Someday the Rabbi Will Leave (19 page)

“And Rabbi Small is of course Conservative,” said Magnuson.

“With leanings towards Orthodoxy,” Halperin added.

“It wouldn't have to be done in the temple, you know.”

Halperin shook his head. “It wouldn't make any difference to Rabbi Small. I'm sure he wouldn't agree.”

“But dammit, this kind of thing must come up every now and then.”

“Of course. These days it's more common than not. My own nephew—”

“Married a Gentile?”

“Uh-huh. They had a civil wedding, so there was no problem. But my folks were pretty upset. Then there was Ben Joseph's niece, and Marty Slobodkin's sister, and Ira Lamport's brother and—you know something? I'll bet there isn't a single member of the board whose family doesn't have an intermarriage—a brother, a sister, a nephew, a niece, a cousin. I've heard that it's one in every two marriages.”

“And what did they all do?”

“Different things. In some cases the Gentile gets converted. Sometimes it's the Jew who does. Or maybe it doesn't constitute an actual conversion, but some of them get married in a church by a minister or a priest. I understand the Catholics have eased up a little. They used to require a written agreement that the children would be brought up Catholic. I don't think they do now, at least not a written agreement. Most of the time, I guess, they have a civil marriage. There's a rabbi up in New Hampshire, I think, that makes quite a thing out of the intermarriage business. He goes all over New England, I've heard.”

“I might want to contact him,” Magnuson mused.

“I can get his name and address easily enough.”

“Good. But of course I'll have to speak to Rabbi Small out of common courtesy.”

“Of course.”

“I'll explain the situation to him and ask him to officiate.”

“He'll refuse.”

“Then I'll tell him I'll get someone else.”

“He won't like it,” said Halperin.

“I don't like it myself. Not any part of it. Frankly, I don't like the idea of my daughter marrying John Scofield. I don't like the idea of her insisting on having a rabbi marry them when they could get some judge or clerk of the court to do it. I don't even like the jesuitical hair-splitting on my daughter's part that's involved. Because obviously when my mother-in-law made her promise that she would be married by a rabbi, she meant that she should marry a Jew, born or at least converted. But in the course of a busy life, I've run up against many things that I didn't like, but had to take anyway.”

“Yeah, but the rabbi may feel that he doesn't have to take this one.”

“So what can he do?”

“I don't know, except refuse.”

32

Paul Kramer was arraigned Monday morning in the Salem court. Sergeant Dunstable was present, both as the arresting officer and because he had escorted the defendant from the Barnard's Crossing station house. The assistant district attorney, Charlie Venturo, argued for high bail on the ground that it was a serious crime, homicide. John Scofield, appearing for the accused, argued that Paul had no previous record, that he was in school, and there was no reason to suppose that he would not be available for trial.

The judge nodded and addressing Paul, said, “I'm setting the trial date for November twentieth. I am releasing you on your personal recognizance. You'll receive notice of the trial through the mail, but even if you don't get it, that's the date I'm putting you down for and you're to be here. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, I mean, Your Honor.”

Scofield was extremely pleased with himself inasmuch as he had bested Venturo even though it was in a minor matter. He could not help voicing his pleasure to his rival as they left the courtroom. “I got you this time, Charlie.”

Venturo, who from long experience had expected nothing else, smiled and said, “You win some and you lose some. You won, so you buy the drinks.” Later as they sat in the café, he asked, “How'd you happen to get involved in this one, Jack?”

To which Scofield replied, “The kid called me. He says he met me at some party where I stopped in for a few minutes when I was campaigning.”

“Did he come up with any money?”

“No, but I figure when his folks get home, I'll talk to them. I'm sure they'll pay my fee.”

Venturo nodded. “I suppose in private practice, sometimes you got to work it that way.”

Sergeant Dunstable returned to Barnard's Crossing and reported to Lanigan, who was neither surprised nor indignant. “Naturally. The boy is no criminal. They let them go in a lot worse cases without bail. Hell, they'd have no place to put them if they didn't.”

He made a note of the trial date on his calendar, and put the case out of his mind. In spite of the doubts Rabbi Small had expressed, he felt that he had an iron-clad case.

But the next afternoon, the desk sergeant poked his head through the door of Lanigan's office and said, “Somebody here who has something on the Glen Lane hit-and-run case, Chief.”

“Okay, send him in.”

“It's not a him, it's a her.”

“Then send
her
in.”

The sergeant beckoned with his head, and then stood aside to admit a young woman in jeans and a sweatshirt, the arms of which were pushed up to the elbows. Her obviously bleached blond hair was curled Afro style, brushed back in such a way as to expose both ears from which jangled jet earrings. She was wearing a colorless lipstick which gave her lips a moist pink look. Her eyes were carefully shadowed in blue above and green below, and the edges of the eyelids were lined in black. Her jeans were worn seductively—very tight across the seat—and as she moved to the chair in front of the desk, her breasts, unhampered by a bra, jiggled underneath the sweatshirt.

“I just came to tell you that you're all wrong about Paul Kramer. He didn't do it.”

“Is that so? How do you know?”

“On account I was with him that night. From around quarter past eight on. And he never left the house.”

Lanigan, who had been lazing back in his swivel chair, leaned forward and sat upright. He eyed her keenly. “What's your name?”

“Fran Kimball.”

“And you live …?”

“On Elm Street.”

“Elm Street? Tom, no, Ted Kimball?”

“He's my father. But he doesn't live with us anymore.”

“About three or four years ago?”

“More like six,” she said.

“All right. Now, you say you were with Paul Kramer that night. What do you mean? Until when?”

Until next morning when we went to school together.”

“You were there all night? You spent the night with him?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Did your mother know?”

“Of course not. I had my friend Beth McAllister cover for me. See, I had this quiz the next day, that is, we both did, I mean Paul and I.”

“You go to Northeastern?”

“That's right. I'm a senior in Business Management. Paul is just a sophomore, but we take the same course in American Literature on account of it's required. We sit next to each other because our names are close. Alphabetically, you know, Kimball, Kramer. And sometimes, I hitch a ride from him. So, that day, Wednesday, we were driving home and we talked about the quiz we had to take the next day, and he said he was prepared. He's a brain—”

“A brain?”

“I mean, he studies a lot. I was going to use the College Outline. That's a book that gives you a kind of outline of all the reading. But when I got home, I found I didn't have the book. I mean, the College Outline book. I'd left it in my locker at school. So naturally I called him and asked if I could borrow his, and he said he didn't have one, that he didn't use one. He just reads all the stuff.”

“Imagine,” Lanigan murmured.

“So I asked if maybe I could go over to his place and we could study it together. He'd told me his folks had started on a long trip across the country that morning, so I knew it was all right on account of he'd be alone.”

“Did he suggest you spend the night with him?”

“Oh no. He's awfully young, maybe nineteen.”

“And you.”

“I'm twenty-two.”

“Spending the night with him was your idea, then?”

“Yeah, kind of. I didn't plan to, you understand. It just happened that way. See, I didn't tell my mother I was going to his house, on account of she'd ask all kinds of questions, like who was going to be there and what time I was coming home. I told her I was going over to Beth's house. When I got there, I called Beth and asked her to cover for me—”

“Just how does that work, covering for you?”

“Oh, you know, if my mother should call, Beth would say I was in the bathroom, or that I had stepped out for a minute, and that she'd have me call her back. Then she'd call me at Paul's house—I gave her the number, see—and I'd call back.”

“And did she call?”

“Uh-uh. But then around ten o'clock, I called her, I mean, my mother, and told her I was staying over at Beth's and I'd be going to school from there.”

“I see. And this was around ten o'clock?”

“Just about. Yeah, because Paul wanted to turn on the TV for the ten o'clock news.” Her forehead wrinkled as she concentrated. “Yeah, just before ten, on account of when I got back from the phone, the news was just starting. See, by that time, I could see there was an awful lot of work to be done, and it would take until way after midnight. He was outlining all the reading for me, and I was writing it all down. He knew it all. Awesome!”

“All right. And when did you finish?”

“Must've been around one. Yeah, easily.”

Lanigan leaned back in his chair and studied her. Finally, he said, “And when you were finished you offered to go to bed with him in payment, or was that understood from the beginning?”

“No such thing.” She was quite indignant. “We just went to bed. Not in payment, but because he was—well—nice. He's awfully young, of course, but he's good-looking, and well—nice.”

“I see. So then the next morning …”

“We got up, and there was some orange juice in the fridge, and he made some coffee and toast, and we went off to school.”

“You went out to the car together?”

“That's right.”

“The car was locked?”

Again her brow furrowed as she tried to remember. “Yeah, that's right, I went around to the passenger's side and waited until he got in and reached over to open the door for me. Then he took off this hook he has on the steering wheel, and we started off.”

“I see. Now, what made you come in today?”

She looked her obvious surprise. “Well when I heard … Naturally, I had to come and tell someone—”

“Did he ask you to?”

“Oh no. He was upset when I told him I was going to. He didn't want me to. He was like embarrassed. You know, he's awfully young.”

Chief Lanigan pursed his lips as he thought about the situation. What did he actually have? The girl's story, which she could have cooked up with Paul Kramer. After all, they were fellow students and, by her own admission, lovers.

Lanigan got up and went over to the town map, which was pinned on the wall. He studied it for a moment and then pointed. “Here's Elm Street. And you live right about here if I remember.”

“Yeah, near Laurel Street.”

“And you left your house at …?”

“Around eight o'clock.”

“And you walked down Laurel to Maple—”

“No. I went down Elm to Main, and then turned up Main to Maple.”

“Why did you go all the way around when you could have gone to the Kramer house directly by walking up Laurel?”

She made a moue of annoyance at his stupidity. “Beth lives on Gaithskille Circle, so I had to go in that direction, didn't I?”

“I see. Well, did you meet anyone you know? Did you stop to talk to anyone?”

She thought for a moment, and then shook her head vigorously so that her earrings jangled. “No.”

Lanigan nodded. “Then no one knew you were at the Kramer house that night.”

“Well, Beth McAllister knew,” she said.

“Not really. All she had was a telephone number which she had no occasion to use. Your mother didn't know, and no one saw you go in, or come out the next morning?”

Again she shook her head and then added with a little lascivious smile, “Well, Paul knew.”

“Yeah, I guess he'd know. All right. I might have you come in to make a statement which I'd have typed up and you could sign.”

“Oh! Would my mother get to know about it?”

“It depends. She might.”

“Because I wouldn't want her to. I mean—well, you know what I mean. On the other hand, I don't want Paul to go to jail or anything, when he didn't do it. I mean, that's good citizenship, isn't it?”

33

Although Magnuson had said he would speak to Rabbi Small as a matter of courtesy, in back of his mind he had the thought that the rabbi would probably agree to perform the ceremony. In his short acquaintance he had found Rabbi Small to be a reasonable man. He had done him a favor, an unsolicited favor, in getting him a sizable salary increase. And the rabbi knew it. Well then … In Magnuson's code, if you did someone a favor, he owed you one. In accepting a favor, one incurred an obligation, a debt, and anyone who failed to make good was an ingrate and no gentleman.

So when he came to see the rabbi, it was with full expectation of success, and he assumed the discussion would be on matters of detail. “I have something of a problem,” he began.

“If I can be of any help …”

“My daughter is getting married—”

“Oh,
mazel tov!
When is it planned for? Is it a local boy?”

“Yes, he's local all right—”

“The reason I ask,” the rabbi went on, “is because if at all possible, I like to see both the prospective bride and groom—”