Read Online The Mourning Sexton by Michael Baron - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Baron
Tags: Fiction
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accounts, the judge thought highly of her.”
“So I understand.”
“And that, my good man, is the wild card here. My client can safely assume that Judge McCormick has at least a passing interest in your lawsuit. I should think His Honor would be pleased if your case reached a swift and satisfactory conclusion, and if he is pleased, then perhaps some of that good karma will spill over to other cases involving my client. Conversely, if your case becomes difficult and unpleasant, which it most certainly will if we do not settle early on, then who knows what else that unpleasantness might befoul? But I must emphasize, David, that the settlement window is narrowing even as we speak.”
“Why?”
“Because every dollar I spend on defense is a dollar less I can spend on settlement. I have five lawyers and two paralegals assigned to this case. Think of them as my pack of Dobermans growling and clawing at their cage doors. At some point soon, I will have no choice but to unlock those cages. When that happens, the settlement window slams shut. Quite simply, David, if you would like to settle your case, now is the time. Ah, here's Julian, hopefully bringing us news of today's dessert offerings.”
The elderly black man smiled down at them. “Yes, sir, Mr. Guttner.”
“Has Maurice made my favorite today?”
“Chocolate cheesecake? He certainly has, sir.”
“Ah,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Superb, Julian. Superb.”
CHAPTER 7
A be Shifrin stood in the doorway, a dab of brown mustard on his chin. From somewhere inside the house came the sounds of the evening news. He studied Hirsch with a frown.
“Hirsch?” he repeated.
“I'm the attorney who filed the case over your daughter's death. I called you this afternoon to see if I could drop by after work.”
The frown changed to an embarrassed grin. “Oh, of course. Come in, Mr. Hirsch.
Oy,
this brain of mine. Come in from the cold.”
Shifrin's home was a redbrick two-bedroom bungalow with a small living room to the right of the front door and a smaller dining room to the left. The living room looked old and tired—the couch sagging in the middle, the fabric frayed, the blond coffee table and end tables scarred by water rings and cigarette burns, the lampshades faded to a yellowish gray.
Hirsch followed Shifrin toward the little kitchen, moving around a dining room table strewn with newspapers and unopened junk mail and magazines still in shrink-wrap. The kitchen sink was piled with dirty dishes, pans, and silverware. So was the countertop. A faint odor of rotting food filled the room.
“Excuse the mess,” Shifrin said, waving his hand vaguely. “The
schvartza
comes tomorrow.”
On the small kitchen table was a chipped dinner plate with a half-eaten salami on rye and a handful of potato chips. Near the plate sat an open jar of pickle spears and a large plastic cup with a red Wal-Mart logo. The cup was half filled with dark soda, presumably from the plastic liter bottle of store-brand diet cola on the kitchen counter. The noise came from a portable black-and-white television that sat on a TV tray facing the table. The little television had a bent shirt hanger for an antenna. Hirsch recognized one of the local sports reporters on the fuzzy screen.
Shifrin turned off the TV and turned to Hirsch. “Can I fix you something to eat, sir?”
“No, thanks.”
He gestured toward the other kitchen chair as he took his seat. “Make yourself comfortable. If you don't mind, I'll finish my dinner while we talk.”
Shifrin listened intently as Hirsch gave him a status report, which ended with yesterday's lunch meeting with Marvin Guttner. When Hirsch finished, Shifrin grunted and reached for a toothpick.
“So they want us to think about a settlement?”
“They do.”
Shifrin pointed the toothpick at Hirsch. “But only if the settlement is for less than their defense costs. I've heard that one before.” He paused to pick at his side teeth with the
“So I understand.”
“And that, my good man, is the wild card here. My client can safely assume that Judge McCormick has at least a passing interest in your lawsuit. I should think His Honor would be pleased if your case reached a swift and satisfactory conclusion, and if he is pleased, then perhaps some of that good karma will spill over to other cases involving my client. Conversely, if your case becomes difficult and unpleasant, which it most certainly will if we do not settle early on, then who knows what else that unpleasantness might befoul? But I must emphasize, David, that the settlement window is narrowing even as we speak.”
“Why?”
“Because every dollar I spend on defense is a dollar less I can spend on settlement. I have five lawyers and two paralegals assigned to this case. Think of them as my pack of Dobermans growling and clawing at their cage doors. At some point soon, I will have no choice but to unlock those cages. When that happens, the settlement window slams shut. Quite simply, David, if you would like to settle your case, now is the time. Ah, here's Julian, hopefully bringing us news of today's dessert offerings.”
The elderly black man smiled down at them. “Yes, sir, Mr. Guttner.”
“Has Maurice made my favorite today?”
“Chocolate cheesecake? He certainly has, sir.”
“Ah,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Superb, Julian. Superb.”
CHAPTER 7
A be Shifrin stood in the doorway, a dab of brown mustard on his chin. From somewhere inside the house came the sounds of the evening news. He studied Hirsch with a frown.
“Hirsch?” he repeated.
“I'm the attorney who filed the case over your daughter's death. I called you this afternoon to see if I could drop by after work.”
The frown changed to an embarrassed grin. “Oh, of course. Come in, Mr. Hirsch.
Oy,
this brain of mine. Come in from the cold.”
Shifrin's home was a redbrick two-bedroom bungalow with a small living room to the right of the front door and a smaller dining room to the left. The living room looked old and tired—the couch sagging in the middle, the fabric frayed, the blond coffee table and end tables scarred by water rings and cigarette burns, the lampshades faded to a yellowish gray.
Hirsch followed Shifrin toward the little kitchen, moving around a dining room table strewn with newspapers and unopened junk mail and magazines still in shrink-wrap. The kitchen sink was piled with dirty dishes, pans, and silverware. So was the countertop. A faint odor of rotting food filled the room.
“Excuse the mess,” Shifrin said, waving his hand vaguely. “The
schvartza
comes tomorrow.”
On the small kitchen table was a chipped dinner plate with a half-eaten salami on rye and a handful of potato chips. Near the plate sat an open jar of pickle spears and a large plastic cup with a red Wal-Mart logo. The cup was half filled with dark soda, presumably from the plastic liter bottle of store-brand diet cola on the kitchen counter. The noise came from a portable black-and-white television that sat on a TV tray facing the table. The little television had a bent shirt hanger for an antenna. Hirsch recognized one of the local sports reporters on the fuzzy screen.
Shifrin turned off the TV and turned to Hirsch. “Can I fix you something to eat, sir?”
“No, thanks.”
He gestured toward the other kitchen chair as he took his seat. “Make yourself comfortable. If you don't mind, I'll finish my dinner while we talk.”
Shifrin listened intently as Hirsch gave him a status report, which ended with yesterday's lunch meeting with Marvin Guttner. When Hirsch finished, Shifrin grunted and reached for a toothpick.
“So they want us to think about a settlement?”
“They do.”
Shifrin pointed the toothpick at Hirsch. “But only if the settlement is for less than their defense costs. I've heard that one before.” He paused to pick at his side teeth with the
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