Chasing justice, p.8
Chasing Justice, page 8
For months I had known this day was coming, but hadn’t planned anything, had not bought a little thing that might remind her of me. I didn’t know whether to fight for her, to make her want to see me over the summer and after that, to follow her, to ask her to follow me, to wait for our separate lives to unfold, maybe together. Much later, I understood I wasn’t sure of anything about me, where I was headed, what I wanted. And without knowing who I was, where I was going, it wasn’t right to ask her for more, to ask her to jump into the rowboat of life with me. And I was sure she wouldn’t anyway.
I loved Rebekkah’s freedom, loved that she had picked me from among the thousands, loved her making love to me as hungrily as I made love to her. If she had asked me to stay in her life, I probably would have. But in the end, she was not free to walk away from her family, her inheritance, or whatever, to make a life with me, and I had no right to make her change that.
I had said to Hubert, “I thought I was using her. Now I know I got it all wrong. Women rule. Damn, they rule.”
“Hey, FM buddy, I’ll have you know you’re the envy of everyone I know.”
After Rebekkah’s Buick pulled out of sight and sound, I headed for the bus that traveled north along the lake and the towns opening for summer tourists. I had settled into the field house with my clothes, my tools, a couple books and a bicycle one of the seniors sold me for five bucks. Staring out the bus window but not seeing, I whispered into the window pane, “I can do this, I can, I will.”
5
Father and Biddie, with or without Hilde, never made it to the university campus. In the fall of sophomore year my father said through the phone lines, “Son, I can’t come to visit.”
I caught the I instead of we and wondered. “Sorry, Father. I thought the money I sent would help, some maybe.”
“Thanks, son. What you send helps out. There’s more. Hard to tell you over the phone. Wish you were here.”
“What’s that? Tell me. Whatever it is, I can handle it.”
“The women’s movement, they call it, I guess.” Silence for a long time then my father cleared his throat, “Hilde left me. Took Biddie with her, and the judge said it was all right for her to do that. If I want to see my daughter, I need to go to the big city, to Milwaukee city. Hilde’s got a city job, and some strange lady comes around to the place she’s renting to check on Biddie after school before Hilde gets home. I went down there once but can’t get away from here until all the crops are in. Right now, all my neighbors are busier than a hive with a new queen.”
“Sorry, Father.” I did feel sorry. It must have hurt to lose Johanna, and hurt worse because it was my father’s fault, and now Hilde up and left him, no loss there though. But Biddie. Father was crazy about Biddie. I couldn’t say all I wanted to say, not on the pay phone, not unless face to face.
“Son, I can’t send you pocket money, not for a while. Hope you can get on without my help. In fact, if you had a little extra from odd jobs or whatever, I could sure use more. Peach prices aren’t so good, and I must give Hilde something every month for Biddie. The judge said I didn’t owe alimony, he said, on account she’s got her own job, making a steady wage.”
I pushed two more quarters down the slot for another three minutes, clang, clang. “Sorry for that too, Father. Don’t worry about me. I’ll get by. Most of the kids here are rich and don’t want the odd jobs, plenty of them. I can work as much as I want.”
“Great, son. Wish I could see you, talk to you about all the things that have been happening to me for a long time, for, well, you know . . . since your mother left us, the day you came into the world.”
“Me, too, Pops.” I had never called my father by that name, and the realization made me stop talking. Many of the kids around me, especially the men, referred to their dads as Pops, or Dad, and not one of them as Father.
“How’s Grandma and Grandpa, anyway?” I had last seen them the Christmas before. They had looked at me constantly, hugged me hard, asked me all the questions I expected them to ask. I felt sad each time I left their house over that last Christmas. Grandma had tears in her eyes, too.
“No change there. The money from the sale of their farm land and Social Security should hold out. They’re not the same since that sale, though they managed to keep the house. Last time I visited, Grandpa wouldn’t look at me, and Grandma cried until we started talking about you. You’re their bright light, their only light, you know. Frank. I wish you were around, but I’m glad you’re not, glad you got out of here when you did.”
“Thanks, Pops. Got to go now, no more quarters. I’ll call again Friday. Maybe by then peach prices will pick up.”
Father scoffed. “No chance of that, but thanks, Son. Talk to you next week.”
Chapter Twelve
Angela
O
n Wednesday before the Labor Day holiday, Detective Pitts called me at home. He called late, after our girls were down.
“Judge Brookfeld’s next of kin would be glad to talk with you. One of them said Judge Brookfeld talked about you a time or two. He told his kinfolk . . . hang on, I wrote it down, it was so good . . . here it is. Brookfeld told them that you confirmed the equality of women in all things and their superiority in some.” Pitts’ voice held a hint of disbelief. “His oldest sister, Naomi—Romberg is the last name—start with her. She’s the center of the family and East Coast friends. I’ll email you her address and phone number.”
“Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
“Judge, one caution, though.”
“What’s that?” In a strange way I hoped Pitts would frighten me, warn me to walk the courthouse and its private parking lot only with others around because a killer might be looking for another judge.
Pitts said, “Don’t let Ms. Romberg talk your ear off. Old people, you know, go on and on. But she’s still sharp.”
“Thanks for that warning, for everything you’ve done.”
“You’re welcome, Judge. I sent Ms. Romberg a copy of my report, signed off by the higher ups. Judge, unless something or someone new comes up, it’s final. We’ve checked and double-checked every lead. Funny, some of them.”
“How’s that?”
“No anger in any of the families of the ones he put away. Families are the first to know when they’re living with a serious nut job. Some of those family members of perps he put away had seen the news of his death and seemed kind of sorry. Quite a guy, this one, mostly a real good man. Too bad. Like I said, your PJ and the Judicial Council have been all over us to get it right, to follow every rumor. And we’ve got it right, no doubt about that.”
I whispered to myself, “He was more than that—hope the report can be reopened, hope you’re wrong,” and I realized I had spoken out loud. I wanted to ask what the hell Pitts meant by mostly a real good man, wondered if I had misheard—and was too frazzled to ask.
“No statute of limitations on murder, but you know that, Judge. Have a good evening and a good Labor Day weekend.”
That was it then. Final. Except maybe for that last comment about no statute of limitations on murder. The smartest man I had known, able to quote from judicial decisions written before he was born—and then from memory state the volume and page number of the case books where the language he quoted sat—ended his life in the neediest, the most desperate way. It was all official. Final. Today or the next, news outlets might briefly mention that the police had closed the file with a self-inflicted gunshot as the sole cause. Done.
Did anyone else care? Did anyone else see it? Sandy had found another judge to give him work and had to keep his head in his new job. Mora and Ms. Patterson said how sad that Melvin had done that, though early in the mornings and late in the day they each always found a buddy to walk with them from or to their cars, from or to the trolley stop down Broadway. Deep down, they didn’t believe suicide either, not fully.
And why should I care, care enough to follow blind paths? Because no one else gave a damn, because Lady Justice might as well be made of straw if someone does not care, because one of the last things Melvin said that came from Oliver Jr. went something like, a man may fulfill the object of his existence by attempting a task he cannot achieve. Oh, hell, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr. was deader than Mel, and neither of them had twin daughters who needed them. Oliver had never had any children, and Mel had hinted he never had any either.
Oliver. Something nudged me every time Melvin mentioned Oliver. That first time Melvin talked about the great Supreme Court Justice, I felt I knew him maybe as well as Melvin did, though I couldn’t quote all his sayings. In law books and other places, I had seen his black and white photographs.
Early the next day, Thursday, before the Labor Day holiday, my Peter snored, and our twins dreamed of things five-year-olds dream about. Day’s light had not yet pressed through the shutters, but my first pot of coffee had already cooled. I didn’t need it. My fingers tapped on the counter, driven by thoughts, none related to any cases rolling out in my courtroom.
Pitts must have done one more thing, and it brought me back. He must have whispered to lawyers in the criminal defense bar or to local prosecutors that his report was done, and that no credible theories or leads were left to chase down. A group of them organized a celebration down at the Hilton on the bay. The event was this evening, the day before the Friday when everyone hustled out of town for the long weekend. All judges and some court staff were invited.
I had asked Peter if he wanted to come, for only an hour maybe. I said we could leave the girls with Nadine, who owed us more than one evening of kid-swapping.
He said, “Do we have to RSVP?”
“No, not at all. Guests can come and go any time between four and eight, the usual open bar with two drink tickets and heavy finger food. No worry about dinner except for the girls, all very informal.”
“Hmm, interesting. Let me think about it. I’ll check with Nadine. I know you want to go. Melvin Brookfeld was your best friend down at court, I got that.”
Like a tide creeping closer, Peter’s agony had started to show a bit more. I hadn’t seen it at the beginning. He had taken his new job as house husband with the enthusiasm of a teen jumping into his first car. In the early days of his job change, he would never have deflected my plea. He would have said, “Sure, Hon. I’ll come, too. Your sister judges lust for me, you know.” And we would have laughed, though I knew he meant it. Some of the other women judges and court staff had left their jaws open looking at him, winked at me and then made big eyes at him. In earlier times, he would have said, “We’ll find someone to cover the girls, even if Nadine can’t. Heck, if worse comes to worst, I’ll take them and hang out by the bay while you mix and mingle.” He would have wrapped his arms around me and squeezed hard enough to let his energy flow into me and let his strength say all he needed to say about commitment.
Yesterday evening and last night, he hadn’t done any of that, and I was sure he had not checked with Nadine.
I had seen it in victims and the accused, in the down-and-out who asked me for mercy or for some other person to pay for life’s accumulated unfairness. Self-pity eats away until no more flesh is left. I didn’t know how to help Peter, stop his descent, his pulling away, how to find a job for him that excited him. And that, most of all, kept me from sleeping and made me whisper, “Dare I spend one more minute chasing after Melvin’s death?”
5
The guests giving their last respects to Judge Brookfeld laughed and acted giddy. Did any of them worry about security in this pleasant place? What if . . . from one moment to the next I wanted to jolly-up in one of the clusters but then run to another floor, find the ladies room and puke. The guests were all too happy—or was I crazy?
I didn’t see Sandy, but that did not surprise me. Shy thinkers tend to avoid group things, and surely Sandy did not want to answer one more question from anyone.
The older women judges clustered in their usual grouping. In these social gatherings, we all gravitate to those who became judges around the same time. Now, the one who had served the longest, Judge Susan Greer, held a glass with a clear drink and olive in one hand and napkin topped by a toothpick-stuck piece of uncooked fish in the other hand. “Angela dear, good you could come. How are Peter and the girls?” She beamed and continued, “We hoped you could bring him.”
“Great, they’re great. Thanks. Hard to find a sitter on a long weekend.”
“So sorry about Melvin.” Susan held the so and the sorry longer than needed. That and her gaze readied me for the follow-up. “You and he were so close, what on earth do you think possessed the man to do that, always cheerful and healthy? At least he seemed to be, never missed a day.” Judge Greer did not wait for an answer. “And so smart. Just proves again that smarts is overrated. The smartest do the dumbest things.” She tilted her head to the side. “What do you know that you’re not saying?”
The others all looked at me as they nodded along with Judge Greer’s observations about human nature, about what more I knew. I thought, anyone who thinks Melvin did this to himself has rocks for brains—and, no, we were not close in the way you insinuate. “Maybe we’ll know someday. Until then, it’s just sad.”
Judge Greer turned away to another conversation before I finished, didn’t try to hide the rudeness, the I’ve-got-better-things-to-do-than-talk-to-you message.
I drifted over to a modest photo collage of Mel at a lectern along with a few newspaper headlines of big cases he had presided over. He had been a private man, and all his family had stayed away from this courthouse while he lived—and from this event now. I wasn’t interested in talking to lawyers who might soon want something from me.
At the height of the evening when the room seemed the most crowded, Presiding Judge Michael McGee tapped his glass for attention. The clusters of conversation and laughter quieted.
“Good evening. First, on behalf of the court personnel as well as active and retired judges, a heartfelt thank-you to the criminal defense bars in our county and prosecutors for hosting this remembrance of our dear colleague and friend, Melvin Brookfeld.”
Soft applause rose up.
“Second, I prepared some remarks, but that was before I read a letter from Naomi Romberg, Melvin’s oldest sister. She sends regrets at not being able to fly cross-country, says her creaking body complains too much about airplane seats and all the security fuss.”
After the expressions of agreement faded, Judge McGee went on. “I called her and thanked her this morning. I asked if I had her permission to read her letter to all of you. At first, she didn’t want me to broadcast it, but then said I could so long as I also told you that Melvin never wanted any accolades, that he always said there’s more to do before any compliments rain down.”
Judge McGee pulled folded sheets out of his inner jacket pocket and placed reading glasses onto his nose. “Here then, from Naomi Romberg, are all the remarks needed,
Dear Judge McGee,
The recent past has fallen harder on me than anything in my eighty-seven years.
Deep in the night when I am the most morose about the last minutes of Melvin’s time with us, I imagine that his spirit speaks to me. He tells me to think of him in his times of laughter. Melvin laughed often right through our last visit this summer. When he was a toddler, I, the oldest sister, had to watch for him, chase him out of the street that ran in front of our brownstone. He’d look back and laugh at me trying to catch him.
As he grew into his boyhood, his mind and body raced one against the other, not to beat anyone else, but to see how much he could accomplish and how soon. He lettered nine times in high school—and graduated a year early as the valedictorian.
We were too poor to send him to an Ivy League school. So, he rode his bike to Brooklyn College. Then it was known as City College of New York. Graduated number one there too, though he said that was far easier than today. The law school at Yale University took him on a full scholarship. It must sound monotonous, but he graduated number one there too.
Had he wanted it, he might have obtained a clerkship on the Supreme Court. The second man in his law school class did get a clerkship there. But he and Madeline both took jobs down in Washington. We hoped he would stay around these parts and perhaps follow in the footsteps of Justice Brandeis.
After Madeline was gone, Melvin took off for your West Coast. He rode the Greyhound for three days and two nights. It was half the cost of train or airfare.
We often asked him to come back. He’d shake his head and explain that the work he found with you made him useful. He said he had a good perch in the Grand Central Station of life, down on the train platforms and in the grime of the tunnels where he could do some real good. I think he meant that his trial work affected people far more than decisions from higher courts. And after what happened to Madeline, that’s how he wanted to spend his time.
Melvin’s chambers displayed no photo of anyone who might have been Madeline. Perhaps he had decided now was the right time to rejoin his darling Madeline? No, no, I answered back to myself, that he would have done long ago and in a far different way.
Judge McGee stopped, pulled a second page from beneath the first and put the second on top. He took off his glasses and looked out. “Some of you may not know. Naomi allowed me to tell you that Madeline and our Judge Melvin were married for too short a time. Naomi said Madeline was taken from him in a most frightful way. That, perhaps more than anything, brought him to us and made him ask to be assigned our most serious criminal cases. It was not my place to probe, and that’s all Naomi said. And now she concludes her letter.
