Face Value (2 page)

Chapter Two

Stanley Plotkin and Jerry Klunger followed me to my car. They worked in the mailroom at Warner & Olsen. I had known Stanley—or, more precisely, I had occasionally been in the same room as Stanley—for about a decade. His mother, Bea, was a good friend of my mother. The two women, both widows, had been playing mahjong together on Tuesday nights at the Jewish Community Center for nearly a decade.

Stanley was a difficult person to know. Although he was probably smarter than most attorneys at Warner & Olsen—and certainly smarter than me—his progress through school and life had been disrupted by a version of Asperger's syndrome that fell somewhere along the autism spectrum. According to what Bea told my mother, Jerry Klunger acted as Stanley's protector at work, which is one of the reasons Stanley had lasted so long at the job. He was now in his third year at Warner & Olsen. They were the law firm's odd couple—one a brilliant eccentric, the other a slow-witted giant with a heart of gold. Both were twenty-nine, and both still lived at home with their mothers. Tony Manghini, their sarcastic mailroom boss, referred to them as Master Blaster.

My mother had asked last night if I could take Stanley and Jerry with me to Sari's. They worked the late shift—noon to nine—and normally rode the bus together to and from work. Jerry lived just two stops further down the same bus route. But to get to the memorial service that morning would have meant at least one transfer and nearly an hour-long ride to go just eight miles from their homes. So I picked them up at Stanley's house.

When we arrived at the chapel, they had taken seats in the empty back row, Jerry on the aisle, his massive body effectively blocking anyone else from taking a seat in that row. That's because two was an even number, and Jerry knew that Stanley had a thing about sitting in a row with lots of other people because that increased the chances of an odd number. His mother had told me that Stanley had an obsessive aversion to odd numbers, especially in a row of seats. That was why he couldn't go to the symphony even though he had a huge collection of classical music at home—hundreds and hundreds of vinyl records arranged not by composer but by some combination of musical eras, styles, and keys unfathomable to all but Stanley.

They got into my car, Jerry in the passenger seat, Stanley in back. As we pulled out of the parking lot, I glanced back at Stanley.

“We're going by your house,” I said.

Stanley checked his wristwatch. “Now?”

“You need to change out of that tuxedo.”

Stanley stared out of the passenger window.

My cell phone rang. I could tell who it was from the caller ID. “Yes?”

I listened for a moment.

“That's not acceptable, Barry,” I said. “Your client needs to comply with the judge's order.”

He tried to start in again.

“Forget it,” I said. “I'll see you in court at two.” I pressed End and set the cell phone down.

We drove in silence, Jerry occasionally glancing back at Stanley, who was staring out the side window and moving his neck around in those odd contortions of his. My mother had sensed from her conversation with Stanley's mother that Stanley had had feelings for Sari Bashir. He'd been upset when he learned of her death, although it was beyond me how she could detect that emotion, or any emotion, in Stanley.

We were stopped at a light when Stanley announced, “She was not depressed.”

I glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “What do you mean?”

Stanley was staring out the window. He started whistling.

“Stanley?” Jerry said.

Stanley turned toward Jerry and raised his eyebrows.

Jerry said, “What do you mean she wasn't depressed?”

“She was troubled,” he said. “More precisely, agitated. But not depressed. Not sad, not melancholic, not despondent.”

“When?” I asked.

“The last four days of her life.”

“What makes you think that?” I asked.

Stanley rolled his eyes. “It was obvious.”

The light changed to green.

“Agitated?” I asked. “About what?”

“Presumably about whatever resulted in her death.”

Jerry turned toward Stanley. “She must have been very agitated.”

Stanley stared at him.

Jerry shrugged. “You have to be pretty agitated to commit suicide.”

Stanley snorted. “Oh, puh-leazse. Do you fail to comprehend, Jerry?”

“What?”

“Sari Bashir did not commit suicide.”

I slowed the car and glanced in the rearview mirror. Stanley was squinting and tugging at his black bowtie.

“Then how did she die?” I said.

“How else?”

“Did she slip?” Jerry said.

Stanley gave one of his snorts, which sounded like a dog's bark. “Slipped over a wall two feet high? Not under our current gravitational system.”

“What are you saying, Stanley?” I asked.

“Sari Bashir's death was a homicide.”

I pulled the car over to the curb and turned to face him. “You think someone killed her?”

Stanley was staring out the window now. He started whistling his tuneless song.

“Murdered?” Jerry said. “Do you have any proof?”

He stopped whistling. “Of course.”

“What kind of proof?” I asked.

“The best kind.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“All in good time. All in good time.”

And he started whistling again.

I knew enough not to push Stanley. Jerry made a couple of attempts, but Stanley refused to say anything further.

Chapter Three

Stanley's mother greeted us at the door of her 1950s ranch-style house. Bea Plotkin was a short plump woman in her late sixties. She wore a plaid house dress and white tennis shoes.

“Hello, Mrs. Plotkin,” Jerry said.

She gave him a hug, her arms not quite reaching around the big guy's waist.

She turned to me with a big smile. “Rachel, darling. Such a sweetheart.”

“Hi, Bea.” I leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

As Stanley went down the hall to change, we followed Bea along the plastic runner over the carpet into the living room.

“Such a tragedy,” she said, shaking her head, “and a shanda for her poor father.”

Jerry and I were seated on a brown plaid couch that was entirely enclosed in a clear plastic cover that made crinkling noises whenever one of us shifted position. We were facing what Stanley apparently referred to as the Hall of Frames, which included framed photocopies of his brother Harold's diploma from Harvard Medical School, his brother Martin's diploma from the Jewish Theological Seminary, and Stanley's framed Mensa certificate. From the dates on the documents, it was clear that Stanley was the baby brother.

When Stanley appeared in the hallway, he had donned his usual law firm outfit: a short-sleeved dress shirt buttoned all the way to the neck, black pants belted high enough on his waist to expose his argyle socks, and thick-soled black shoes, which he kept buffed to a high shine.

I dropped them off in front of their building. As they came around the front of my car, I rolled down my window.

“Jerry?”

He lumbered over to the window and bent down.

“Yes, ma'am?”

“When do you two break for dinner?”

“Usually around 5:30.”

“Where do you go?”

“St. Louis Bread Company.”

“I'll meet you there.”

“Alright.”

“Be sure to tell Stanley I want to see his proof. He needs to bring it with him to the restaurant.”

“Yes, Miss Gold.”

Chapter Four

Barry Kudar had earned the nickname Barracuda inside the courtroom. This was why he'd been elevated to partner at the venerable Reynolds Price just six years out of law school. It was why, at age thirty-nine, he was on every St. Louis corporate general counsel's short list of litigators for bet-the-company cases. It was why Jimmy O'Brien, the white-haired dean of the plaintiff's bar, had told him in open court last year, “You are one nasty little prick, Barry, and I mean that as a compliment.”

I am quite certain the Barracuda took that as a compliment. Indeed, he acted as if “nasty little prick” was an essential element of his persona. Just check out his photo on his law firm's website. The typical range of lawyer expressions on headshots of law firm bios runs from avuncular smiles to contemplative gazes. In Barry Kudar's photo, he frowns into the camera defiantly, as if channeling Robert DeNiro's Travis Bickle in
Taxi Driver
: “You talkin' to me? You talkin' to me?”

My professional relationship with Barry was hardly collegial. He was an aggressive and obnoxious jerk who turned every conversation into a confrontation. The simple courtesies you expected from opposing counsel—such as consent to a short extension of time due to a family illness or planned vacation—you'd never receive from Barry. You learned early on in a lawsuit with him that every telephone conversation had to be documented with a letter reciting the points discussed, and that your letter would trigger a nasty response disputing your recitation.

A flurry of those back-and-forth letters had brought us today to the afternoon motion docket in Division 2 of the Circuit Court of the City of St. Louis. We were here on my motion to compel the deposition of the Barracuda's client, a prominent heart surgeon that I'd sued for sexual harassment of my client, a nurse at the hospital.

Entering the courtroom, I spotted Barry seated at counsel's table to the left of the bench, scribbling furiously on a legal pad. As usual, he was immaculately attired—today in a navy pinstriped suit, crisp white shirt, navy-and-crimson-striped tie, and gold cufflinks that sparkled in the afternoon sun coming through the courtroom's high windows. His black hair was slicked straight back, which accentuated his angular features and the prominent widow's peak on his forehead.

I took a seat in the front row of the gallery on the right side of the center aisle. There were maybe twenty lawyers in the courtroom for the afternoon motion docket—a few at the two counsel tables, three seated in the jury box, and the rest of us spread around the benches in the gallery. Some were reading newspapers, others were checking messages on their smartphones, a few were studying court papers, and one elderly male attorney at the end of my row was slumped back on the bench, arms crossed over his chest, sound asleep.

“All rise,” the bailiff commanded.

We rose as the door behind the bench opened and Judge Henry Winfield entered. He took his seat in the high leatherback chair behind the bench and nodded toward us.

“Please be seated.” He turned to his docket clerk. “Okay, Shirley. Call the first case.”

Shirley Garner, his plump, fiftysomething docket clerk, called out, “Browning versus Evans. Defendant's motion to dismiss.”

As the lawyers for the parties approached the podium, I opened my briefcase and took out the materials for today's motion.

Twenty minutes later, Shirley announced, “Garcia versus Mason, et al. Plaintiff's motion to compel deposition and for sanctions.”

Barry Kudar jumped to his feet and moved quickly to the podium. By the time I joined him, Judge Henry Winfield was leafing through my motion papers. Tall, ruddy, and bald, the judge had played left tackle for the University of Missouri football team in their 1965 Sugar Bowl victory over Florida. The start of many a trial had been delayed as Judge Winfield regaled the trial attorneys with tales of gridiron battles of yore. His chambers were festooned with Tigers memorabilia from his glory days.

Though usually good-natured, Judge Winfield looked up from the papers with a frown. “So you two are still squabbling, eh? Thought we resolved this problem three weeks ago.”

“As the Court knows,” Barry said, trying to seize control of the argument, “my client is a cardiothoracic surgeon. An esteemed surgeon, I might add. While Miss Gold may think her client's baseless claim for money is the most pressing matter in the world, this Court certainly understands real-world priorities. I would urge Miss Gold to read the final clause in the Court's order. Yes, the Court did order my client to appear at his deposition last week. However, that requirement was, and I quote the Court's order, ‘subject to the medical needs of Dr. Mason's patients, which shall take precedence over said deposition.'”

He gave me his best version of a disdainful look, which was somewhat diluted by the fact that I stood two inches taller than him.

He turned back to the judge. “Your Honor, I regret that Miss Gold has wasted all of our time today with yet another discovery motion. May I respectfully suggest that if anyone is deserving of sanctions by the court, it is this lady. Miss Gold needs to be reminded in no uncertain terms that the Court's time and opposing counsel's time are assets not to be squandered.”

I'd kept my expression neutral throughout his argument.

I continued to stare at the judge, who turned to me. “Well, Miss Gold? Opposing counsel seems to have a point.”

I said, “I assume that opposing counsel has made his point in ignorance of the facts.”

“In ignorance?” Barry gave me a snide look and shook his head. “Hardly. I am fully aware of all of the facts.”

“In that case, Your Honor, we would request that the court assess sanctions against Dr. Mason
and
his counsel.”

Barry turned to me, eyes wide with outrage. “On what possible grounds?”

I continued to gaze at the judge.

“Continue, Ms. Gold,” the judge said, leaning forward slightly and rubbing his chin.

“We proposed to depose Mr. Kudar's client last Thursday on the punitive damages issues. Mr. Kudar rejected that date on the ground that, quote, ‘the medical needs of his client's patients that day took precedence.' Here is a copy of his letter to me making that contention.”

I handed copies of the letter to the judge and Barry, who snatched his copy with a smug grin.

The judge read the two-paragraph letter and looked up. “Okay?”

“My client still works at the hospital,” I said. “She told me that Dr. Mason generally takes Thursdays off. When the weather is nice, Dr. Mason plays golf in the morning at St. Louis Country Club. She knows this because Dr. Mason often talks about his golf game in the operating room on Fridays. The weather was nice last Thursday, so on a hunch I drove out to his country club that morning. I parked along the shoulder of a public roadway near one of the greens and waited. I had borrowed a camera with a telephoto lens. I took these shots of Dr. Mason. As you will see, each photograph has an electronic time and date stamp.”

I handed one set of three 8 x 10 color photographs to the judge and another to Barry. In the first, Dr. Mason was seated in the golf cart with another man. In the second, he was on the green lining up a putt. In the third, he was laughing in conversation with the other man as they walked back to their golf cart, their putters over their shoulders.

I paused, watching the judge study the photographs. According to the time stamps, the photographs had been taken last Thursday at 10:23 a.m., 10:31 a.m., and 10:42 a.m.

“Because my client still works at the hospital,” I said, “she has access to the daily schedule for the operating rooms. Here are copies of those schedules for last Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday.”

I handed one set to the judge and another to Barry.

“As Your Honor will see, Dr. Mason had two operations on Wednesday and two on Friday. He had none on Thursday. As the photographs show, on Thursday he was playing golf. Thus, Mr. Kudar's contention is false. There were no medical needs of Dr. Mason's patients last Thursday that took precedence over either his desire to play golf or his obligations under the Court's order.”

When Judge Winfield finally looked up, his ruddy complexion was closer to scarlet.

“Your motion will be granted, counsel.”

He stared at Barry and shook his head. “How many hours did you spend on your motion, Miss Gold?”

“Counting the trip to the country club, approximately five hours.”

“And then your time today. That's another hour of your time that Mr. Kudar and his client have wasted. What is your hourly rate?”

“Four hundred dollars.”

“Include in your order an award of sanctions against Dr. Mason
and
his attorney in the amount of two-thousand four-hundred dollars. That is a bargain, Mr. Kudar. You pull these shenanigans again, sir, and I will personally report you to the disciplinary committee.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” I said.

“Be sure to include in the order,” the judge said, staring at Kudar, “the date for the deposition. That date can be any date you please, Miss Gold. Any date. If the good doctor has to rearrange his schedule to accommodate yours, so be it.”

“Thank you, Judge.”

“When you've filled out the order, give it to my clerk. And be sure to contact my clerk before the deposition starts. If I'm available that day, I will be happy to rule by telephone on any objections. That'll be all. Next case.”

As I took a blank order form over to the counsel's table, Barry stomped out of the courtroom, grumbling under his breath. I couldn't help but smile, even though one of the words he muttered sounded like
grunt
or
runt
but probably was a more pointed reference to me.