The Mourning Sexton (21 page)

“It means I don't know where this case is headed anymore. I thought the stakes were high enough when we were dealing with just a possible homicide, but now—”

He shook his head. “Now they seem even higher. This case was my responsibility at the beginning, and it still is. It isn't yours, and it isn't Lauren's.”

“All because of an unidentified set of headlights?”

“Yes,” he said, surprised by the force of his voice.

Dulcie studied him.

“Look,” he said in a softer voice, “I've hurt my daughters more than enough for one lifetime. What's done is done, and I can't undo it. But I can try to prevent any further harm. If there's even a slight chance that someone is out there following me, I don't want Lauren—or you—anywhere near this case. I don't want either of you at risk.”

She smiled as she reached into her purse for the car keys. “Our protector.”

“More like your endangerer.”

She looked up at him for a moment. Then she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him gently, slowly, on the lips.

“You can be my protector,” she whispered.

He'd been imagining that kiss almost from the moment he saw her enter the coffeehouse that first afternoon. It was even better than he'd imagined.

She leaned back, the moonlight shimmering in her dark eyes.

“That was nice,” she said.

He stared into her eyes, unable to talk, not sure what he was doing, knowing that they hadn't resolved what they needed to resolve.

But none of that mattered. He leaned forward to kiss her. Her eyes closed as their lips touched. They kissed, no part of them touching except for their lips.

The kiss ended.

Her eyes opened. She smiled.

Silently, they turned toward her car. She opened the door and looked back at him.

“Good night, David.”

“Good night, Dulcie.”

The idiocy of the kiss struck him as he was watched her drive off.

What was he thinking?

Or not thinking?

He scanned the parking lot. There were about two dozen parked cars scattered around the lot. He scrutinized them one by one as he walked toward his car. He didn't see anyone in any of the cars, but it was hard to be sure in the dark. Someone could have been ducking down inside one of the cars.

He got in his car, started the engine, and drove toward the exit, all the while glancing in his rearview mirror, watching the parked cars, watching for movement. He stopped at the exit and turned around, scanning the lot again, looking for the sign of exhaust vapor. He didn't see any.

He faced forward, checked the traffic, glanced again in his rearview mirror, and pulled out of the parking lot.

CHAPTER 33

T
hey waited in silence as Judge Ann Burke read through the settlement papers. Ken Felts and Dulcie Lorenz stood at the podium—Dulcie on the left, Felts on the right. She stood almost a head taller than Felts. Hirsch stood to Dulcie's left. Arrayed on the other side of Felts were Marvin Guttner and then Jack Bellows and then Elizabeth Purcell. They were a trio of contrasts: Purcell earnest and attentive and oblivious to the real drama; Bellows tense and struggling to suppress his irritation; and Guttner tranquil, heavy-lidded eyes half-closed, liver-colored lips sagging open, as if he'd just finished eating a particularly tasty young associate.

Two weeks had elapsed since Dulcie's first settlement meeting with Guttner. They'd met again five days later—the day
after
the parties and the court received the report from Dr. Nemes, the examining physician. The doctor had run a battery of tests on Abe Shifrin and concluded that his Alzheimer's disease had progressed to stage five, which rendered him unfit to live alone. Hirsch had no basis to challenge the doctor's opinion. In truth, he'd been relieved to be able to get his client into an assisted living environment under the watchful eye of professional caretakers. He and Dulcie arranged for Shifrin to be moved that weekend to a room at the Jewish Center for the Aged, which is where he now resided.

With Shifrin medically eliminated from the settlement loop, Dulcie quickly hammered out a deal. The judge seemed pleased with her results.

“So you will wire-transfer the settlement payment?” Judge Burke asked.

Guttner nodded, his lower jaw disappearing into the ample flesh of his double chin. “Promptly upon the Court's approval, Your Honor.”

Judge Burke looked at Dulcie. “You've agreed on one hundred and twenty thousand dollars.”

“We believe that is a fair amount,” Dulcie said to her, “especially given some of the other settlement terms.”

The judge nodded. “Such as the fifty-thousand-dollar donation to your family justice clinic.”

“Actually, it's a grant, Your Honor. We will use the money to establish the Judith Shifrin Internship. The principal should generate enough income to fund an annual summer internship for a law student at the clinic.”

The judge nodded again, clearly pleased.

Dulcie said, “In addition, Your Honor, you will note that paragraph eight of the settlement agreement includes an expression of sorrow and regret by Peterson Tire for the death of Ms. Shifrin.”

“I did read that, Ms. Lorenz. I confess that I've never seen such a provision.”

“Nor have I,” Dulcie said. “Our challenge was to craft a settlement that reflected Mr. Shifrin's stated purpose. When he originally retained David Hirsch to file the lawsuit, he told him that his purpose was to find a way to preserve his daughter's memory, both in the minds of the defendants and in the minds of others. Although two of the defendants refused to participate in that portion of the settlement, Peterson Tire stepped forward. Mr. Guttner was quite helpful in that regard.”

She gestured toward Guttner, who acknowledged it with a magnanimous nod.

“As a result,” Dulcie continued, “we have been able to reach a settlement of the lawsuit that I believe comes as close as possible to achieving Mr. Shifrin's original purpose in filing it. I strongly recommend its approval.”

The judge turned to Felts. “And your client's response, Mr. Felts?”

“My client has nothing to add regarding this matter, Your Honor,” he murmured, suddenly as deferential as an Elizabethan manservant.

“That wasn't my question, Mr. Felts. Does your client support the settlement?”

“My client defers to the judgments of the attorneys for the litigants in that case.” He bent at the knees and leaned forward in a semi-curtsey. “If they are satisfied, Your Honor, so is my client.”

“Very well, Mr. Felts. The Court has reviewed the settlement agreement and sees no reason not to enter an order approving its terms. You may draft the order, Mr. Felts. The Court will be in recess.”

Guttner approached him in the hallway outside Judge Burke's courtroom.

“David,” he said, reaching out a hand, “I hope you are as pleased as I am that we've been able to bring this unfortunate matter to a final resolution.”

Hirsch shook his hand. “I'm glad it's over.”

“It is more than over. That professor of yours negotiated an excellent settlement for you.”

Hirsch nodded. “The endowment was a nice touch.”

“That it was. Yes, indeed. A veritable living memorial to Judith. I have been told that the clinic does good work.”

“They represent women who've been physically abused by men,” Hirsch said.

“Do they really? Good for them, eh?”

Hirsch turned to peer through the window of the courtroom door. Dulcie was still in there with Felts, who was drafting the order approving the settlement. He turned back to Guttner. Waiting off to the side was Guttner's associate, a thirtysomething woman in a conservative gray suit and dark flats. She stood rigid, face blank, eyes straight ahead—a lawyer robot waiting for the master's next command. Down the hall, Jack Bellows and Elizabeth Purcell were boarding an elevator. Bellows had been the first one out of the courtroom, leaving without a word and heading straight toward the elevator bank, where he'd waited impatiently, tapping his foot. Purcell had paused briefly in the hallway to ask Hirsch how his client was doing at the nursing home, and then she hurried on toward the elevator bank as the down light flashed above the middle elevator.

“So is it back to bankruptcy for you, David,” Guttner asked, “or have you developed a hankering for personal injury cases?”

“Hard to say,” Hirsch replied, unwilling to offer the fat man any opening.

“Speaking of which,” Guttner said, forcing a chortle, “we need to take care of that settlement provision regarding the turnover of your investigative file. I can send someone by your office to pick it up. How about later this afternoon?”

“We won't have it ready by then.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I don't know.”

“Just have your girl call my girl.”

Hirsch nodded. He'd already put together a “file” for Guttner. It contained more than ten thousand pages of documents that his paralegals had gathered for him during the initial phase of the lawsuit, back when he thought it was just another accident case. There were copies of court filings and deposition summaries and hearing transcripts and interviews and expert witness reports from dozens of other accident cases involving Ford Explorers or Peterson tires. Enough documents to fill six bankers boxes. Enough documents to allay any concern Guttner might have as to Hirsch's compliance with his obligations under the settlement agreement.

“The sooner the better, David. Now that we've got the case settled, we need to make sure we tie up all the loose ends.”

Hirsch gazed at him and nodded. “That's my thought exactly.”

CHAPTER 34

D
usk faded into night as Hirsch sat in his car, which was idling at the curb in front of Abe Shifrin's house. His mood felt as empty as the house.

He'd driven out to the nursing home after court to share the news of the morning's settlement hearing. He'd found Abe in his room, seated in the armchair watching television. He was wearing a white shirt speckled with food stains, wrinkled gray slacks, brown slippers. The stubble on his face suggested that he hadn't shaved for several days.

Hirsch couldn't tell whether Abe recognized him. The old man had smiled and waved him in when Hirsch had knocked on the open door to his room. He'd nodded pleasantly when Hirsch explained that the judge had approved the settlement.

“Does that makes you happy?” Shifrin had asked.

“It makes me happy if it makes you happy.”

Shifrin smiled. “Then let's both be happy.”

The old man turned his attention to the television program, which appeared to be a rerun of a show called
The Wonder Years
. A show, Hirsch thought to himself, about memories. Ironic. They watched together in silence, Hirsch on the bed, Shifrin in the easy chair.

During a commercial break, Shifrin turned to him. “Have you seen her?”

“Who?”

“My Judith.”

He sorted through possible responses. “No.”

“She's been a good wife to me.”

Hirsch nodded.

“I've not always been an easy man to live with. You may find that hard to believe, sir, but it's true.” He frowned. “Where could she have gone. Have you seen her?”

“I haven't.”

Shifrin pulled up the left sleeve of his robe and glanced at the back of his wrist, as if he expected to see a watch.

“Hard to keep track,” he mumbled, more to himself. He let the sleeve slide back into place.

Something on the television caught his attention, and he settled back in his chair to watch. Hirsch waited a few minutes and then stood up.

Shifrin turned to him, puzzled. “So soon, Mr. Hirsch?”

Hirsch was heartened by Shifrin's use of his name. Pockets of memory were still intact.

“I'll come back next week, Mr. Shifrin. And then next month, when we set up the endowment for Judith's internship, I'm sure there will be a nice ceremony at the law school. You'll be a guest of honor.”

“Guest of honor?” he repeated, pleased. “At my age, eh? Will Judith be there?”

“She'll be there in spirit.”

“Ah, well.” He appeared to think it over, and then he nodded. “If you see her, Mr. Hirsch, be sure to tell her I love her. Would you do that for me?”

Hirsch nodded. “I will.”

“I've not always been an easy man to live with. You may find that hard to believe, sir. Still, I have always loved her. You be sure to tell her that.”

Those words echoed in Hirsch's mind as he gazed now at the dark house. The nursing home visit had been just one more downer in a week of downers that began on Monday afternoon, when an exasperated Jumbo Redding had called to tell him that he wouldn't be able to retrieve any of Judith's e-mails. He'd been working on the problem for more than a week, trying to figure out what had happened to all of the e-mails in the system prior to June 12 of last year. Eventually, by snooping around in related government networks, he'd been able to piece together the answer. A nasty computer virus struck the district court's computer network on June 7 of last year, causing the system to crash within hours. The feds flew in an information technology SWAT team from D.C., who determined that the virus had entered as an infected attachment to an e-mail, which had replicated itself at an exponential rate by grafting itself onto e-mails throughout the user network. The tech guys tried several cures before taking their drastic final step on June 12.

“Dumb bastards purged every goddamn e-mail in the system. Every last one. I'd like to know who the hell was running that operation? Homer Simpson? I wish I had better news for you, Rebbe, but it looks like the damn memory for those years is just gone.”

More missing memory. Of course.

And then yesterday afternoon, Rosenbloom's longtime secretary Evelyn had hurried into Hirsch's office, closed the door, and leaned back against it.

“Oh, David,” she'd said, fighting back tears, “please go help Seymour.”

He had hurried down the hall to Rosenbloom's office, where he found him at his desk, head down. For one terrible moment, Hirsch thought he was dead, but then he saw that his shoulders were shaking.

“Sancho,” he said, closing the door behind him.

Rosenbloom looked up, eyes red, face contorted.

Hirsch understood immediately. “Again?”

Rosenbloom lowered his head.

Hirsch found a blanket to place over his lap and quickly wheeled him out of the office. He got him home to his apartment and helped him remove his urine-soaked clothing, clean himself up, and put on fresh clothes. He tried to get him back to the office, but Rosenbloom refused to go. When Hirsch said good-bye, Rosenbloom was slumped in his wheelchair in front of the picture window.

It was the second time in as many weeks that he'd lost control of his bladder—both times during heated telephone calls with opposing counsel.

The first time, Hirsch had tried to cheer him up by making light of it. “Now that's what I call getting pissed off, Sancho.”

And Rosenbloom had smiled that time, in spite of himself.

But not this time.

What had never happened since his toddler days had now happened twice in two weeks. The second time made it different. Hirsch knew, and he knew that Rosenbloom knew, what incontinence signaled. Hirsch had read up on multiple sclerosis. He had learned that it was a disease that progressed in starts and stops, with the victim descending from plateau to plateau, sometimes slowly, sometimes abruptly.

Twice in two weeks signaled an abrupt descent.

Twice in two weeks meant adult diapers from now on.

Twice in two weeks meant worse symptoms were edging closer. It meant that a remarkable life force known as Seymour Rosenbloom was starting toward the exit. It meant that a powerful light in Hirsch's world was beginning to dim.

All in all, a lousy week.

He tried to be upbeat about the resolution of Judith's case, but he'd been through too much over too many years to match Dulcie's enthusiasm for the settlement agreement. The money was okay, but as Abe Shifrin made clear that morning in the synagogue parking lot last December, it wasn't about the money. The endowment for the internship was certainly worthwhile, although he knew that it was mostly eyewash for Peterson Tire, a way for the company to get some added public relations bang for a modest buck. Better than nothing, of course, but he'd been around long enough to see through the vanity of trying to buy immortality with your name on an endowment or a building.

The expression of sorrow was even less meaningful. Sorrow without responsibility. Lots of people were sorry about Judith's death. Peterson Tire's expression was little more than a Hallmark sympathy card pulled off the rack and sent three and a half years too late. Worse yet, as Hirsch suspected, it was probably a sympathy card from a party that had little to do with her death.

But, as he reminded himself again, it was a settlement agreement. A compromise. Nothing more, nothing less.

Ironically, there was plenty there for a decent publicist to spin into gold. The settlement money, the endowment, the expression of sorrow—the mix had all the makings of a David and Goliath story for some credulous reporter.

Even Rosenbloom had mentioned it, pointing out that a well-placed blurb could be a nice career boost. “With a real David in the role of David. Could be a helluva way to let the world know that you're back on top.”

Alone in the car, Hirsch shook his head. He had had enough press releases for one lifetime. He'd been famous, and he had relished the perks. And then he'd been infamous, and suffered the consequences. And during his years in prison, reading and rereading Jumbo's copy of
Meditations
, he'd learned a lesson from Marcus Aurelieus. He'd copied it onto a sheet of paper and taped it to the prison wall. And when he left, he took it down from the wall and folded it up and put it in his wallet. He still carried it with him, even though he'd long since committed it to memory:

The man whose heart is palpitating for fame after death does not reflect that out of all those who remember him every one will himself soon be dead also, and in the course of time the next generation after that, until in the end, after flaring and sinking by turns, the final spark of memory is quenched. Furthermore, even supposing that those who remember you were never to die at all, nor their memories to die either, yet what is that to you? Clearly, in your grave, nothing; and even in your lifetime, what is the good of praise—unless to subserve some lesser design? Surely, then, you are making an inopportune rejection of what Nature has given you today, if all your mind is set on what men will say of you tomorrow.

But what exactly had Nature given him today?

Maybe the settlement agreement was all he would ever achieve for Judith. Maybe this was it.

The end of the line.

He gazed at the front of Abe Shifrin's house. The streetlights barely illuminated the small front porch. From where he sat, the porch seemed almost a stage set. He could imagine the scene. Almost see it. First night of Hanukkah. It would have been dark then, too. Dark when Judith stepped up to the porch. He could almost make out her small figure in the dim light. With her armful of containers, including one with homemade
latkes
and one with applesauce. He could see her take a deep breath and reach for the doorbell, her finger hesitating just a moment before pushing the buzzer. She moved back two steps. Waiting in the dark, her breath visible in the cold air. The porch light came on. The front door opened. There they stood, the two of them, staring at one another from opposite sides of the storm door—the father grim, the daughter with a tentative smile. Seconds passed. No words. No gestures. And then the father stepped back and closed the door. The porch light went off. Judith standing there. Standing there alone. A lone silhouette in the dark, head lowered.

Hirsch closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the cold steering wheel.