Once We Were Brothers (41 page)

Ben looked dispirited. “That’s Otto. He could charm the sparkle off a diamond.”

Catherine was mesmerized. “He’s so self-assured. He’ll be magnificent in front of a jury.”

Carol, a warm smile on her face, lifted an 8 X 10 document from an end table.

“Oh, oh. Here it comes,” said Liam. “She’s going to show him the picture.”

“NBC has obtained a photograph of Otto Piatek, taken during the war, some sixty years ago.” Carol said, as she handed the copy to Elliot. NBC displayed the photo as a split-screen shot. Elliot stared for quite a while at the picture without talking and then returned it to her. He shrugged his shoulders. “It doesn’t mean anything to me,” he said.

“Well, look at this, Mr. Rosenzweig. We dug up a magazine picture of you from 1953.” The TV showed the pictures side-by-side. The facial features were practically identical. “You must admit, there’s a remarkable resemblance,” she said.

“Pause it, back it up,” said Liam. Catherine froze the picture and rewound it. She played it forward in slow motion.

“Look at Rosenzweig’s face. For just a second, he’s shocked! Then he recovers. He’s smooth.”

Catherine ran the short segment a few times and then resumed the playback. Elliot quickly regains his composure. “Well,” he says. “I suppose I can see why some misguided person could accuse me. On the basis of these photographs, the likeness is striking.” He volleys his gaze from one to the other. “I’ll grant you, a troubled man like Mr. Solomon, could jump to conclusions and confuse me with this Nazi, Piatek.”

Liam laughed. “Nice try, asshole. Why didn’t you make that connection when she showed you the picture for the first time instead of saying it didn’t mean anything?”

On the screen Elliot continued to shake his head in disbelief. “A picture,” he said. “All this over a picture. A facial likeness. Carol, all I can say to you is that physical similarities do not make me a Nazi. Nor do they make me Otto Piatek, whoever he is. I stand by a lifetime of accomplishments. I have given millions to Jewish charities, even though I no longer practice the faith.”

“We know that, Mr. Rosenzweig, and that you were voted Israel Bond man of the year in 1976. And we also know it will take more than a photographic likeness to prove you are Otto Piatek, the Butcher of Zamość.”

“Look!” Liam said. “He winced again.”

Elliot replied in a muffled voice, “The Butcher of Zamość? I’ve never heard that phrase. Now I’m a butcher? It’s not in the law suit.”

“No,” Carol said, “that comes from our research. It’s an epithet we uncovered when investigating Piatek through the Jewish Documentation Center in Vienna.”

Elliot was somber. “Simon Wiesenthal.”

“Correct.”

Again he took a breath and regained his composure. “Well, it’s not me and I’m not him. And I’ll prove it in court, if comes to that.”

With his head held high and his shoulders back, Elliot rose to shake the hand of Carol Mornay and the interview ended.

Ben sat quietly, staring deeply into the fireplace. The Nightly News went on to the next story. Catherine and Liam spoke, but Ben did not hear them. He was mumbling, conversing with his visions. “Even when face to face with indisputable truth, he credibly and convincingly denies it,” he mumbled.

“He doesn’t convince me,” Liam said.

Ben sadly shook his head. “Catherine may be right. He may be too powerful, too likeable to defeat in court.”

“Ben, it’s my job to bring out the truth,” Catherine said. “He won’t have an easy time with me.”

Ben looked up. “His wife,” he said softly.

“What?”

“Can you question Rosenzweig’s wife?” he said more alertly.

“Yes, I have the right to take her deposition, but why?”

“I think you should,” Ben said. “Take her deposition.”

“What’s on your mind, Ben? Why should she take it?” Liam said.

“I’m not sure why, but I know she should.”

Catherine tilted her head. “And why do you know this?”

“It’s just an idea that came into my head. An inspiration. You may discover something.”

Catherine sighed and walked to the window with her coffee to stare at the blowing snow. The brief December daylight had vanished and the streetlights had come on illuminating the falling snowflakes. The neighborhood holiday lights twinkled through the veil of the storm. But for Catherine, the impressionistic setting did little to evoke seasonal cheer. The massive task before her bent her spirit like the snow bent the tree boughs. “How was it I got all tangled up in this snare?” she asked herself aloud.

“It’s not a bad idea, Cat,” Liam said from the couch. “There were no other Rosenzweigs listed on the
Santa Adela
manifest. No Mrs. Rosenzweig. Other than Elliot, I didn’t find any Rosenzweigs who came through Ellis Island.”

Ben folded his arms and said, “There’s something else. We need to look at the numbers.”

“What numbers?” Catherine said.

Ben frowned. “I don’t know.”

“Another inspiration?”

Ben nodded. “Yes.”

She shook her head. “I’ve handed over my career to a man who receives litigation strategies from the ether – a paranormal paralegal. I’m the one that needs a psychiatric evaluation.”

She turned around to find Ben with a crestfallen expression. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” she said. “What numbers are you talking about?”

“I don’t know, Catherine. I just know that somehow numbers will be important in this case.”

“And you know this because…?”

“Because I know it, that’s all.” Ben stood up and walked to the windows. He stood face to face with Catherine. “Did you ever get an idea, a fabulous idea, and you thought, ‘How in the world did I ever think of that?’”

She nodded.

“At the time, weren’t you amazed that such a great idea just came to you out of the blue?”

“Okay. I guess everyone has.”

“Right, and how about inspirations. Do you think Mozart was inspired when he wrote a symphony at age six? Who put that music in his head? What about Jonas Salk and Thomas Edison and Frank Lloyd Wright? What about Shakespeare and Socrates? Who planted those incredible concepts in their minds? Where’d they come from? These people were inspired, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Okay, I agree.”

“Ideas came to them, like ideas come to all of us from time to time, but the difference is – they were receptive to their inspirations. They were better listeners. They took hold of them, embraced them and developed them.”

He put his hand on her shoulder. “Catherine, the word
inspiration
comes from Latin and means: to breathe into. I believe that inspirations are divine revelations. In some way, they come from beyond. The biblical prophets were inspired. Poets are inspired. I dare say that even lawyers, on occasion, are inspired. Ask any writer – they thrive on inspirations, like waiting for the next bus.”

Ben shrugged. “Like everyone else, ideas come to me. One of those ideas says, ‘Look at the numbers.’ It’s still not very clear to me what that’s all about. I’m sure it’s my fault, maybe I didn’t listen well enough, but I would like us to think about numbers and how they relate to this case.”

“Okay,” Catherine said, “we’ll think about numbers. In the meantime I have to respond to Jeffers’ discovery demands. I want you to give me the names and addresses of any witnesses that you can call.”

“Mort Titlebaum, an old friend of mine and Adele’s, might be a witness. He was in Auschwitz. Actually, he lived in a small Polish village and was sent to Zamość for resettlement. He saw Piatek in the square, but only once.”

“Really,” Catherine said. “Could you bring Mr. Titlebaum over? I’d like to talk to him.”

“He’s in Florida. I don’t think he’s planning on coming back here until June. But maybe I can talk him into coming up here next month. I’ll call.”

Chapter Forty-six

Winnetka, Illinois December 2004

The iron gate slid open and Jeffers drove slowly onto the grounds of the Rosenzweig estate. Heavy snows had blanketed the lawn and flocked the trees, creating a picturesque landscape in the days before Christmas. It was fit for a holiday card, minus the seasonal decorations of which Elliot would have no part.

Seated in the den, Jeffers set his folder of papers on the desktop.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me about Piatek’s picture,” Elliot sneered. “Mornay caught me totally by surprise.”

“I didn’t know about it.”

“That’s great. My hotshot lawyer can’t keep up with NBC.”

“I told you not to go on TV. The reporters can be murder.”

“The two pictures look identical, Gerry. Christ, he could be my twin brother. I could get convicted just because I used to look like some Nazi.”

“It’d take more than that. Other than that picture, they have no tangible evidence of any kind connecting you with Poland or the Nazis.”

“Other than that picture. Shit. Other than that nasty incident, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the play?”

“What I’m saying is, they don’t have any other evidence that puts you in Poland.”

“Well, what did you expect?” Elliot said. “I’ve never been to Poland.” Elliot paced furiously. “What other surprises am I going find?”

Jeffers shook his head. “In response to our requests, Lockhart has produced copies of your immigration papers from 1947, public records of the formation of your companies and a page from the 1948 telephone directory showing your address on Lake Shore Drive.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, there’s a bunch of newspaper photographs taken over the years: one from 1951, a few from the late fifties and a few photos from magazines. Same stuff. Nothing incriminating. Just photos of you with the mayor or your business partners.”

Elliot snorted. “Photographs.”

“They disclosed a witness, a Morton Titlebaum, who they say will testify to the physical description of Otto Piatek.”

“Never heard of him. Do they have any other pictures of Piatek?”

“They’ve disclosed no other pictures.”

“Damn that Mornay. Smiley little bitch stabbed me in the back.”

“I also received a notice to take your deposition and a subpoena to take the deposition of your wife.”

“Elisabeth?” Elliot jumped up and grabbed the subpoena. “What the hell do they want with her? She’s never had a part in my business. She rarely goes to public functions. She hates to be in the spotlight.” He quickly read it over. “Quash this thing. I don’t want my wife involved. You hear me, Gerry?”

“I’m not sure I can. They could argue that she has information leading to relevant evidence. After all, Elliot, you’ve established her as an officer of several multimillion-dollar corporations.”

“She knows nothing about those corporations. I made her the president so we could qualify as a minority owned business. And what does that have to do with accusations of war crimes?”

“Maybe nothing. Maybe they’re trying to trace money. I don’t know.”

Elliot threw the subpoena back at Jeffers. “This bastard is causing me no end of grief and now he wants to upset my wife. This is extortion, can’t you see it?” He circled around his desk making wild arm gestures. “I’m not even going to tell her about this. She’s in the middle of planning a wedding. You get this subpoena thrown out, do you hear me, Gerry?”

“I hear you. I’ll do what I can. They didn’t put me in charge of the court system yet. Meanwhile we’re scheduled to take Solomon’s deposition January 6th. I think you should be there to confront him.”

“Not interested. Besides, I thought you were going to Poland.”

“Not personally. I’m sending Dennis the second week of January to examine the official county records. He’s verifying that there are no records pertaining to you in Warsaw or Zamość. He’ll also look for any records regarding Otto Piatek. If we find some, we can use them to prove that you’re two different people.”

“Is Lockhart going too?”

“No. She’s sending her investigator, Liam Taggart.”

Rosenzweig slammed his fist on his desk. “I want this case over, Gerry, and I want it over now!”

“It’ll be over by April, that’s for sure.”

“It’s not soon enough.”

Chapter Forty-seven

Chicago, Illinois December 2004

Early Christmas Eve, as though on director’s cue, large snowflakes began to drift down, lightly at first and then much heavier. With the temperature hovering around the freezing mark, the thick snowflakes had formed more slowly and smoothly, with long fat dendrites, and soon the city shimmered under a fresh white frosting. Liam arrived at Catherine’s shortly after eight.

“Mmmm. What smells so good?” he said, removing his shoes in her foyer.

“That, my good man, is rack of lamb,” she answered from the kitchen.

Liam stepped out of the hallway and took in the scene. The dining room table was set for two, with fresh flowers, votive candles and a decanted bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Catherine’s Christmas tree twinkled in the corner of her living room. Aperitifs were set on a folding table by the tree.