Due Diligence (3 page)

“Why do you say that?”

“You told me that he said he wanted to talk to an attorney about two things. One of them was the accountant-client privilege, right?”

“Right.”

I scanned the rest of the newspaper article and looked up. “It says he had a degree in accounting. If he told you he had a question about the accountant-client privilege, I assume it had to do with one of his firm's clients. He must have learned something disturbing and wanted to know if he could tell anyone.” I glanced down at the newspaper article. “He worked at Smilow and Sullivan, Ltd. An engineering consulting firm.” I looked at David. “What kind of things does an engineering consulting firm do?”

“I don't know,” he said with a frown. “He never told me.” He shook his head sadly. “I never even asked.”

“David,” I said gently, “you did the right thing. Both of you decided that he needed to talk to an attorney. You're not an attorney. You gave him my name. You did exactly what he asked you to do. I was the one who wasn't able to make that first appointment. If anyone's to blame, it's me, not you.”

He wasn't persuaded. I sat next to him on the bed and took his hand. “I'm sure the police will do a thorough investigation.”

David sighed. “I hope so.”

A few minutes later, we were in the front hall getting ready to leave. Ozzie was waiting at the front door, his eyes moving back and forth between David and me.

“What do you make of the other issue?” David asked.

“What issue?” I said, reaching for my purse.

“In addition to the privilege issue, Bruce told me he wanted to talk to an attorney about some sort of statutory limits.”

“Do you remember what kind of statutory limits?”

David shook his head in frustration. “No.”

“There are lots of possibilities,” I explained. “The law books are filled with statutes that put limits on things—limits on the amount of damages you can recover, limits on the types of actions a board of directors can take without a shareholder vote, limits on the number of branch offices a bank can operate, and so on and so on. Unless you know who the client was, it'll be hard to figure out which statutory limits might apply.”

I held the door open for Ozzie, who ran out, and then I locked it behind me.

“Where does Ozzie go during the day?” David asked.

“Next door.” We watched Ozzie trot toward my neighbors' porch. “It's a great arrangement. They have adorable little twin girls. They're home all day with a babysitter. They love Ozzie, and he keeps them company.”

Ozzie climbed onto my neighbors' porch and turned back toward me as he sat down. David's car was in the driveway behind mine. As we walked to our cars I tried to decide whether to raise the subject of when we'd see each other again. His distraction over Bruce Rosenthal's death made him seem distant. Having never before spent the night with a rabbi, I wasn't quite sure of the protocols.

David stopped when we reached my car and took my hand. “That was a marvelous evening, Rachel,” he said softly. “When can I see you again?”

I blushed with pleasure and squeezed his hand. “Whenever you'd like.”

He thought for a moment. “How about Sunday afternoon?”

“Sunday?” I repeated, mentally checking my calendar. “Well, I have a game—hey, how would you like to play softball on Sunday afternoon?”

“Softball?” he said with a frown. “I don't—”

“Come on, David. It won't be so bad. I'm on a coed team in the lawyers' league. We're going to be one short on Sunday. They'll let us play that way, but we could really use another man.”

“I haven't played in a long time,” he said reluctantly.

“Big deal. It's not like we're major leaguers out there. It's fun. My best friend Benny Goldberg's on our team. I really want you two to meet. We can all go out to dinner after.”

He sighed in surrender. “Okay.”

I stood on my toes and kissed him on the lips. “It's Diamond Number Two at Forest Park. The game starts at three-thirty.”

He beeped his horn as he pulled away, and I honked back. Ozzie was curled up on my neighbors' front porch as I backed out of the driveway. I waved and called, “Bye, Oz.” He lifted his head and his tail flopped three times on the porch.

I drove off with a feeling of total contentment, humming a Smokey Robinson tune, blissfully unaware that Bruce Rosenthal's grisly death had sounded the opening chords of a nightmare symphony.

Chapter Two

The outlook wasn't brilliant for our Mudville nine that day. We were trailing 5 to 2 with just three innings left to play.

Our opponents were the coed team from the law firm of Crowley & Gillan, a products liability defense firm. Their players seemed determined to project the same tough-as-nails persona on the diamond as they did in the courtroom. They were a fierce and humorless group who argued every close call, slammed their bats in disgust whenever they made an out, exchanged brutal high-fives on good plays, and generally demonstrated how a group of obnoxious litigators can ruin a perfectly pleasant game. The Crowley & Gillan women were just as ferocious as the men. Their catcher was a good example: she stood nearly six feet tall, hit with power to all fields, blocked the plate like an offensive tackle, and from behind bore a striking resemblance to Philadelphia's John Kruk.

You can usually spot a serious team by their uniforms, and Crowley & Gillan was definitely a serious team. They had black-and-silver jerseys, black baseball pants, stirrup socks, and cleated Nikes. Their baseball caps featured a black-and-silver raider's logo, and their jerseys had each player's name in block letters on the back and the team name—the Defense Verdicts—in script on the front.

By contrast, we looked like a New Age softball “family” from the Lacto-Vegetarian League. I was on the pitcher's mound in my Chicago Blackhawks hockey jersey, faded Levi cutoffs, and Grateful Dead baseball cap. Playing first base was Benny Goldberg, looking, as he would say, “full figured but
très elegant
” in his Black Dog T-shirt, gray sweatpants, and Portland Beavers baseball cap turned backward. At shortstop, dressed in black with his long red hair pulled back in a ponytail, stood Donny Stockman, a flamboyant criminal defense attorney (and, thank heavens, a former varsity baseball player at Vanderbilt). At third base was Diane Correa-Valdes, a Hispanic labor attorney who was dressed for a role in a Janet Jackson music video.

But dress codes can be misleading, as Crowley & Gillan soon discovered. They had won the league championship last year and arrived that day with a definite attitude—two of the players had actually snickered when we showed up. But five innings later they were clearly unsettled by their mere three-run lead.

As I finished my warm-up tosses, Benny lumbered over to the mound.

“How you feeling, gorgeous?” he asked.

“I'm okay.” I scanned the sidelines again. “I wonder where David is? He promised me he'd be here.”

“Can you believe the women on that fucking team?” Benny said, shaking his head in disgust. “They have better builds than your new secretary. I hear their catcher got drafted by the Packers. I don't know about you, but I think a little chromosome testing might be in order.”

“Let's go,” I told him. “Get back in position.”

“Hey,” he said, stepping back to look at my legs, “you're kind of bossy for a chick in Daisy Dukes.”

“Benny,” I said in a warning tone. “Number one, these are
not
Daisy Dukes. Not even close. Number two, I'm bossy 'cause I'm the captain. Now get back in position.”

He gave me a salute. “Yes, b'wana.”

The first batter was a hot-tempered male outfielder. He swung for the fences and topped it instead, hitting a weak roller back to the pitcher's mound. I fielded it cleanly and easily threw him out. He slammed down his hat, kicked at the dirt, and shouted obscenities all the way back to the bench.

“Yo!” Benny shouted at their players. “Increase his medication.”

Several of them glared at Benny, and I silently groaned. We surely didn't need to provoke them.

The batting order, as required by league rules, alternated male and female. A short, compact woman stepped up to the plate and stroked the first pitch to left for a single. She was forced at second on a fielder's choice ground ball to third base. The next batter hit a clean single to center, and there were runners on first and second.

I stepped off the mound to slow down the pace. Looking around, I saw David Marcus in the distance walking toward the field. My initial delight faded when I realized that he was wearing a white dress shirt, black baggy slacks, and dress shoes. His hands were empty—no baseball glove. Fighting my disappointment, I forced a cheerful wave. He waved back and quickened his pace, which only seemed to accentuate his limp.

I stepped back on the mound and focused on the next batter, a lean, intense left-hander with short blond hair and a flushed face. He cranked the first pitch foul down the right field line. That got Benny's attention, which was fortunate, because on the next pitch he hit a screamer right at Benny's head. Benny ducked out of the way but was able to knock down the ball with his glove. He picked up the ball and trotted over to first base for the third out.

David was waiting when I reached the sidelines. “Where've you been?” I asked him, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.

“I apologize, Rachel. I should have called. One of the residents at the Jewish Center for the Aged died on Saturday. Her funeral was this afternoon. I came here as soon as it ended.”

“That's okay,” I said, suddenly feeling frivolous standing there in my softball outfit.

He unbuttoned his cuffs. “Think I can borrow a glove?” He rolled up his sleeves. “I didn't realize until this morning that I don't have one anymore.”

I found an old softball glove at the bottom of the equipment bag. It was small, beat-up and blue, but David didn't seem to mind. I introduced him to Benny, who offered to warm him up on the sidelines. Since I wasn't likely to bat that inning, I jogged across the field to the coach's box near third base. As I clapped in encouragement to our lead-off batter, I furtively glanced over to where David and Benny were playing catch. Over the course of the inning, I was relieved to see that David's throws and catches, initially awkward, were becoming more graceful.

We scored a run in the bottom of the fifth. In the top of the sixth I inserted David into the lineup at the bottom of the order and put him in right field, which seemed as close to being out of harm's way as one could get.

Neither side got a hit or a run in the sixth inning, and we took the field in the seventh and final inning still trailing by two runs. Their first batter—the huge woman catcher—hit a lazy fly ball to center field for the first out. The second batter grounded out to short. The next batter hit a slow roller between third and the pitcher's mound. I charged over, scooped it up barehanded, spun toward first, and fired a line drive five feet above Benny's outstretched glove. The runner took second on the error as Benny retrieved my throw. I stomped back to the mound, furious with myself.

“Shake it off, Daisy,” Benny said as he tossed me the ball. “We'll get the next one.”

Stepping in the batter's box was their first baseman, a tall, brawny guy who had already hit two line-drive doubles. I turned toward the outfield and motioned them back. I looked over at David out in right field, with his white dress shirt and street shoes and battered blue glove, and said a silent thanks that the batter was right-handed. But the batter must have spotted David, because he shifted his stance and lined the first pitch foul down the right field line. I glanced back at David, who nodded and took two more steps to the right. With growing concern, I turned to the batter, who was digging in at the plate and waggling his bat in a menacing fashion. His teammates were shouting encouragement.

“Please, God,” I said under my breath as I threw the next pitch, aiming inside, hoping to force him to hit to left.

No such luck. He stepped back and lashed a line drive just over Benny's head and into the right field corner.

“Oh, no,” I moaned, turning to watch. In my peripheral vision I saw the runner from second dashing toward third.

I was surprised to see that David had gotten a good jump on the ball, street clothes, limp and all. He reached it on the third bounce, just as the runner was rounding third and heading home on what should have been a routine, run-scoring double. David fielded the ball cleanly, pivoted, and threw home.

It wasn't until the umpire shouted “Out!” that any of us were able to grasp the sheer glory of David's play. In baseball jargon, he threw a frozen rope. In plain English, he hurled the ball on a line drive from deep right field all the way to home plate. Our amazed catcher caught the ball on the fly just to the third base side of home, where an equally amazed runner ran into the tag for the final out of the inning.

David received several congratulatory whacks on the back from our players and a kiss from me, but the celebration quickly faded as we returned to reality. It was out last time at bat, and we were still two runs behind.

Our first batter flied out to left field. I was up second and reached base on a throwing error. Our hopes started to build when Benny followed with a clean single to center field. I hollered encouragement from second base, but our next batter popped out to third base. We were down to our last out, still trailing by two. I watched nervously as David Marcus limped to the plate, pausing to tap the bat against the heels of his street shoes.

“Come on, David!” I called.

He assumed a batting stance that hardly looked intimidating. Indeed, it was remarkable how relaxed his stance looked: bat held low, wrists at about waist level, elbows not cocked. And yet, I realized after a moment, it was a stance that I had seen used before, most recently by the Cardinals third baseman Todd Zeile. “Please,” I said under my breath.

David swung and missed the first pitch. The momentum of his swing and the slickness of his shoes made him spin and lose his balance. He staggered back two steps. Several of the fielders started laughing.

“Don't hurt yourself, Chester,” shouted their cretinous first baseman.

David got under the next pitch and popped a fly ball into foul territory beyond third base. The third baseman, shortstop and left fielder all gave chase, but the ball drifted out of play into a row of high bushes.

“One more strike,” yelled the second baseman as the players returned to their positions. They were pumped, sensing victory.

“Wait for your pitch, David,” Benny shouted and looked over at me with a grin. Raising his eyebrows in appreciation, he put his fists together as if he were holding a bat and waggled his wrists.

I took a deep breath and nodded guardedly. Although the last foul hadn't been much of a hit, I had noticed—and so had Benny—that David was generating an awful lot of bat speed in his relaxed batting stance. All the whiplike motion and power in his swing was coming from his wrists. If he could time the pitch, he ought to get a hit.

I exhaled slowly, tensely, as I watched David step back into the batter's box. He fouled off two more pitches, both to the third base side, each harder than the one before it. The players on the other team were hollering for the kill, apparently oblivious to what David appeared to be doing at the plate. Although I couldn't tell for sure, it seemed as if he were intentionally fouling off pitches, as if he were taking a strange, high-risk version of batting practice in the bottom of the last inning. I glanced over at Benny on first base. He shrugged. David fouled off another pitch, again to the third base side. I studied him at the plate. As he got back into his batting stance, I noticed that this time he had shifted his feet slightly toward the right.

This is the one
, I said to myself as I got ready to run.

The pitcher tossed the ball to the plate in a high underhanded arc. David followed it with his eyes, his legs bending slightly as the ball approached, his bat pulling back a little, his entire body seeming to coil just a bit. And then, like an eastern diamondback striking, he attacked.

***

Benny looked around the table with a big grin. “I've got it. We'll name ourselves the House of David.”

David chuckled and shook his head as he put down his mug of root beer and picked up another fried onion ring. “My playing days are over.”

“Over?” Benny said as he lifted his bottle of Budweiser. “Rebbe, you hit the living shit out of that ball.” He took a swig of beer. “We're talking tape measure city. You cranked it, man.” He sat back and belched.

“Oh, Benny,” I said, grossed out.

“Excuse me, Daisy,” he said in a lilting voice.

“Drop the Daisy, Goldberg,” I said.

Benny Goldberg was fat and crude and gluttonous and vulgar. He was also brilliant and funny and thoughtful and savagely loyal. I loved him like the brother I never had, although I must admit that he in no way resembled the brother of my childhood daydreams.

David's towering home run had ended the game in classic style, and the three of us went out for an early dinner at Seamus McDaniel's, a terrific Irish pub on Tamm Avenue in Dogtown. Benny had pressed David for details on his baseball background, since it was clear that he'd played some serious ball in his past. David was reluctant to talk about it, but finally admitted that he had played at San Diego State, had been drafted by the Reds, and had worked his way up to their Triple A team before his career ended in a terrible automobile crash that permanently crippled his right leg. Up until then, baseball had been his sole obsession. Severed from his moorings by the accident, he had drifted for years, holding various jobs, until he decided to study for the rabbinate. I knew there was much more to the post-baseball, pre-rabbi part of the story, but David was clearly uncomfortable talking about it, especially in a rowdy tavern. We didn't press him.

The waitress brought our dinners and set down another round of drinks—a longneck bottle of Bud for Benny, a Bass Ale on tap for me, a mug of root beer for David. As I thought back to our night at the Cardinals game, I realized that David had ordered only soft drinks that evening, too.

“Bruce Rosenthal's funeral is tomorrow,” David said, poking at his salad.