The Mourning Sexton by Michael Baron Read Free Book Online Page A

Post-Dispatch:
    JAILED ATTORNEY HIT FOR $10 MILLION VERDICT
    Jury Finds Him Guilty of Sexual Harassment
    “He would serve seven years in a federal penitentiary for the embezzlement crimes.”
    Cut to generic shot of a prison interior—a long hallway lined with prison cells.
    “But Hirsch is out of jail these days, his license to practice law has been reinstated, and now he has filed suit over the death of that young law clerk Judith Shifrin. Among the targets of the suit: Ford Motor Company. Today—”
    Cut to a mid-range shot of Jack Bellows behind the lectern, squinting into the television lights.
    “—the lawyer for Ford had his say.”
    The camera zoomed in for a close-up. Bellows had a good TV face—craggy features, unruly shock of reddish-gray hair, bushy eyebrows. His name appeared at the bottom of the screen as
Attorney for Ford Motor Company.
    “There's one word for this lawsuit,” Bellows said in his gruff voice, “and that word is ‘frivolous.' I am confident that we will dispose of this ridiculous case in short order, and once we do, I intend to focus my attention on the lawyer behind this outrage.”
    A reporter in the crowd called out, “Why do you say that?”
    Bellows's mouth curled into a smirk. “Because David Hirsch has proven again that he's a disgrace to the legal profession.”
    Cut back to Drennan at the anchor desk. “The lawsuit may only be starting, but”—dramatic pause, puckish smile—“it's already shaping up to be a real barn burner.”
    The female anchor shook her head in wonder. “‘Disgrace to the legal profession.' Those are strong words, Rob.”
    Drennan nodded. “And they weren't the strongest. After the press conference, Mr. Bellows told me that one of his goals was to get Mr. Hirsch's law license, and I quote, ‘yanked and shredded.'”
    The male anchor said, “Thanks, Rob. We'll be sure to keep an eye on that lawsuit. Meanwhile, meteorologist Dan Webber has been keeping an eye on that winter storm developing to our west.”
    Cut to a bald man with a goofy grin and protruding ears posed in front of a weather map. “That's right, Mel. The latest from the National Weather—”
    Hirsch turned off the television. The phone rang. It was Rosenbloom.
    “That miserable cocksucker.”
    “Vintage Jack Bellows.”
    “I hope you drill him a new asshole. That stuff he said, it's bullshit, Samson. Nasty, below-the-belt bullshit.”
    “I'm okay with it.”
    “Totally uncalled for—way, way out of bounds. I am so pissed right now I can't see straight. If I had a baseball bat—”
    “Sancho.”
    “I'm not kidding. If I had—”
    “Sancho.”
    A pause. “What?”
    “I'm okay with it.”
    “Ah, come on. How can you—”
    “I've heard worse. Get some sleep. We'll talk in the morning.”
    Hirsch walked over to the window of his apartment. It was starting to snow, the big flakes briefly illuminated as they floated through the light of the streetlamps.
    Hirsch understood, of course. This wasn't rocket science. Bellows's goal was intimidation, to demoralize him, maybe undermine his commitment to the case. The execution was over the top, but everything about Bellows was over the top. Nevertheless, the strategy was sound and based on two reasonable assumptions. First, that Hirsch knew that he was alone and facing three platoons of big-firm litigators, and second, that Hirsch knew that many in his profession viewed him as a pariah.
    No, the strategy was simple and sound. Rub his nose in it, and do so publicly.
    What surprised Hirsch was his reaction.
    He wasn't intimidated.
    He wasn't demoralized.
    And his commitment to the case hadn't lessened.
    Quite the contrary.
    Once upon a time, he had loved a good courtroom battle. Indeed, he had craved a trial the way others craved gambling or mountain climbing or cocaine. He used to joke that a good cross-examination was better than good sex—and he spoke from experience, having had plenty of both. He needed trials. He sought them.