald, Felts short and scrawny and hairy enough to be called furry, with kinky brown hair on his head and his neck and the backs of his hands and above his collar and sprouting from his nostrils and ears. There was an aura of decay about him—discolored teeth, a dusting of dandruff on the shoulders and down the back of his suit jacket, gray eyes distorted behind the thick lenses of horn-rimmed glasses.

“Ah, forgive me.” Rosenbloom placed his hand over his heart in a burlesque of remorse. “We must not forget that Mr. Felts claims to come before the Court on behalf of Mr. Shifrin's beloved sister Hannah Goldenberg. He claims that his client has deep concerns about the mental state of her brother and the propriety of her brother's attorney-client relationship with Mr. Hirsch. We must not allow ourselves to wonder about the cause for these sudden concerns of Mrs. Goldenberg, who has not spoken with her brother for more than two months and who has never spoken with him about the wrongful death action that brings us all together today in court—indeed, that even brings us the attorneys representing the defendants in that case, all of whom are perched here along the front row like, well, like birds of prey.”

He turned and gestured toward Marvin Guttner, Jack Bellows, and Elizabeth Purcell, all seated along the front row, their associates arrayed in the row behind them. All had been served with notice of the hearing, as required under the rules. Bellows flinched slightly at the phrase “birds of prey,” and his face reddened. Guttner was unperturbed.

“No,” continued Rosenbloom, turning back to the judge, “we must endeavor to keep focused on what Mr. Felts tells us are the relevant issues. We must not ask ourselves how his client was able to gather sufficient information about her brother and his lawsuit to decide that she should commence this guardianship action. Nor must we ask ourselves how she was lucky enough to find Mr. Felts to represent her. May I remind the Court that Mr. Felts's client, unlike Mr. Shifrin, presently resides in a nursing home.”

“This is slanderous and outrageous,” Felts said to the Court.

“Mr. Rosenbloom,” Judge Burke said with a mix of amusement and impatience, “is there some proposal buried within this discourse of yours?”

Rosenbloom smiled. “Forgive me, Your Honor. Although I am a mere bankruptcy hack, I respectfully suggest that our adversary system, especially as arrayed before the Court this morning in all its litigious glory, may not be the best mechanism for determining Mr. Shifrin's mental competency. We suggest that if the Court has genuine concerns about Mr. Shifrin's state of mind, then the Court should appoint an impartial medical expert to examine him and report directly to the Court. This seems far preferable to the dueling doctors scenario that Mr. Felts's motion contemplates. As for Mr. Felts's concerns about Mr. Shifrin's principal counsel, may I first remind the Court that by the express terms of the Missouri Supreme Court's order reinstating Mr. Hirsch's law license, I am ultimately responsible for all matters on which he works. I can assure the Court that Mr. Hirsch has acted at all times at the highest level of professional responsibility on this case. Even so, Mr. Felts correctly points out that wrongful death actions are not within my legal area of expertise. Of course, I could point out that questions of mental competency are not within Mr. Felts's legal area of expertise, either, but instead, Your Honor, I believe I can put Mr. Felts and the Court at ease on this matter. The decedent was especially close with one of her law school professors. I believe Your Honor is familiar with Professor Adelaide Lorenz?”

Judge Burke raised her eyebrows in surprise. “I am indeed, Mr. Rosenbloom. As a matter of fact, I serve on the board of the legal clinic that Professor Lorenz supervises.”

“So I understand, Your Honor. That's why I am pleased to report that, if the Court permits, Professor Lorenz is prepared to enter her appearance as additional counsel for the plaintiff in the wrongful death action. That way the Court
and
Mr. Felts
and
Mr. Felts's client
and
, lest we forget”—and here he paused to gesture toward the front row—“our colleagues from the wrongful death case, can all rest assured that the case will proceed under the watchful eye of an attorney that not even Mr. Felts has the audacity to vilify.”

“That is an excellent proposal.” Judge Burke turned to Felts. “Any problems, Counsel?”

Hirsch saw Felts's head jerk slightly toward the three lawyers seated in the front row. “It's an interesting concept, Your Honor, although I obviously haven't had sufficient time to consider all of its ramifications. I'd request a day or so to consult with my client and to advise the Court of our informed position on the matter.”

Rosenbloom snorted. “Come on, Kenny Boy. This ain't rocket science. Your client will be relieved to know that her brother will be examined by a neutral medical expert and that the legal team on his wrongful death lawsuit will include an esteemed law school professor who was close to your client's niece.”

“I have the right to consult with my client,” Felts responded testily.

“You certainly do, Counsel,” Judge Burke said, “and you may take as much time as you need, and you are free to come back to the Court with any concerns you may have. In the interim, however, I will adopt Mr. Rosenbloom's excellent suggestions. I will appoint a medical expert, and I will grant Professor Lorenz leave to file her appearance. Thank you, gentlemen.”

She nodded at her clerk, who rapped his gravel three times and announced, “All rise.”

“Hold on,” Rosenbloom said to Hirsch, stopping his wheelchair outside the courtroom.

He nodded toward Jack Bellows, who was farther down the hallway speaking on his cell phone. An associate from his firm, a young dark-haired male in an expensive pinstriped suit, stood nearby, trying to look important while waiting for his boss's next order.

Rosenbloom said, “Give me a minute alone with that
schmuck
.”

Hirsch stepped back to the side wall near the bank of pay phones and watched as Rosenbloom wheeled himself forward until he was in Bellows's path to the elevators. He took some papers out of his briefcase and studied them as he waited.

Bellows's call ended. He slipped the cell phone into the front pocket of his suit jacket and started toward the elevators, his young associate in tow.

“Hey, Jack,” Rosenbloom called.

Bellows stopped. “What?”

“I have to tell you, tough guy, I'm a little disappointed.”

“Pardon?”

“I thought you were supposed to be a real macho man. A big swinging dick.”

Bellows's eyes narrowed. “I'm not following you.”

“This chickenshit proceeding.” Rosenbloom shook his head. “Doesn't seem your style.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I caught your press conference on TV. The one about our wrongful death case. Man, you sounded ready to rumble. I thought I'd have a ringside seat to a real heavyweight bout. As you no doubt recall, my boy was once a helluva courtroom fighter.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Oh, he's still got a nasty haymaker. But what's this? You're backing down before the opening bell. As soon as things get a little rough, you wimp out with a competency proceeding.”

“That's bullshit.” Bellows's face was flushed.

“Call it whatever you want to call it, Jack, but this pussy move was yours.”

“I had nothing to do with this proceeding. This is Guttner's deal one hundred percent. You can tell Hirsch he's one lucky bastard. But you better tell him to get his deal finalized quick, because I gave Guttner one week to get it done. After that, the wraps come off, and I'm going to drill David Hirsch a new asshole. Tell him that.”

“Tell him yourself, Dirty Harry.”

Bellows was glaring down at Rosenbloom as Hirsch stepped out from the pay phones. Bellows looked up, his entire body tensing, fists clenching. For a moment, Hirsch thought Bellows was going to charge—and during that tense moment, even as he shifted his weight to get ready, Hirsch flashed on the absurdity of two lawyers in their late fifties tussling in a courthouse hallway.

“For chrissake, Jack,” Rosenbloom said, “don't be a horse's ass. This isn't the WWF, you
putz
, and you sure as hell ain't Hulk Hogan.”

Bellows looked at Rosenbloom and then back at Hirsch.

Staring at Hirsch, Bellows said, “I sure hope you fuck up that settlement, because once this case is back on track, you're dead meat.”

He turned and marched off toward the elevators.

Rosenbloom called after him, “Then you better line up a good pathologist.”

The elevator doors slid open and Bellows and his associate got on. Bellows turned back to face them and held the door open.

“Don't worry about my experts,” he called, as the elevator doors began to close. “We've have the top two pathologists in the nation.”

Rosenbloom turned his wheelchair toward Hirsch. “Let's hope he's right.” He chuckled. “What a goober. Guess we smoked them out, eh?”

Hirsch nodded. “Guttner's running the show.”

“Let's get back to the office and let Dulcie know what happened.”

Hirsch checked his watch. “I have a meeting with the U.S. trustee in ten minutes.”

“I'll give her a call. See if she can drop by later.”