Bearing Witness (2 page)

I could hear her engine rev as I unlocked my car door and got in. I was facing the restaurant and had a clear view of her Cadillac through the row of cars separating us. I started my engine as her red taillights came on.

That's when I spotted him.

He was huge: NFL lineman huge.

He was running toward the Cadillac from the street, where a late-model car was idling at the curb, the passenger door open. My hands gripped the steering wheel. Something was wrong with this scene.

He was wearing a long, bulky trench coat. Big body, big head, crew cut. He stopped directly in front of the Cadillac just as the white reverse lights came on.

I watched in horror as he pulled a shotgun from beneath his trench coat, braced it against his shoulder, and aimed at the windshield.

Ka-Boom!

The first shot exploded the glass.

Ka-Boom!

The second shot splattered the rear window red.

There was an awful hush. I watched as the silver Cadillac drifted backward, arcing slowly to the left. By then, the shooter was running toward the waiting car. He climbed in on the passenger side, and the car squealed off as the door closed. I turned back just as the Cadillac crunched into a parked car.

Stunned, I opened my door and slowly got out, staring all the while at the Cadillac, at those smeared windows. The wind had died. The eerie silence seemed to magnify other sounds. I could hear the low hum of her car engine, and I could hear something else. A faint tinkling noise. It took a moment to identify it. It was the sound of falling pebbles—hundreds of tiny pebbles of glass from the shattered front windshield, tiny pebbles sliding off the car hood and onto the ground.

Unable to move, I stared, horrified, at that rear window splattered red. I squeezed my eyes shut, and suddenly the tinkling was no longer falling glass. Now it was the sound of tiny bells. I shivered. Tiny bells on tethered lambs.

Chapter Two

I took a sip of hot coffee as I stood by the window of my office in the Central West End. Out on the sidewalk a teenage boy with long blond hair and headphones zoomed past on a skateboard, his breath vaporing in the chilly air, his flannel shirt ballooning behind him. I took another sip. It was a rotten day for gloomy thoughts—a gray, dreary November morning. Depression weather out there.

In here, too. It was two days after the murder of Gloria Muller. I'd been at the Springfield police headquarters until two that morning giving statements, looking through mug shots and talking to detectives. As of this morning, they hadn't made any arrests.

It was also three days after my creepy encounter with Conrad Beckman. The occasion had been the annual awards banquet of the United Fellowship Council, which I'd originally planned to attend because a client of mine, LaDonna Catrell, was to be one of three award recipients. LaDonna, the Channel 30 meteorologist, was this year's black recipient. Milton Pevnick was the Jewish recipient. He was a local discount furniture peddler who bombarded the airwaves with irritating commercials starring himself and his goofy son Joey, his latest one being the “Bargain Bonanza” spot, a cheesy rip-off of the burning Ponderosa map opening to television's
Bonanza
, with Milt and Joey on horseback riding toward the camera on either side of a Lorne Greene look-alike who actually bore such a disconcerting resemblance to Buddy Ebsen that you expected to see Granny kick up her heels and shout, “Yee-hah!”

But LaDonna and Milton were just the warmup acts. The headliner had been Conrad Beckman. It was hardly his first award of the year. As founder and chairman of Beckman Engineering Co., a privately held corporation whose annual revenues exceed $900 million, he spent a not insignificant portion of his year politely declining proffered awards. According to a profile of him that ran in the
St. Louis Business Journal
last spring, Beckman served on the boards of more than a dozen civic, artistic, and charitable organizations in St. Louis, including the Boy Scouts, the Missouri Historical Society, the Council for the Arts, the St. Louis Symphony, the United Way, the Urban League, and the YMCA of Greater St. Louis. By every measure, he was a marquee name on the awards circuit. His company was a major local employer, his philanthropy had left its mark on several local edifices (including the Beckman Sports Complex in the inner city and the Beckman Center for Performing Arts in South County), and his behind-the-scenes intervention was viewed by many as the determining factor in the construction of the new domed stadium and the decision by the Rams organization to move their football franchise to St. Louis.

By the time I got to the grand ballroom of the Hyatt Hotel that night, Conrad Beckman had become my principal reason for being there. From my table off to the side I'd observed him on the dais. I watched the silver-haired Beckman as he sipped his wine, his face ruddy with good health, his eyes a clear blue, and as I did I confronted again the unlikelihood that his fingerprints were anywhere near the illegal conduct at issue in my lawsuit. I'd listened with grudging admiration to his brief but eloquent acceptance speech.

“We are all of us descendants of men and women from other parts of the world,” he told the rapt audience. “Like Ms. Catrell, my family came here from a land faraway. Like Mr. Pevnick, I, too, am the son of hardworking immigrants. But tonight, all three of us stand before you as equal partners in the important work of this great city.” He'd paused to lift the award, setting off another barrage of camera flashes. “God bless you.”

When the event ended, there had been a throng of wellwishers waiting for him at the end of the dais. He'd passed slowly through them, pausing to shake a hand here or acknowledge a friendly congratulation there. I hung back. No sense spoiling his moment of glory.

Eventually, a final handshake, a final thank-you. As Beckman moved past the last of the crowd, I stepped forward.

“Mr. Beckman?”

He'd looked over at me with a tired smile, which faded when I didn't return it. He glanced down at the papers in my hand and then back at my face, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“I'm Rachel Gold, sir,” I said, trying to keep my voice firm. “I represent Ruth Alpert.”

His face had remained impassive.

I pressed ahead. “This is a subpoena for your deposition, and this check is for the witness fee.” I held them toward him. “Here.”

My hand was less than twelve inches from his. He looked down at the papers and then into my eyes. We were close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. We stood there, eyeing one another for what seemed a millennium. Although his face remained empty, his steely blue eyes had bored into mine, taking my measure.

I squared my shoulders and took a deep breath. “I'm authorized to serve this on you, sir. Take it.”

Watching me with those cold blue eyes, he took the subpoena. He didn't even glance down as he folded the papers and slipped them into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

And then his lips curled into a smile. Not a sneer, and not a smirk. Not arrogant, or even sardonic. More a smile of regret.

“What a foolish waste of time,” he finally said, shaking his head.

***

His words still bothered me—their force coming not from the opinion expressed but from the fact that someone had finally said it aloud. Over the past few months, as I watched my client's simple age discrimination claim mutate into something far more complex and menacing, I'd found myself wondering more and more whether it was all just a waste of time.

I heard my secretary snort in disgust. “Those jerks.”

Turning from the window, I called, “What's wrong, Jacki?”

“Those pencil-necked federal bureaucrats make me sick.”

She came into my office carrying a letter. The sight of my secretary buoyed my spirits on this dismal Thursday morning. And what a sight she was. With plenty of ex-steelworker muscles rippling beneath her demure size-22 shirtwaist dress, Jacki Brand was surely the most intimidating legal secretary in town. She was also one of the best.

I noted with quiet approval her makeup and hairstyle. Both were a far cry from the early days, with those awful Dolly Parton wigs and glittery sapphire eyeshadow. We'd been working on Jacki's look for several months now. All things considered, she'd proved a quick study. After all, I'd been female since birth, and it had still taken many years and plenty of false steps to get this woman thing down pat. Jacki had been at it for less than a year. She was attending night law school at St. Louis University and saving money for the surgical procedure that would lop off the last dangling evidence that her name had once been Jack.

“Let me see,” I said, gesturing toward the document in her hand.

The letter was on embossed U.S. Department of Justice stationery, addressed to U.S. District Judge Catherine L. Wagner, with copies to me and opposing counsel. It was a terse communique, stating that the Department of Justice, having reviewed “the written disclosure of material evidence submitted by Rachel Gold, counsel for relator, hereby notifies the Court and the parties that after due consideration the United States of America declines to take over the matter.”

I slumped against the edge of my desk. The gray chill seeped into the room as I reread the letter.

I looked up at Jacki. “This is a flat turndown.”

She grunted, shaking her head in disgust. “Wusses.”

I sighed, my shoulders sagging. “Oh, Jacki, we're in this alone.”

“We always were.”

I skimmed the letter again, trying to digest the new reality. Jacki was right, of course. The new reality was just a continuation of the old. Except for one important difference: gone was the hope that the U.S. Cavalry would arrive in time.

I'd placed my call to the Cavalry two months ago when I sent the U.S. Department of Justice a copy of the
qui tam
complaint and the supporting materials, all as required under the Federal False Claims Act. My notice gave the feds sixty days to decide whether to take over the case. I'd been praying they'd say yes. Ruth would still be entitled to 25 percent of whatever the government ultimately recovered; better yet, we'd be able to watch from the sidelines as the government lawyers and their FBI agents shouldered the formidable task of digging up the evidence needed to prove the case.

I stared at the letter. The message couldn't have been clearer. I closed my eyes, recalling the old saying:
It's fun to chase the bear through the woods, but what if you actually catch it
? Well, we'd been chasing a grizzly for months, and now, deep in the forest, just as it turned with a growl, we discovered that we were all alone.

The sound of the telephone yanked me out of the forest. As Jacki started to dash to the outer room for the phone on her desk, I said, “I'll get it.” I reached across my desk and lifted the receiver. “This is Rachel Gold.”

“Hold for Ms. Howard, please.”

Oh, terrific
, I grumbled to myself.

A moment later, “Good morning, Rachel.” Not an ounce of warmth in that priggish voice.

“Good morning, Kimberly.” I tried to keep my tone cordial. “What's up?”

“Actually, a great deal. I have already contacted Judge Wagner's docket clerk. The judge will see us in her chambers this afternoon at two.”

“Oh, really? What is it this time?”

“Now, now, Rachel, I think you know perfectly well what the issues are.”

With a mixture of irritation and resignation, I said, “Indulge me, Kimberly.”

“Number one, your outrageous efforts to induce former employees of Beckman Engineering to breach their contractual obligations.”

“Oh, come on.”

“It's covered in my letter.”

“What letter?”

“The one being faxed to you as we speak. Item number two: your flagrant harassment and humiliation of the chairman of the board of Beckman Engineering the other night in the middle of an awards ceremony.”

“That's absurd, Kimberly. You were the one who refused to produce him for a deposition. You and I both know that—”

“You can present your excuses to the judge, Rachel. Item three: as you know, this case is currently under seal. In light of the government's notification, there is an issue regarding the ongoing confidentiality of the case. We intend to ask Judge Wagner to keep the matter under seal, unless, of course, you intend to dismiss the case in light of the government's conclusion that it lacks merit.”

I took a deep breath and counted slowly to five, glancing at my desk calendar as I did. I was meeting my mother at noon for lunch but I was free after that. “Two o'clock?”

“Correct. I will see you there, Counselor.”

There was a click, and then a dial tone.

Jacki came storming in as I hung up the phone. “This just came by fax,” she said angrily, “from that bitch.”

I took the two-page document from her. It was a letter from Kimberly Howard covering the subject of our telephone call. As usual, she distorted every key fact, expressed her “astonishment” at my “harassing tactics,” and announced her intent to bring my “highly unprofessional conduct to the attention of the Court at the earliest opportunity.”

I stood up and walked over to the window. A gust of wind rattled the bare branches on the trees along the sidewalk. I exhaled slowly, shaking my head.

“Mother,” I groaned, “this is—”

***

“—all your fault.”

“What, sweetie? Tell me what's wrong.” My mother leaned back and looked at me with concern. “Oh, no. Ruth's case again?”

“Again?” I put down my fork and shook my head with frustration. “How about always? Night and day. It's driving me crazy.” I checked my watch. “And the next round starts in less than an hour.”

“So eat, sweetie. You'll need your strength.”

“My strength? What I need is a platoon of Marines.”

We were having lunch at the Beaux-Arts Cafe in the St. Louis Art Museum. Since real women eat quiche, we'd both ordered the quiche of the day: broccoli cheddar. My mother and I tried to meet here once a week, and, when schedules permitted, we strolled through a few of the galleries after the meal. Sometimes my sister, Ann, joined us, although not today; she was at a luncheon event at Plaza Frontenac. Benny Goldberg was supposed to meet us here, but he was running late. We'd ordered without him.

I sighed. “It's overwhelming, Mom, and it keeps getting worse.”

She nodded sympathetically. “But there's something there, right? You said so yourself.”

I took a sip of iced tea and shrugged. “I think there is. But finding it's the hard part. The company's stonewalling us. The ex-employees are too spooked to talk. Gloria Muller was willing to, but now she's dead. Today, the government wimped out.” I sighed. “That means it's just me. Me and Ruth. They have seven lawyers on the other side.” I shook my head. “Seven lawyers, a half-dozen paralegals, three consultants, and an unlimited budget. They're playing hardball.”

She reached across and placed her hand on top of mine. “Hardball? You'll show them. You'll kick a touchdown.”

I couldn't help but smile. I'd been a cheerleader in high school, and my mother, God bless her, who is bored to death by sporting events, came to every one of the football games to watch me cheer—even that miserable Friday night game at Webster Groves when it was six degrees and snowing. Every game. You'd think something would have rubbed off.

“That's football, Mom, and you don't
kick
a touchdown. You kick a field goal.”

“You'll do that, too, doll baby.”

I smiled. “Thanks, Ms. Buns of Steel.”

She leaned back in her chair and flexed her biceps. “Look at that.” She winked proudly. “You should see me with those free weights.”