Bearing Witness by Michael A. Kahn Read Free Book Online Page B

heart disease, one from cancer.
    From then on, there was no one but Ruth to say kaddish for her uncle, and she’d done it every year thereafter, less from a sense of familial duty than of profound devotion. Although she was only nine when he’d been killed, she cherished her vivid memories of him—of the card tricks he used to perform, the penny candies he used to sneak her, the silly bedtime songs he sang whenever she spent the night.
    Ruth told me the story of Uncle Harry on that cold November morning last year, and when she finished, we both had tears in our eyes. “It’s a mitzvab ,” she explained in her gentle voice, “an honor to be able to say kaddish for that wonderful man.” So moved was I by the image of her bearing lone witness each November for her beloved uncle that I agreed to take her case.
    Back then, of course, neither of us suspected what was to come. Our first hint: Beckman Engineering’s response to Ruth’s complaint. It included a vicious, petty counterclaim that accused her of everything from making personal telephone calls on company time to taking excessive lunch breaks. I remember reading through it when it first arrived. I was worried about Ruth’s reaction. I’d seen many a client recoil at the first answering volley. Frankly, the best plaintiff in an employment discrimination case is one of those gritty, hard-scrabble types willing to go the distance. Ruth certainly didn’t look the part. In fact, she looked more like a storybook Jewish grandmother, right down to the gray hair pulled back in a bun, the soft face, and the dowdy floral-print, calf-length dress. She actually wore granny glasses.
    I can still remember the February afternoon she came in to read the counterclaim. She’d arrived around five o’clock, pausing outside the doorway to stomp the snow off her boots. It had been gently snowing all day—big, fluffy snowflakes floating out of a milky white sky. We talked about the weather and the traffic as I got her a cup of hot tea. I handed her the document and took my seat behind the desk. I watched as she slowly read through it, bracing myself for the tears. Beckman Engineering’s counterclaim was startling in its spitefulness—as if the company had decided to stake Ruth Alpert out there on the hillside as an example to all would-be plaintiffs.
    As she reached the last page of the counterclaim, I glanced toward the box of Kleenex tissues on my desk. A minute passed. She was still staring at that page, the only sounds the faint hum of my computer and the syncopated clicking of the radiator. I waited and watched, looking for a telltale sign—a sniffle, perhaps, or the trembling shoulders. Finally, she closed the document and looked up. Her eyes were clear, her expression firm.
    â€œSo,” she said in a calm voice, “they raised the ante.”
    I gave her a smile of commiseration. “I’m afraid so.”
    She rubbed the back of her neck thoughtfully. “Then we should, too.”
    â€œWe?” I asked, puzzled.
    She nodded. “I worked there a long time, Rachel.” She paused, arching her eyebrows. “A girl hears things.”
    â€œThings?”
    She nodded again, this time with the hint of a smile.
    ***
    Jacki brought me back to the present by poking her head in my office to announce, “Ruth’s here.” She paused, widening her eyes in a show of relief at finally escaping from the latest Lauren saga.
    I smiled. “Send her in.”
    A moment later, Ruth Alpert came in. She was carrying a tin of what I knew were homemade ginger snaps. I loved her ginger snaps.
    â€œHello, Rachel dear.”
    â€œRuth, I love your hair.”
    â€œReally?” she asked, self-consciously touching it. Since we’d last met two weeks ago, she’d had her long gray hair chopped off. “Your mother told me to do it,” she said with an embarrassed giggle. Her hair was cut