The Mourning Sexton (28 page)

He leaned down and peered inside. Wedged in there was a thick manila envelope. He pulled it out slowly. From the heft, he guessed there were at least a hundred pages of documents inside. Printed on the front of the envelope in familiar handwriting was a message:

FOR PATRICK MARKMAN
STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL

He stared at the handwriting, his heart racing as he shook his head in wonder.

I found it, Judith. Right where you left it.

He turned the envelope over. It was sealed with several layers of packing tape.

Just as well, he told himself as another gust of wind snapped at his suit jacket. He'd open the envelope later.

He closed the safe door, turned the dial once, and got to his feet. The wind had picked up. He heard thunder in the distance. Time to get off the pyramid.

He moved carefully around the outside of the griffin, watching his steps along the ledge.

As he came around the corner, a male voice said, “Whatcha got there, old man? A present for me?”

CHAPTER 44

T
he speaker was the burly guy he'd seen in the law library. He'd shed his gray blazer and yellow legal pad and replaced them with a black handgun and a blue windbreaker—the same windbreaker he'd been wearing when he boarded the garage elevator at Plaza Frontenac yesterday afternoon.

The man gestured toward the envelope with the gun. “I asked you a question. What's in there?”

“Papers. Who are you?”

“Your worst nightmare. So was it that old broad? Was she the one who told you what was hidden up here?”

“What are you talking about?”

“That Markman broad. The one you met at the hotel yesterday.” He grinned. “Jesus, I sure hope you didn't go there to fuck her. I wouldn't fuck that dried up cunt with a rented dick.”

Hirsch said nothing.

“You thought that cat-and-mouse routine of yours at the mall actually fooled us?” He laughed. “Like I'd tail you alone?”

“What about now?”

“What?”

“Are you alone?”

“Alone?” The man looked down at his gun. “Boys, say hello to Mr. Hirsch. Mr. Hirsch, say hello to Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson.”

The wind was blowing harder now. Hirsch felt a drop of rain hit his cheek, then another on his forehead.

“Hey,” the man said, gesturing toward Hirsch's head, “where's your beanie?”

Hirsch studied him. Assume he had a partner. Where was he? Most likely waiting down below. Up here, the man appeared to be operating alone.

So what was their plan?

It was possible, Hirsch told himself, that he only wanted the envelope. Take the envelope and leave Hirsch alive.

Possible.

But not probable.

The more likely scenario included his death. The proverbial two birds with one stone. That scenario made far more sense. Especially now that the man had followed him to the perfect spot to dispose of the body. It could take months, years, before someone discovered a corpse inside Sadie.

That had to be the plan, Hirsch told himself. Grab the envelope, shoot the lawyer, stash the body inside the griffin.

Hirsch glanced at the gun, his thoughts racing.

“Hand over the envelope, old man.”

Think, dammit.

“Who hired you?” Hirsch asked.

An idea had begun to form.

“This ain't a courtroom. You don't get to ask questions up here, old man. You just get to follow orders.”

A long shot,
he conceded.

But it might work.

They were standing on the platform between the two griffins, about an arm's length apart.

And if didn't work? He'd be dead.

Hirsch said, “You think they'll still protect you once you're exposed?”

So what? He'd be dead if he just went along. Better to die trying.

“Exposed?” The man chuckled. “What the fuck you blabbing about?”

Hirsch shrugged and turned slightly away from the guy. “I assume you have a record.”

“So?

Hirsch's eyes never left the man's face as he reached his right hand into the pocket of his suit jacket. He wrapped his hand around the pry bar.

Hirsch said, “That means the FBI will be able to identify you once they have a good photo.”

“FBI my ass.”

Hirsch was holding the envelope in his left hand. He pointed the envelope toward the United States Courthouse.

“You see that building?”

As the man glanced toward the courthouse, Hirsch slid the pry bar out of the jacket pocket and lowered his hand until it was against his right hip. He turned a little more to make sure the pry bar was screened from view.

The man looked back at him. “Yeah?”

“That's the federal building.”

“So what?”

“Courts, prosecutors, FBI.”

When the man turned toward the building again, Hirsch tightened his grip on the pry bar and shifted his stance for better balance.

He waved the envelope toward the building. “Let's give them a good shot.”

The man frowned at the envelope and then at Hirsch.

“What the fuck you talking about?”

Hirsch pointed with the envelope. “You see that bank of windows facing us on the top floor? Right beneath the dome? There are two FBI special agents up there with a telephoto lens. You don't think I'm crazy enough to do this alone, do you? Smile for the camera.”

He bent his knees slightly, muscles tense, pry bar clenched in his hand, pretending to smile toward the courthouse windows, all the while watching the man out of the corner of his eye.

The moment the man looked up at the windows, Hirsch whirled and slammed the pry bar into his throat.

The blow knocked the man backward two steps. He gagged, his eyes squeezed shut, reaching for his throat with his free hand, the gun dangling in the other. His hand clutched at his throat. He made choking, gargling sounds as he took another step back.

The man opened his eyes, his shock turning to rage. His breath rasped in his throat. Weaving slightly, his eyes widening, he staggered back another step as he raised the gun, trying to aim. Hirsch ducked to the side behind the griffin. The man fired as he toppled backward.

The bullet clanged off the griffin.

Hirsch waited.

No sound but the wind.

Hirsch poked his head around the griffin. The man was nowhere in sight. Hirsch dashed over to the edge of the pyramid.

The man had tumbled down two tiers. He was on his back staring up at Hirsch. There was a gash open on his forehead and the right side of his throat was caved in. He'd lost the gun in the fall.

Slowly, the man rolled off his back and struggled to his feet, clearly in pain, one hand on his throat, the other touching his forehead. He looked around and spotted his gun one level down. He glanced back at Hirsch and then started to climb down to the next level.

Hirsch scrambled down after him, jumping from tier to tier. As the man bent for the gun, Hirsch jumped on top of him and knocked the gun farther down the pyramid.

The man grabbed for Hirsch as they rolled off the tier. They turned in the air as they fell and landed with a thud. Hirsch was on the bottom, the wind knocked out of him. The man was straddling him, wrestling for the pry bar, garbled noises coming from his mouth.

Hirsch tried to punch him in the neck with his left fist, but the angle was bad. The blow glanced off his shoulder.

The two of them grappled for the pry bar, the man still on top. With each gasp he sprayed a mist of blood. Blood from the gash on his forehead ran down the side of his face. He tried to gouge Hirsch's right eye with his other hand. Hirsch grabbed at his arm, trying to pull it away from his face, trying to turn his head way.

The man wrenched the pry bar free and swung it down hard. Hirsch blocked the blow with his left forearm.

A bolt of pain shot through the length of his arm.

The man raised the pry bar again, gargling sounds coming from his throat. Hirsch pressed his legs against the back of the pyramid step and pushed hard. The force sent them tumbling over the edge. He spun out from under the man as they fell and kicked him in the stomach when they landed. The blow knocked the man onto his side.

Hirsch clambered on top and punched him in the head. He punched him in the neck.

Gasping for breath, his left arm throbbing, he grabbed the man's hair, raised his head, and slammed it down hard enough to make the aluminum reverberate.

The man was still clutching the pry bar but seemed too groggy to do anything with it. Fighting back the pain in his left arm, Hirsch yanked the bar out of the man's hand and raised it over his head like a hammer. The man tried to cover his face and turn away. He moved almost in slow motion.

Hirsch stared down at him, his chest heaving. Blood was streaming down from the gash in the man's forehead, and more blood was leaking out the side of his mouth. A puddle of red was spreading beneath his head. The caved in part of his throat had turned blue. The man's breath rasped.

Hirsch struggled to his feet, swaying slightly, trying to clear his thoughts. He looked down at the man and then at the pry bar. He turned and heaved it over the edge of the pyramid. It disappeared, and a moment later it clanged onto the parapet below.

He tried to focus. They were two levels up from the pyramid's base, which rested inside the parapet. Maybe there was a doorway down there. A doorway somewhere along the inside wall of the parapet.

He leaned over the man, grabbed him by the front of his windbreaker, and pulled him up.

“Let's go.”

As the man staggered to his feet, there was a flash of silver in his right hand. Hirsch tried to spin away, but the knife sliced into his left hip.

“Fuck you,” the man said in a gargled whisper.

Hirsch stared down at knife sticking out of his left hip, the blood already running down his leg. The man was grinning at him.

Fury exploded inside Hirsch as he punched him in the nose. The blow knocked the man backward over the edge. He seemed to crumple as he fell—eyes rolling up, arms flopping outward, legs going limp. He landed at a downward angle, the back of his neck smacking the edge of the tier. The force snapped his head backward.

His body twitched once, and then it was still.

Hirsch stood one level above, leaning over, right hand on his knee, left arm hanging limp.

Dizzy.

Panting.

He stared at the body below. The only movement now was the dribble of blood from the man's open mouth.

Hirsch looked down at the knife sticking out of his left hip. His left arm was useless. He reached around with his right hand, grabbed the handle, held his breath, and yanked hard. The knife slid out. He stared at the blood-smeared blade and then tossed the knife aside.

Woozy, he sat down on the edge of the tier. The pain in his hip had grown worse. His left forearm was throbbing now. So were the knuckles of his right hand. He stared at the back of that hand and tried to make a fist. The knuckles were too swollen to let him completely close his hand.

Raindrops.

Pattering his shoulders and head.

Slowly at first, like the steady beat of a metronome. Then faster. Even faster.

Rain snare-drumming along the aluminum tiers of the pyramid.

He forced himself to stand, his legs unsteady. Turning, he gazed up the side of the pyramid, up toward the platform on top, shading his eyes from the rain. He had tossed Judith's package to the side after hitting the man with the pry bar. He needed to get back up there. Had to retrieve the envelope before it got too wet.

He felt as if he were staring up at the south summit of Mount Everest. Swaying slightly, he tried to gather his energy for the climb.

He turned for a last look at the body below. Splayed legs and outstretched arms palms up. Head hanging over the ledge at that terrible angle. Open eyes and open mouth, as if he were staring up in awe at the flash of lightning above.

Thunder crashed as Hirsch began his ascent.

CHAPTER 45

F
ernel was gaunt and stooped and dressed in funeral black. It took him a moment to recognize the customer as the same one from yesterday afternoon. Then again, the version of Hirsch standing before him today was far different from the version yesterday.

Fernel glanced at the cast, smoothed his hand over his angular bald head, and gave Hirsch a rigid smile. The same smile, in fact, that he'd given him yesterday.

“Oh, my. Looks like we have had ourselves a bit of an accident, eh?”

“I need to get into my safe-deposit box again.”

“Certainly, Mr. Hirsch. Please follow me.”

Hirsch had made this same trip down this same bank corridor yesterday afternoon, although today he was wearing a suit and tie. Yesterday, he'd had on a green maintenance crew jumpsuit and was carrying a toolbox.

The events of yesterday seemed surreal. Less than twenty-four hours ago, he'd been climbing up the side of a pyramid in a fierce thunderstorm, a dead man sprawled below. A man he had killed. When he had reached the top of the pyramid, he'd located Judith's package, lowered himself through the trapdoor in the griffin, and worked his way down the network of ladders and catwalks inside the pyramid to the floor. He'd limped over to the rack of maintenance jumpsuits where he'd stashed the briefcase and cell phone. That's when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the sink near the rack.

The blood from the knife wound had stained the entire left leg of his pants crimson. His suit jacket was soaked through with rainwater and torn in several places. His shirt was smeared with blood and grime. There were red scratches on his face and blood oozing from a cut over his right eye. To say the least, he'd be conspicuous on the elevator and down in the lobby—and even more so if word of the pyramid battle had spread to the security guards. That's when he recalled that the dead man probably had a cohort waiting somewhere below. That cohort would have no trouble picking him out of the crowd even if he'd emerged unwrinkled and unscathed. But stepping off the elevator in his current condition would have been the equivalent of emerging with bulls eyes pasted on his chest and back.

So he'd gone to the sink where the maintenance crew changed and washed his face and his hands and daubed up the blood with paper towels. He took off his suit jacket. Using just one hand, he'd somehow gotten himself into one of the baggy green maintenance crew jumpsuits. He found a toolbox, emptied its contents, stuffed his suit jacket and Judith's manila envelope inside, made sure his briefcase was empty of any identifying materials, and then called a cab on his cell phone. With the toolbox in one hand and the briefcase in the other, he'd taken the stairway down to the library, stashed the briefcase under a table near the back, and boarded the elevator. He got off on the first floor, walked across the lobby with his head lowered, and hurried down the front steps into the waiting cab.

When the driver reached the bank, Hirsch had asked him to wait. Inside, he'd met Cecil Fernel, who had scrutinized his picture ID and made him wait several minutes while he confirmed from bank records that the limping, disheveled man in the maintenance jumpsuit was in fact attorney David Hirsch.

Yesterday, Hirsch had simply placed the package inside the safe-deposit box, set the toolbox on the floor, and walked out with nothing in his hands. His main goal had been to find a safe place to store the package until he could review its contents. His other goal had been to leave the bank conspicuously empty handed. In the cab on the way to the hospital, he had called Rosenbloom to tell him the bank name and the safe-deposit box number.

“What's this about?” Rosenbloom had asked.

“I found something Judith hid a few days before she died. I put it in that safe-deposit box. If anything happens to me, Sancho, you need to get the FBI to drill the box.”

“If anything happens to you? What are you talking about? What the fuck is going on?”

“I don't have time to explain. Just promise me you'll do it. I'll talk to you later.”

He'd had the cabdriver drop him off at the hospital emergency room after first stopping to let him toss the green jumpsuit into an alley Dumpster. He had explained to the emergency room personnel that he had slipped on the wet pavement and fallen over a retaining wall. Three hours later, he'd emerged with a cast up to the elbow on his left arm, eleven stitches in his left hip, three butterfly stitches over his right eyebrow, a tetanus shot in his arm, and a bottle of painkillers in his pocket.

Later that night, he had watched the ten o'clock news, waiting for the report on the body found atop the Civil Courts Building. But there was no report. He had listened to the local news on the radio before going to bed. Nothing again. He had gotten up early, picked up the
Post-Dispatch,
and searched through the front page and then the Metro section. Nothing. Same with the local news on TV.

He'd had a Chapter Seven hearing in federal court that morning. After court, he took the elevator up to the twenty-eighth floor of the courthouse and found his way through a back corridor to a north window with a good view of the Civil Courts Building two blocks away. He'd stared down at that weird tableau—at the back-to-back griffins atop the stepped pyramid, at the base of the pyramid nestled inside the parapet on the roof of the Greek temple. He'd stared down in disbelief.

No corpse.

No knife.

No pry bar.

No sign of a fight.

As if the thunderstorm had washed it all away.

For one eerie moment, he'd wondered if he'd dreamed the whole thing. But then he glanced down at the cast on his left arm. He had tapped it against the window to be sure.

“Okay, Mr. Hirsch.”

Fernel was bending over the safe deposit–door and inserting the second key. He turned them both and pulled the safe door open. Reaching in, he slid out the covered metal box and turned to Hirsch.

“I can put you in a private room back here, sir.”

Hirsch followed him around the corner to a small room. Fernel placed the metal box on top of the table and gestured toward a button on the wall near the door.

“Just press that buzzer when you're ready to go, Mr. Hirsch.”

Initially, it was just a bunch of documents with a jumble of numbers. It took more than an hour to figure out the scam. But when he did, he was astounded.

The materials that Judith had hidden inside the griffin consisted of dozens of photocopies of three types of documents:

• Monthly “status reports” from Guttner's law firm faxed to Donald Foster, CFO of Peterson Tire, at the company's headquarters in Knoxville, Tennessee;

• Monthly wire transfer instructions from Peterson Tire to its bank for the transfer of specific sums of money to an account for Felis Tigris LVII at a bank in Bermuda whose Swift code Hirsch recognized as the same one on Judith's Outlooks Note; and

• Confirmations of those wire transfers.

The status reports from Guttner's firm were generated the third day of each month. They summarized the results of the
In re Turbo XL Tire Litigation
mini-trials the prior month. Each case was identified by case number. The report separately stated the damage amount sought by the plaintiff in that case and the actual amount awarded by the judge. Thus the status report for the month of March during Judith's final year contained the following information:

The wire transfer instructions for that same month referenced most, but not all, of the same cases:

Two of the six cases were not referenced in the wire transfer instructions: Roberta Brown and Merle Schenker.

He compared status reports and wire transfer records for other months and turned up a similar pattern: not every court award had a matching wire transfer. He sorted through the documents, trying to figure out what was going on.

He recalled Judith's memo on the telephone call between McCormick and Guttner regarding the Sanderson case. McCormick had told Guttner, “They asked for one point four. I gave them a mil. Do the math. Fifteen percent is thirty-nine.”

Hirsch borrowed a calculator from a bank employee and went back through the documents, trying to find a match between a wire transfer amount and fifteen percent of any number in the status reports.

No matches.

He set aside the numbers and pondered the issue. Under the consolidated proceedings, Judge McCormick was deciding damages in minitrials for each of the more than one thousand cases. If Peterson Tire's goal was to reduce the damages on a case-by-case basis, what was an effective incentive system with the judge? The most straightforward one, of course, was to give him a percentage of the difference between the plaintiff's demand and the actual award. Thus if plaintiff's expert witness testified that the damages were one million dollars and the judge awarded only nine hundred thousand dollars, he'd receive a percentage of the difference. In that example, fifteen percent would equal fifteen thousand. Peterson would pay the judge fifteen grand and still pocket a savings of eighty-five thousand dollars.

But what if Peterson Tire was a tough bargainer? What if they took the position that a plaintiff always asks for more than he's entitled to? What if they said that your fifteen percent kicks in only after a certain threshold?

Hirsch fiddled with the numbers, trying to concoct a more sophisticated formula for a kickback scheme. And suddenly it clicked—not the actual formula, but the basic concept.

He flipped back to the March numbers. There was no wire transfer on two of the cases. In the Roberta Brown case, the plaintiff's demand was $1,115,000 and the award was the same amount. No revelation there. But in the Merle Schenker case, the demand was $1,450,000 and the award was $1,350,000. A difference of one hundred thousand dollars, but no wire transfer.

In the Maria Ramallo case from the same month, the award was $130,000 less than the demand, but that was enough of a difference for a wire transfer of $4,875. If the operative percentage was fifteen, then what was $4,875 fifteen percent of?

He did the calculation.

Thirty-two thousand five hundred dollars.

Fifteen percent of $32,500 equaled $4,875.

But where did the $32,500 come from? Presumably, it was the difference between the award and some greater number, which in the Ramallo case would be $845,000 plus $32,500 equals $877,500. But what was the relationship between $877,500 and the plaintiff's demand of $975,000?

He tried the same approach with the numbers in the Sanderson case, which had been the subject of the overheard conversation in Judith's memo. There the award was four hundred thousand dollars less than the $1.4 million demand. The wire transfer amount was $39,000. Thirty-nine thousand dollars was fifteen percent of $260,000. Thus what was the relationship between $1,260,000 and the plaintiff's demand of $1,400,000?

Presumably, that relationship was the same as in the Ramalla case, and in every case where a damage award resulted in a wire transfer.

He stared at the numbers. He punched a few into the calculator.

And finally, he saw it.

He tried it first with the Sanderson case. Ninety percent of the plaintiff's $1.4 million demand was $1,260,000. The actual award was one million dollars. The difference between one million and $1,260,000 was $260,000, and fifteen percent of that was $39,000.

Ninety percent of the $975,000 demand in the Ramalla case was $877,500, which was $32,500 more than the award. Fifteen percent of $32,500 was $4,875, which was the amount transferred to the Bermuda bank account.