Once We Were Brothers (47 page)

“Get the hell out of here. Do you care that little about your license?”

“No, sir,” Catherine said calmly. “I care that much.”

“Where’d this information come from?”

Catherine took a step forward, wondering how she still had the strength to stand. “Someone I respect very much. And I’m not leaving until you reassign the case. Because if you don’t, I’ll have the U.S. attorney check every dollar Ryan spends and if it’s ten cents more than his judicial salary, or if he ends up working for Storch and Bennett next year, he’ll be indicted. And I’ll squawk to every paper in town that I was in here trying the get him off the case.”

Murphy nodded. Catherine’s brash determination had made its impression. “What case is this?”

“Solomon v. Rosenzweig.”

He raised his eyebrows and leaned forward. “Come here, young lady.”

Catherine inched closer to the front of the desk. Her jaw was set. Her heart was resolute but her hands were shaking.

The judge spoke slowly and firmly. He pointed his finger. “You tell me here and now:
where
did you get this information?”

Catherine bit her lower lip. “Michael Shanahan.”

The judge nodded and rocked back in his chair. He stroked his non-existent beard. “Do you have a copy of your motion for substitution?”

Catherine reached into her briefcase and handed a copy across the desk.

“What rulings has Judge Ryan made in the case?”

“It’s all in the motion. Nothing substantive.” Catherine recounted the rulings.

Murphy took several deep breaths while he studied the motion and contemplated his decision. Finally, he reached behind him, picked up the telephone and dialed a three digit extension.

“Chuck? Murph. Great, yourself? Listen, I’m doing a little administrative housekeeping. I’m reassigning the Rosenzweig case to DiGiovanni.” Pause. “I understand. Fifty-three pages and you’ve already researched it. Yes, it’s a lot of work for nothing, but I need to even out the assignments.” Pause. “No, you can’t Chuck. I’ll send Glenda down for the file. Thanks for your understanding.”

He set the phone down and stared menacingly at Catherine. “Not a word of your slanderous accusations leaves this office.”

Catherine nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“This conversation never took place. He’s retiring at the end of this year. Let the man go.”

“Yes, sir.”

Murphy nodded. He gestured for Catherine to leave and buzzed Glenda. “Ms. Lockhart,” he said to Catherine on her way out, “tell Mickey that Jimmy sends his best.”

Catherine walked shakily into the hallway and into an empty courtroom. She sat down hard on a back spectator bench. Her knees were rattling like aspen leaves.

* * *

Elliot took off his coat and hung it on Jeffers’ antique coat rack. “What the hell was so important that I had to drop everything and come directly to your office? I hope you’re going to tell me that Ryan granted your motion for judgment.”

Jeffers somberly shook his head. “Ryan lost the case.”

“What do you mean ‘lost it?’ What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean the case was reassigned to Judge DiGiovanni. I just got notice.”

“I thought Ryan denied Lockhart’s motion to transfer. That was a done deal. He cost me two hundred grand. How the hell did you let this happen?”

“It wasn’t Ryan. It was an administrative shuffle from the chief judge. I don’t know, Murphy might have smelled a rat. Maybe he just had a hunch.”

Elliot pinched his lower lip and paced in Jeffers’ office. “How much is DiGiovanni gonna cost me?”

“I can’t get to him. He’s acting chairman of the judicial ethics board. He’s unapproachable. That’s what makes me think Murphy knew something.”

“Can’t we file a motion, like Lockhart, and get the case assigned to someone else?”

“It wouldn’t do us any good. All reassignments come from the chief judge. We’re stuck with DiGiovanni.”

Elliot clenched his teeth. “Then, I guess you’re just going to have to win this case. We need to pull out all the stops.”

Chapter Fifty-seven

Liam didn’t recognize the caller ID, but he knew the voice. It was Carl Wuld.

“Say, Taggart. This is your brother-in-arms. I got news for you.”

“Go ahead, Carl.”

“I’m being sent to Poland and France to find Piatek. Brian Cunningham, he’s Rosenzweig’s right hand guy, gave me twenty grand to fund my trip.”

“Congratulations on your good fortune. Your scam seems to be working out well.”

“Thanks, bro. But that ain’t why I’m calling you. Remember when you stood in my house and told me to call you if Rosenzweig was doing anything with Solomon?”

“Yeah, go on.”

“Well, you didn’t bust me, so I owe you. I was just a front all along, so Rosenzweig could say he was searching for Piatek. He used me and I used him. Now I’m off to Europe so he can tell the media that he’s funding a world-wide search for Piatek. But Rosenzweig’s got another muscle man. It’s the other guy, Pickens, that you got to worry about. He’s the one who set up the break-in at the apartment.”

“Why do I have to worry?”

“There’s a contract on your boy. We’re all square now, bro.” And the phone went silent.

* * *

Liam dialed Ben again and again but the calls went unanswered. “Stay in your apartment,” Liam warned on his voice mail. “I’m on my way over. Stay away from the windows and double-lock your doors.”

As he sped down Addison street, his call was returned. Ben was out of breath and spoke between gasps. “There are people after me, Liam. They know where I live. Two of them are downstairs.”

“Where are you?”

“In my apartment, but I had to take the stairs. They’re watching for me in the lobby. It’s one of the guys who was sitting in the car outside Catherine’s. He’s in the picture you took. I’m worried they’ll get in here. The doorman’s got a pass key. So does the super.”

Liam floored his car. “Block the door. Put a chair under the doorknob. I’ll be there in a few minutes. I’m calling 911.”

“There’s a gunman at 620 Bittersweet,” he said to the 911 operator. “He’s trying to break into an apartment on the seventeenth floor. I believe the gunman’s name is Pickens.”

There were three squads parked in the turn-around, lights flashing, when Liam reached the building. “I’m the one that made the call,” he said to CPD Lieutenant Silas Brown, flashing his Illinois PI license. “It’s Ben Solomon’s apartment on 17.”

Four police officers, guns drawn, dashed out of the elevator on 17 followed by Liam and the building’s doorman. The hall was empty. Liam ran down to the apartment door. “Ben, it’s me. It’s Liam. Ben?” He rapped on the door. No answer.

Waving the doorman over, Brown said, “Give me the keys.”

He unlocked the door, but it still wouldn’t open. It was jammed. He was about to kick in the door when Liam stopped him. “Hold on. I told him to put a chair against the door. Ben? Are you in there?”

No answer.

Brown and Liam looked at each other and Liam nodded. He smashed into the door with his shoulder, breaking the door jamb and splintering the dining room chair propped beneath the doorknob. They entered the apartment finding it empty. Looking around, Liam noticed that the bathroom door was shut. “Ben are you in there? It’s Liam.”

“Thank God,” Ben said as he opened the door. “Liam, there were people after me. I’m not hallucinating.” Ben was still out of breath.

“I know you’re not. I got an anonymous call this afternoon warning me that there would be people looking for you.”

“I was coming home from the grocery store, almost at the building, and I saw these two guys. I recognized the tall one. But they didn’t see me.” Ben was breathing hard. “You know me. I hear voices. They alerted me. Maybe it was my Hannah. I knew I had to run for it. I snuck into the lobby but I couldn’t get an elevator and I didn’t want them to see me. I had to take the stairs. Seventeen floors.”

Liam walked Ben over to a chair. He couldn’t catch his breath and he was sweating. “What’s your doctor’s name, Ben?”

“Chou. But I’ll be all right. Just give me a few minutes.”

“Was there anybody here looking for Mr. Solomon?” Lieutenant Brown said to the doorman.

He nodded. “Couple guys. Never saw them before. They said they had business with Mr. Solomon. They were delivering an insurance policy. They wanted to know if he was in. You know, I can’t give out that kind of information. I told them that they could buzz him, announce themselves and maybe he’d authorize me to let them in. Then the squad cars pulled up and they hurried out the front door.”

Lt. Brown stayed to get a description and a statement from the doorman. Liam told Ben to pack a suitcase. “I’m going to put you up at my place for a while until we figure this thing out,” he said.

“He knows he’s defeated, doesn’t he?” Ben said on the way to Liam’s house.

“I don’t think he does. He’s like a cornered wolverine and just as dangerous. I got a call today from Wuld. He told me Rosenzweig’s put a contract out on you.”

Ben smiled broadly. “That’s great news.”

“It is?”

“Is there clearer proof of guilt? Now it’s just a matter of convincing the jury.”

Chapter Fifty-eight

Chicago, Illinois February 2005

It was another bitter morning, affording no relief from the succession of below-zero days and nights. Ice and crusted snow blanketed the lawns and parkways. Chimneys breathed columns of white steam into the clear blue sky. Catherine, warmly dressed in a cream, bulky knit turtleneck and camel slacks, stopped her research session to answer her door at ten a.m. Liam, Ben and a third gentleman entered the foyer. Ben’s breathing was labored and he stood slightly bent, fatigued from his short walk from Liam’s car.

“This is Morton Titlebaum,” he said. “Mort, this is my lawyer, Catherine Lockhart. She’s the one I’ve been telling you about.”

They gathered in the kitchen where Catherine passed around mugs of tea and coffee.

“Mort was a prisoner at Auschwitz,” Ben said. “He has something interesting to tell you.”

Mort sat upright, posture-perfect, a gray moustache and goatee giving his thin frame dignity. “Rosenzweig was never at Auschwitz. His tattoo’s a fake. I know, because for a while in 1944 I was assigned to work in the tattoo line.”

“How do you know it’s a fake?”

“At Auschwitz more than 400,000 inmates were tattooed. They were the ones who were registered and sent to work. The other poor souls were marched directly into the gas chambers without registration or identification. Before I got there, Jews were identified by tattooing triangles below their numbers. Starting at the end of 1943, the SS decided to start over and precede the numbers with letters. So they tattooed an A before the numbers until they reached 20,000 for the men and 30,000 for the women. Then they started the numbers with a B.”

“Rosenzweig’s number is A93554”

“Right. It’s a fake.”

“Will you come to court and testify to that?”

Mort nodded. “You bet your babushka.”

“Show him Rosenzweig’s photos,” Ben said.

Catherine handed the newspaper photo of Rosenzweig and NBC’s photo of Piatek to Mort. He placed them side by side on the table. “That sure looks like the same guy. But I only saw him the one time and just for a moment. Sixty years ago. I don’t know how strong my identification will be. I’m going to have to leave that eyewitness thing to Ben.” He shrugged. “But it looks like him.”

Ben smiled, but his complexion was pallid. Catherine thought for the first time that he looked older than his eighty-three years; that he had aged considerably since Thanksgiving. It was obvious the recent stress had taken its toll.

“Do we need anything more to defeat Rosenzweig’s motion?” Ben asked. “We can always add Mort’s affidavit.”

“Sure, we can add it. Everything helps. I expect Rosenzweig will counter with some excuse about the tattooer making a mistake, but the erroneous tattoo casts further doubt upon his credibility and raises yet another factual issue. We’re in good shape though, Ben Especially since Judge DiGiovanni’s got the case,” Catherine said. “Jeffers’s motion doesn’t stand a chance.”

“What about the scar, the cut he got protecting Beka?”

Catherine nodded. “They’re all pieces of evidence. Stack them up. One by one they drop on the scales of justice.”

“Liam,” Ben said in a raspy voice, “I want you to check your immigration records for me. Look up the name Krzyzecki. I’ll spell it for you: K-r-z-y-z-e-c-k-i. See if that name appears around the time that Rosenzweig entered the country.”

Liam watched Ben weakly write the name on a pad and hand it to him. The paper fluttered in Ben’s shaking grip.

“Who is that, Ben?”

“Elzbieta.”

Catherine looked stunned. “Oh my God! He married Elzbieta! Your two inspirations. Rosenzweig’s wife and the numbers.”

“Right. I’ll make a believer out of you, yet.” Ben grinned, then suddenly grimaced and grabbed his left arm.