Bearing Witness (14 page)

Chapter Thirteen

As expected, the bombing runs began Monday morning. There was an irate letter from Kimberly Howard emerging from my fax machine as I walked into the office. Twenty minutes later, while I was sipping my first cup of coffee and skimming through Kimberly's angry demands—
and immediate production of all previously undisclosed documents shown to Mr. Beckman at his deposition, including but not limited to
—a Roth & Bowles messenger arrived with a stack of five motions to quash, one filed in each jurisdiction where I'd served a subpoena. By noon, two more packages arrived by messenger delivery; they included a set of interrogatories, a set of requests for production of documents, a set of requests for admission, and a motion to shorten the time to respond to each.

I didn't study any of them carefully. When you're outnumbered the way I was outnumbered, there's no sense trying to match the other side's firepower. Roth & Bowles, like most large firms, had a massive but lumbering war machine. They fought litigation battles the way the redcoats fought the colonists, and the only way to resist was the way the colonists had. The Memphis maneuver had been a classic example: get in and out quietly before the B-52s start darkening the skies overhead.

Moreover, I had the sense that Kimberly was starting to overplay her hand. While Catherine Wagner was surely no friend of mine, she was nevertheless a U.S. district judge, and U.S. district judges are never eager to resolve discovery squabbles among lawyers. Jacki had checked with Judge Wagner's docket clerk last Friday, as she does every Friday, and learned that Her Honor was starting a two-week criminal docket this morning that included a carjacking case with two defendants and a kidnapping case where the U.S. Attorney was asking for the death penalty under the new federal statute. According to the docket clerk, neither criminal case was likely to end in a plea. That meant that Judge Wagner was going to have plenty of other things on her mind for the next two weeks. As a result, there was a good chance that Kimberly's latest motions and demands would sink without a trace into the court files.

Benny called at 2:10 p.m. from the law school, where he'd just finished teaching his civil procedure class. “I did some poking around in the library this morning,” he told me. “Dug up some interesting shit on San Carlos de Bariloche. When's your self-defense class?”

“Six, and then I'm having dinner at my mom's house.”

“How 'bout I drop by around five? It won't take long.”

“Perfect.”

“It's a resort town.”

***

“A resort town?” I sat back in my chair, surprised. “Where?”

“In the Andes Mountains,” Benny said. “On the western border of Argentina, near Chile, about eight hundred fifty miles southwest of Buenos Aires. It's supposed to be a real a picturesque postcard spot: gingerbread houses, fondue shops, chalet-style hotels, pine forests. Surrounded by jagged, snowcapped mountain peaks. The town overlooks a huge clear lake.”

“Lago Nahuel Huapí?” I said, recalling the documents we'd looked at in Memphis.

“Yep.”

“San Carlos de Bariloche,” I mused. “I've never heard of it.”

“Apparently it's an Argentine version of Aspen—a ski resort for international jet-setters during the winter, a fishing and hiking mecca during the summer. Chalet-type buildings, surrounded by mountains.” He paused and reached into his briefcase. “Here,” he said, handing me a sheet of paper. “I copied this from the
Encyclopaedia Britannica
.”

I took the sheet from him and read the two-paragraph entry. About the only item of real interest was: “The picturesque scenery of the area, designated as a national park (1934), inspired the setting for Walt Disney's film
Bambi
.”

I looked up at him curiously. “Strange.”

“What?”

“I showed the stuff on the Eagle/Beckman joint venture in Bariloche to Ronald Milton along with the stuff on the other Eagle joint venture down there.”

Ronald Milton—formerly the chief financial officer of a large construction company, now a professor at one of the local business schools—was one of the expert witnesses I'd retained for the lawsuit. If, as I'd alleged, the bid-rigging conspiracy had inflated the price of the government contracts, I needed an authority to analyze the bids and offer expert opinions on various pricing issues.

“What did he say?” Benny asked.

I frowned. “He can't figure it out. He says it looks like they did the work down there at below cost—both Beckman's joint venture and the other one.” I shook my head. “It doesn't make sense.”

Benny thought it over. “It's a resort town, right? Maybe they got to spend some extra time down there for free.”

I gave him a skeptical look. “Since when do contractors do work in resort areas below cost? If anything, they'd tack on a premium.”

Benny rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Kickbacks?”

“Possibly.” I sighed and shook my head. “There are still too many loose ends.”

“So you'll tie them up.”

“When?” I said, discouraged. “I'm running out of time, Benny. The trial is barely a month away. You should see the pile of motions they filed today.” I rolled my eyes and groaned. “I know exactly what they're up to. They're going to turn this thing into a seven-ring circus to make sure I don't have enough time to prepare the case.”

“So,” he said, leaning forward and lowering his voice, “fuck 'em.”

“Yeah, right,” I said in frustration.

“I mean it, Rachel. Fuck 'em and fuck the horses they rode in on and all seven rings of their asinine circus.” He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “January is a slow month at the law school. I can help get this case ready. We can handle these Roth and Bowles turkeys. Don't forget, Rachel, we were weaned at Abbott and Windsor. We went through basic training in the seventh level of hell. And now we're supposed to be intimidated by a bunch of pencil-neck geeks from a St. Louis law firm? A
St. Louis
firm? Excuse me? You know what I say, woman?”

I couldn't help but smile. “No, Benny. What do you say?”

“I say we put on the old war paint, cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war, eh?” He gave me the thumbs-up sign. “How's that sound, partner?”

I nodded wearily. “Okay, partner.”

“Goddamn,” he said, he eyes blazing, his fists clenched. “I feel like Henry at Agincourt. Bring on St. Crispin's Day, eh? I'm pumped, woman! We're gonna kick some butt.”

Fifteen minutes later, I left the office for my self-defense class. It was snowing lightly. As I headed toward the front walk for the car, a local courier service car pulled up to the curb.

“Miss Gold,” the young messenger called as he got out of the car. He held up a sealed manila envelope. “This is from Dr. Geissler. He wanted you to have it right away.”

I thanked him and took the envelope. Hubert Geissler was a professor of German languages at St. Louis University. I'd retained him to translate Max Kruppa's 1939 letter to Conrad Beckman. This must be the translation. I slipped it into my briefcase as I headed toward my car. I was running late to my self-defense class. I could read it later.

***

I looked up at her in wonder. “This is awesome, Mom.”

She put another forkful in her mouth and chewed seriously. “Halfway decent,” she finally said with a shrug.

“What do you call it?”

“Red bean stew with ancho chili salsa.”

I smiled in admiration as I scooped another forkful. “You're incredible, Mom, but you better be careful.”

“What?”

“When the word gets out you're cooking up meals like red bean stew with ancho chili salsa and that unbelievable risotto last month—what did you call it?”

“Risotto with purple and white rices and julienne mushrooms.”

“Right. When word leaks out, they're going to drum you right out of the Hadassah.”

“Hey,” she said in mock outrage, pointing her finger toward heaven for emphasis. “For which of my two daughters did I cook that cholent two weeks ago?” She paused and gave me a wink. “Now tell me about Ruth's lawsuit.”

“That reminds me,” I said, standing up. “I have something.”

I went out to the front hall, got my briefcase, and brought it back in. “Remember that German letter I told you about? I just got the English translation.”

I pulled out the sealed envelope and tore it open. I skimmed at the cover letter from Dr. Geissler as I handed the translation to her. I came around to read it over her shoulder:

4 October 1939

Conrad Beckman
1923 Pond Avenue
St. Louis, Missouri

My Dear Conrad:

I know that these have been gloomy days in St. Louis, especially with the departures of Kessler and Metting over the summer. As you know, we have suffered here as well.

But my hopes are climbing again! Yes, after those dismal days of summer, when dark forces were choking our dreams, a new era is dawning at last!

I speak of my unforgettable evening with Wilhelm Kunze. I first met the gentleman two summers ago in Philadelphia, when he was chief of their group. But last night I was so aroused by his speech that I walked the city streets until three in the morning with his words ringing in my head:

“Jewish Reds and their Gentile stooges even have their own organization: the American Civil Liberties Union, whose Jewish lawyers get Communists out of jail whenever patriots try to convict them. And never ignore the Negroes. I tell you that the Jewish Reds plan to use these loathsome beasts as the shock troops of the revolution.

“But the day of reckoning will soon be here. The Jews are grabbing control of everything they can lay their sticky hands on. When that happened in Germany, the people finally rose up in resentment, and that great day will come here as well. It is inevitable. And when it arrives we must be prepared to fight for the right kind of government. We must win the masses, the good people to our side. When we get through with the Jews in America, they will think the treatment they received in Germany was nothing. Judaistic gore will soon flow in the streets of Memphis.”

When Kunze finished, we jumped to our feet, cheered and applauded for twenty minutes. Kunze later told me that he will be in St. Louis on 12 October to speak at your Liederkranz Club. You must go hear him, Conrad. While no one can ever replace Kuhn in my heart, I assure you that Mr. Kunze is a man of noble vision. I implore you, Conrad: Go hear the man. Your soul will be invigorated.

Yours faithfully,
Max Kruppa

“My God,” my mother whispered.

I walked back to my chair and took a seat facing her across the table, my thoughts roiling.

She was studying the text. “How old was Beckman in 1939?”

“Twenty,” I said. “He was a plumber's apprentice and worked for his uncle Max. Beckman's Plumbing. When his uncle died in 1944, he took over the business and changed the name to Beckman Engineering.”

She gave me a determined look. “I have time tomorrow. I'm going to the library.” She gestured toward the translation. “I want to look some things up.” She frowned at the text. “Kuhn,” she mumbled.

“Do you know who that could be?”

She stared at me. “I know one Kuhn. Fritz Kuhn.”

“Who was he?”

Her eyes narrowed. “He used to work at the Ford Motor Company. Before World War II he was the head of an organization known as Friends of the New Germany.”

“I never heard of them.”

She nodded. “They changed their name in 1936.”

“To what?”

“To the German-American Bund.”

“Oh,” I said quietly.

My mother knew about these things. Although she was too young to have any memories of American Nazi activities back then, she had good reason to learn about them: most of her family had perished in the Holocaust. She'd read widely on the subject and on anti-Semitism. For the past two years she'd served as a docent at the St. Louis Holocaust Museum and Learning Center, where she gave tours to visiting school groups.

I reached for the translation of Kruppa's letter and examined it again. “You think that's the Kuhn he's referring to?”

“Maybe.” My mother tugged at her ear solemnly. “That's why I want to go to the library.”

“There were four more letters in German,” I said, pensively.

“To Beckman?”

I shook my head. “To others. One is to Otto Koll. He's the founder of one of the other companies.”

“You need to get them translated.”

I nodded. “I know.”

***

It had stopped snowing by the time I reached home. I took Ozzie for a long walk in the fresh snow as I mulled over the Kruppa letter. While a youthful flirtation with Nazism was not necessarily ruinous—after all, history was filled with great figures who'd overcome ugly episodes in their youth—it was still an enormously embarrassing document for Conrad Beckman. Its disclosure could inflict far more damage to his standing in the community than an allegation that his company had been involved in an illegal bid-rigging scheme. Kruppa's letter, after all, was personal, and Conrad Beckman had reached a stage in his life where his personal reputation was his most treasured asset. He had also reached a stage in his life where he knew that the years remaining might not be sufficient to erase such a blemish. All of which suggested an alternative explanation for Stanley Roth's sudden settlement offer.

Then again, I cautioned myself, the document in question was a 1939 letter written by someone else. It was not Conrad Beckman who had been so aroused by denunciations of Jews and promises of “Judaistic gore” that he walked the city streets “until three in the morning” with those inspirational words ringing in his head—an important distinction, since it meant that Beckman could have an innocent explanation, namely, that Kruppa's letter was merely an unsuccessful attempt to recruit Beckman. It was certainly an explanation that Max Kruppa—now dead—could not refute. Moreover, I conceded, it was an explanation that just might have the additional virtue of being true.