Once We Were Brothers (4 page)

“Right.”

“Impressive. But even if you could prove what you say, the cost of the litigation would more than exceed the value of anything you could recover.”

The old man shrugged.

“I sense here, Ben, that you don’t care one way or another whether you make money on this lawsuit, do you?”

“Not really. I want to bring him to justice and expose him for what he is – a cold-blooded Nazi killer.”

Catherine lowered her eyes and slowly shook her head. “Well, I can understand your passion for justice, Mr. Solomon. I just don’t think that Jenkins and Fairchild is the right place for you. We really don’t handle such cases. We’re a business firm. Our clients are financial institutions, hospitals, insurance companies.”

“But you’re a lawyer, right? Adele said you’re the best lawyer in town. You go to court, don’t you?”

“I do, but not on cases like this.”

The wizened old man swiveled his chair and stared through the window across the street at the Dirksen and Kluczynski Federal Buildings – the two glass and steel Mies van der Rohe structures that anchored the concrete expanse of the Federal Plaza. “Dead end, Hannah,” he said to the window. “I guess I had no right to get our hopes up.”

With noticeable effort, he lifted his body out of the black leather chair. “Thank you for your time, Miss Lockhart,” and he left the room.

Chapter Eight

“Sometimes it pays to play Let’s Make a Deal,” said Catherine, examining the menu in Ambria’s gracious dining room. Full length draperies, tied back with gold cords, framed a view of Lincoln Park on a warm October night. Fresh flowers and small shaded lamps adorned each table.

“That’s not nice. I feel bad for the old guy,” Liam said.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, I do too.”

“What if he’s right, Cat? What if Rosenzweig is really Otto Piatek?”

“Just because I feel bad for him doesn’t mean I believe him. It’s far more likely that Mr. Solomon is delusional. Did you notice that he was holding conversations with imaginary people?”

“I noticed.”

“Nobody believes this wild story, Liam. The papers, the TV, they all treated it as the ravings of a madman. None of them followed it up.”

The sommelier interrupted with the wine selection. Liam swirled the wine, took a sip and gestured for him to fill the glasses.

“Cat, I don’t think Solomon’s insane. Since our meeting, I’ve done some poking around.”

“I should have figured.”

“Adele introduced me to several people who know Ben. He’s very active in his synagogue life. He’s the congregation librarian. They say he spends hours reading and studying the Bible. He even teaches an adult class on Tuesday nights. On the Zohar.”

“The Zohar?”

“I’m not very knowledgeable here, but I’ve been told that the Zohar is one of the central books of the Kabbalah, a spiritual, mystical commentary of the Old Testament. Divine energy. It talks of secrets and codes.” Liam waggled his fingers.

Catherine shot him a hard look. “I’m not taking his case.”

“Did I ask you to?”

“Well, I’m not.”

“It may interest you to know that everyone I talked to, without exception, admires and respects Ben.”

“I’m not taking his case.”

“I know. You said that.”

The conversation was interrupted by the service of a smoked salmon terrine. The two ate quietly for a time, with just the sounds of fork tines on the china.

Finally Catherine broke the silence. “So, who are you dating these days? Are you still with Donna Talcott?”

“I wouldn’t say I was
with
her. We see each other off and on. She’s fun to be around, but…I don’t think it’s ever going anywhere.”

Catherine broke her sourdough roll in half and put a small pat of butter on the bread plate. She took a sip of wine. “Do you have any idea what it would be like to litigate against someone like Rosenzweig, to accuse him of being a Nazi?”

“Why do you care? You’re not taking the case.”

“Right.” She took a small bite of her roll. “Why are you so invested in this, Liam?”

Liam laid his fork down and turned toward Catherine.

“Adele is good people. Just an ordinary lady who cares about her neighbors, who brings soup over to Mrs. Delevan’s when she’s sick, who pays the eight-year-old kid next door a quarter to bring her the Sunday newspaper from her parkway, who has a nice greeting for every passerby when she’s out sweeping the leaves from her sidewalk. People like this, like Adele and Ben Solomon, they have no access to lawyers and courtrooms. They don’t know any big time litigators like you.” He picked up his fork. “But they’re good people.”

“The fees and expenses would run in the hundreds of thousands of dollars. Rosenzweig would hire a team of lawyers. I couldn’t staff the case, even if the firm would let me take it on. It’d never get past the management committee.”

“It’s not your choice to decide whether or not to take a case?”

“Are you kidding? I’m just an associate, not even a junior partner. I’ve only been with the firm for two years. Remember? I came out of early retirement.”

Liam nodded. “Of course I remember. I’m sorry.”

“If I wanted to bring a case in, I would first have to submit it to the practice group chairman for approval. The chairman decides what cases to accept and what to assign to me. That’s how it works. They’re all commercial cases. All on behalf of mega-institutions. This bank versus that. A zoning petition to allow a heavy manufacturing plant to locate where it should never be. A battle between insurance goliaths to see who stands the loss for last year’s tornado in Lewisburg. Companies that don’t blink at billing rates that exceed nine hundred dollars an hour. Cases like Ben’s, against prominent defendants, would have to be approved by the management committee.”

She shook her head. “People like Adele Silver and Ben Solomon – the firm doesn’t want them. I don’t like it, but that’s big firm economics.”

“So why do you stay at Jenkins?”

“After I came back from my absence, Jenkins was happy to have me. You ought to know.” She took a sip of wine. “And the money’s good.”

“He was happy to have you because he got a damn good lawyer for an associate’s salary.”

“He bought damaged goods, Liam.”

He shook his head and took a bite of scallops. “Anyway did you ever stop to consider how this so-called survivor of the concentration camps comes to America after the war, penniless, but within a very short time he’s one of the richest dudes in town?”

She nodded her head. “You have a point.”

“What if Ben could prove Rosenzweig stole his property? What if Ben had some proof?”

“Other than his recognition of Rosenzweig on the television? What kind of proof could he have, Liam? After all these years.”

Liam shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Even if there were proof and a pot of money at the end of the rainbow, it’s not the kind of case my firm would ever let me take on. It’s political suicide. Rosenzweig’s an icon. For Solomon to build a case, one that can withstand the blizzard of motions Rosenzweig will bring, he’d need a crusader, with strong financial backing and eager young minds – like a law school clinic.” She took another sip of wine. “Kids have no fear. I have a career.”

“What kind of proof would he need?”

Catherine counted the elements on her fingers. “First, he’d have to prove that Otto Piatek actually existed and was a Nazi. Second, he’d have to come forward with some kind of evidence identifying the specific stolen property. Third, he’d have to show that Piatek appropriated and converted that property in derogation of the rights of the Solomons. And finally, he’d have to make the connection – prove that Elliot Rosenzweig is in
fact
Otto Piatek.”

“Can I bring Ben to see you again?”

“Liam, please. I told you we can’t take it in.”

“Not to take it in, just to evaluate it and see if you can find him someone to represent him. Will you listen to his story? See if there’s a case?”

“You’re putting me in a tough spot, Liam. I have a job and partners to answer to. I submit my time records at the end of each day. How do I account for hours spent with Ben Solomon?”

He nodded his head in resignation. “I understand. Never mind.”

Three servers wheeled a linen-draped cart to the table and set silver-domed dishes before Catherine and Liam. On cue, the covers were raised, revealing an almond-crusted rack of lamb on one side and a plate of wild striped bass on the other. “Bon appetit,” they chorused.

After a few bites, Catherine said, “Mmm. Divine.” She looked at Liam expecting to see a similar reaction, but noticed that he hadn’t even tasted his dinner.

“You really care about this Solomon, don’t you?” she said.

“I do. I don’t know why – ‘cause he’s a little guy – ‘cause maybe I think he’s telling the truth, and no one will listen to him. Cat, nobody would invent such an accusation. It’s just a feeling I have, that maybe…ah, never mind.”

“Why do I let you do this to me?” Catherine said, setting down her fork. “Stop looking like a scolded puppy. I’ll talk to him, okay? You can bring him by next Wednesday afternoon. I’ll find some time and I’ll evaluate his case for you. If there’s anything there, I’ll call Richard Tryon at the U. S. Attorney’s office or I’ll try to find a clinic to help him. But, bottom line, I want him to tell me what kind of proof he has. Proof, Liam. Solid proof. The kind you could bring into court.”

Liam beamed. “Thanks, Cat.”

II. Ben Solomon’s Story

Chapter Nine

Zamość, Poland 1933

“In the early 1930s I was a child growing up in southern Poland, in a town called Zamość. I had a warm and loving family. My father’s name was Abraham. My mother’s name was Leah. God rest their souls. We lived in a three-story home in the Jewish quarter of the city.”

Ben sat at one end of the conference table with his hands wrapped around a mug of steaming tea. At the other end sat Catherine, tilted back in her chair taking notes on a yellow pad which rested on her crossed legs. Liam and Adele sat quietly to the side.

“Zamość was the jewel of pre-war Poland, a gingerbread city built by an Italian architect in the sixteenth century and modeled after the Italian city of Padua. So colorful, so magical it was, you would swear you woke up in Renaissance Italy,” Ben said.

Catherine looked up from her notes and smiled. “Sounds lovely. Now I’d like to hear about your property, Ben, what you think Mr. Rosenzweig took and how you can prove it’s yours.”

Solomon resumed his narrative. “Although he was an educated man with a business degree from the university, my father was apprenticed as an engraver in the family’s glass factory, founded by my great-grandfather in 1861. The plant produced fine lead crystal – wine glasses, goblets, stemware, vases and bowls, much like the Waterford crystal you see in the local department stores. By the time I was born, my father was running the factory, and his products, handcrafted by Polish artisans, were being shipped all over Europe.

“Abraham Solomon was a rock, a man of inner strength. Sometimes he’d take me to the plant and walk me around with great pride, his only son. He’d say, ‘Did you ever see a handsomer boy?’

“My father was also a man of great respect in Zamość. Townspeople would come to him, to consult and seek his advice. Many an evening, he would sit in our front parlor and take tea with visitors and I would sit on his lap or fall asleep with my head on his chest.”

Catherine sighed. She stopped writing, leaned forward, laid her pen down on the table and rested her chin on her folded hands. Solomon remained steadfast in his narrative.

“My mother was a beautiful woman, Miss Lockhart. Gentle. Elegant, in the ways of the Old World. Well mannered. Modest. Yet she was strong in her constitution and clear in her purpose. Her home and her children were her whole life. Do you follow me, Ms. Lockhart?”

“Yes, Mr. Solomon,” she answered flatly. “But I’m still waiting to hear about the property that you say Mr. Rosenzweig stole.”

“There were linen doilies on polished tables, Miss Lockhart.” Solomon’s voice hardened. “Each piece of furniture in our home was special. It had significance. Not like today, when women buy groups of mass-produced generic furniture from warehouse sales on credit terms. Each of my mother’s pieces was a treasure to her. Some were heirlooms, passed to her from her parents and their parents, to be passed on to her children and their children. Do you understand what I’m saying? Her home was a reflection of who she was.”

“Mr. Solomon, there’s no need to be confrontational. We’re not enemies. I’m sitting here waiting to learn about your legal claims against Mr. Rosenzweig. I’m certain that your mother and your father were extraordinary people, but I’d really like to focus on the issue of the stolen property. After all, that is the foundation of your case.”

“I’m not an attorney, Miss Lockhart, but as I understand a lawyer’s function, it’s to represent clients, to stand up for them, to give expression to their interests and to further their claims. Is that not so?”