Someday the Rabbi Will Leave Page 14

  “Was he able to get a lawyer?” asked the rabbi.

  “Strangely enough, he did.”

  “What’s strange about it?”

  “Well, lawyers usually ask for their money up front before they take on a criminal case. Of course, a lawyer who had done work for the family would probably take it on, but these people are new in town, and the boy didn’t know of anyone local. Then he remembered that Jack Scofield had visited a house where they were guests when he was campaigning, so he called him and, to my surprise, Scofield agreed. Very decent of him, I thought. Whether he continues with him, is something else again.”

  “Why shouldn’t he continue with him?”

  “Well, Scofield didn’t say anything to me, of course, but from the expression on his face, after he’d spoken to the boy, I got the impression that he wasn’t too pleased. Maybe the kid tried to stonewall it, which could make it hard for his lawyer. See, in a case like this, the normal strategy is to admit the facts, giving them the best color you can—that the victim jumped out of the woods, or that you sounded your horn and he jumped the wrong way. Hell, the victim isn’t around to deny it. As for running, he could say he panicked, or that he had gone home intending to call the police and then had blacked out. Almost anything. But if the boy keeps insisting that he never left the house, what can Scofield do for him?”

  “So what is likely to happen to him?” asked the rabbi.

  “You mean eventually?”

  “No, I mean what is the procedure? I presume he’ll be arraigned.”

  “That’s right. Monday morning. We’ll ask that he be held since it’s a homicide, or at least we’ll ask for high bail. Chances are though that the judge will release him on his own recognizance, since he’s at school and not likely to run away. That’s the tendency nowadays. When you come right down to it, bail never bothered the rich, only the poor.”

  “I’d like to see him,” said the rabbi urgently, as though he expected to meet with opposition from the chief.

  But Lanigan acquiesced at once. “Sure. Maybe you can talk some sense into him. Let me know how you make out.”

  30

  “I am Rabbi Small, a neighbor of yours.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen you around.”

  “Your parents called me late Friday night when they were unable to reach you earlier.”

  “And you told them I’d been arrested.” His tone, while not actually hostile, indicated that he felt that in the normal confrontation of the generations, parents and children, the rabbi was obviously on the side of the former.

  The rabbi sensed the young man’s attitude, but made no effort to mitigate it. “No-o, I didn’t know at the time. I would have, of course, if I had known. They have a right to know. But I learned of your arrest only this morning when I saw the item in the newspaper.”

  “So you came down to—”

  “To help in any way I can and to find out just what happened in case your parents decide to call me again. Do you care to tell me what happened?”

  “So you can tell it to the police?”

  The rabbi pursed his lips as he considered how to answer. “This is not a confessional and I am not a Catholic priest. If you told me you had committed a crime, I would certainly report it to the police. But since they feel that they have absolute proof that you did anyway, I don’t see where it would make much difference. I would like to know what happened for my own interest and for your parents in the event they call me again. I’d want to put the best face possible on it.”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “All right. Then what did you do after your folks left?”

  “My folks left early Wednesday morning around eight o’clock. I left for school a little after, about twenty minutes. I had classes most of the day and my last class was at three. I set out for Barnard’s Crossing a little after four. I parked on Glen Lane the way I always do. There’s a little incline there, like a sand and gravel pile that they may have used on the road, and if my battery acts up, as it does sometimes when it rains, I can get started by letting her roll down. My mother had left dinner for me and all I had to do was take it out of the fridge and heat it up. Then I washed the dishes and hit the books. I had a quiz the next day, and there was a lot of reading to do. I went to bed around eleven. The next morning we started out for school—”

  “We?”

  The young man looked nonplussed. “We?” he repeated.

  “You said ‘we,’” the rabbi pointed out.

  “Oh, I meant me and the jalopy.”

  “Oh.” The rabbi nodded to show he understood. “And you didn’t notice that your headlight was broken?”

  “Do you check the front of your car, Rabbi, before you get behind the wheel?” the young man shot back.

  “I suppose not.”

  “Anyway, I took my exam, went to my other classes, and then headed for home around four. When I came to Barnard’s Crossing, I noticed that I was low and I stopped for gas. It was while they were filling me up that one of the guys at the gas station noticed my headlight and I had him put in a new one. Then the next day a couple of cops came around and pulled me in. And that’s what happened from the time my folks went off on their trip.”

  “You were at home on Wednesday from the time you came home from school? From about five o’clock on?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then how do you account for the fact that glass from your headlight was found in Glen Lane?”

  “How do I know it was from my headlight?” Paul countered.

  “The police matched it up with the glass that was taken from your car at the gas station.”

  “How do I know it was my glass they got from the gas station? It could have been from another car.”

  “As I understand it, yours was the only sealed beam they replaced in the last few days.”

  “All right. How do I know it matches? You ever study anthropology, Rabbi?”

  The rabbi shook his head, wondering at the sudden change in subject.

  “Well, I took Anthro One last year. Somebody finds a tooth and a couple of yards away he finds a fragment of a jawbone. He fits the tooth into a hole in the jawbone. It doesn’t fit well, you understand, not like a dentist would fit a tooth into a plate. It just goes in. And voilà, he then goes on to prove that the guy was five feet tall, walked upright, and was a hunter who lived on meat. They can draw you a picture of him and give you his whole life’s history. Ever hear of Piltdown Man? Some joker planted the top of the head of a modern man together with the jaw of an ape. Or the other way around, I don’t remember. And all these big-shot scientists studied it and made up all kinds of theories about it. Then, fifty years later—fifty years!—they discovered that it was a fake.”

  “And you think something of this sort might have happened in your case and that the police are trying to frame you? Why would they?”

  “Oh, I’m not saying that they’ve got anything against me personally, although we are like new in town, and folks here regard you as a foreigner if you weren’t actually born here. But I can see where the police might want to clear up a case and find it convenient to make things fit.”

  “Did you voice these objections to Chief Lanigan?”

  “I thought the less talking I did, the better. Not without a lawyer present anyway.”

  “He’s not stupid,” said the rabbi when he met with Chief Lanigan. “He’d have to be exceedingly stupid to deny that his car was involved in the accident on Glen Lane in the face of the evidence you have.”

  “The fact is, David, when someone commits a crime and is caught, he’s frequently exceedingly stupid in trying to explain it away, even though he may seem pretty smart in other matters.”

  “I’m afraid you’re missing my point,” the rabbi persisted. “If he merely wanted to disclaim responsibility for the hit-and-run, he could make out a good case to the effect that he didn’t know about it. And he could make out a good case, because he parked his car right there at the end
of Glen Lane, where anyone could spot it, instead of in the garage. Furthermore, he did not replace the broken headlight until the following afternoon. And even then, he replaced it at a local service station when he could easily have bought a sealed beam at someplace like Sears in Boston where he would not have been either noticed or remembered.”

  “Well, sure, but—”

  “Now instead of that, he denies having been on Glen Lane at all, and insists he was at home the whole time.”

  “Then how does he explain the fact that the glass from his headlight matches up with the glass found at the scene?”

  The rabbi smiled. “He denies it. He questions whether it does match.”

  “Believe me, it does.”

  “He thinks the police are picking on him because he’s a newcomer.”

  “That we framed him? Do you believe that, David?”

  “Of course not.”

  “But you think he’s telling the truth nevertheless. Okay, can you explain how he can be telling the truth in the face of the evidence we have?”

  “Somebody else may have used his car while he was at home.”

  The chief shook his head vigorously. “No chance of that. He said his car was locked up and he had one of those gadgets on the steering wheel. A thief could have broken it, I suppose, but then he could not have fixed it again afterwards.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of a thief,” said the rabbi. “But suppose someone had taken it with his permission, and that person was the driver when the hit-and-run occurred.”

  “Then why wouldn’t he say so?”

  The rabbi shrugged. “Mistaken loyalty, perhaps.” He thought for a moment. “Or chivalry. It might have been a girl.”

  “You have any reason for thinking it might have been someone else, other than Paul Kramer could not have been so stupid?”

  The rabbi hesitated. “No really good reason, except for what may have been a slip of the tongue on his part. When he was telling me what he had done the last few days, he said he had stayed home all Wednesday evening to study for an exam that he was scheduled to take the next morning. Then he said, ‘The next day, we went to school.’ When I asked him about the ‘we,’ he said he was referring to himself and the car.”

  “Could be. These kids think of their jalopies the way cowboys, at least movie cowboys, thought of their horses.”

  “Yes, but later he said, ‘On the way home, I stopped for gas.” It seems to me that if he was accustomed to referring to himself and the car as ‘we,’ he would have been even more likely to use the plural when talking about getting gas.”

  Lanigan grinned. “I get your point, David. But it’s mighty slim. What would you want me to do?”

  The rabbi was troubled. “I don’t know, except perhaps to keep an open mind and see if you can’t check the possibility of his having had someone else with him Wednesday night.”

  Lanigan shook his head slowly. “I don’t have the force for that kind of investigation. I can’t just assign men to chase down every little possibility that might come to mind. If there is something of the sort involved, then it’s up to him, because right now we’ve got him dead to rights.”

  31

  Howard Magnuson had returned any favors done him by Morris Halperin by throwing several bits of law business his way. “And remember,” Magnuson had said, “you don’t do yourself any good by charging the kind of fees you get locally. It’s a Boston branch of a national company and they expect to pay adequately for services rendered.” The connection was lucrative, and Halperin took pains to maintain it. Anytime Magnuson wanted to consult him, Halperin was available.

  It was only natural for Magnuson, therefore, to confer with him before approaching Rabbi Small about Laura’s wedding plans. Although the Halperins had planned to go to the movies, Morris had assured him, “No, I’m free this evening. I can come over anytime.” Nor did he have to explain or apologize to his wife. She, too, was well aware of the importance of maintaining the Magnuson connection for its financial as well as social benefits. It was worth missing a movie if she could say to some friend who might phone, “We were planning to go to a movie, but Howard Magnuson—he’s a client of Morrie’s, you know—wanted to see him on some urgent matter that couldn’t wait. And you know how Morris is about his clients. They come first.”

  Magnuson, although well aware that Halperin had reason to be grateful to him, always made a point of acting as if the lawyer were doing him a great favor by coming over. He greeted him effusively. “Come in, come in. Good to see you. I took a chance that you might just happen to be free.”

  “I was, Howard. Only too happy to come.”

  “I wanted to consult you—no, I’m putting it badly. This isn’t a legal matter. And it’s not really a temple matter either. And yet it is. But it’s largely personal. I’d like your thinking on the subject, if you see what I mean.”

  “You’d just like to talk about it.”

  “That’s it. That’s it exactly. You see, my daughter, Laura, is planning to get married.”

  “Oh, congratulations. Mazel tov.”

  “Er—yes, well, thank you. But there’s a problem. The young man is not Jewish—”

  “Ah, and he wants to convert?”

  “No. That is, I don’t think so. In fact, I’m quite sure he doesn’t. I haven’t spoken to him about it, but I gather from Laura that it’s out of the question. She considers it bad politics. Did I say that he was in politics? Well, he is. There’s no point in being secretive about it. It’s John Scofield who just won the Republican primary for state senator. Laura thinks that the young man has a fine future in politics, and …” He looked at his guest questioningly.

  Halperin nodded. “Yes, I know John slightly. And of course I know that your daughter worked very hard for him. It’s harder for a Jew to get places in politics, at least in this part of the country. Maybe in New York, or in Florida, but not in Massachusetts. I can see where your daughter might think that if he converted it might hurt him politically. I suppose you would be violently opposed to her converting.”

  “She is. Naturally, I am too, but Laura is quite adamant about it.”

  “So, obviously it has to be a civil wedding.”

  “Well, that’s just the point. Laura insists on being married by a rabbi. It isn’t religion,” he added as Halperin raised his eyebrows. “It’s a promise she made to her grandmother, my mother-in-law, who established quite a liberal trust fund for her.”

  Halperin leaned forward in his chair. This was law business. “And the fund was contingent on her being married to a Jew?”

  “No, not exactly. Laura was, let’s see, about sixteen at the time. There was a wedding—my wife’s cousin—that we all went to. She married a non-Jew, a fine man, and it’s a good marriage. They have three children. The ceremony was performed by a minister, but it was really nonsectarian. I mean, there was no mention of Jesus, or anything like that, and it wasn’t done in a church. It took place in the girl’s house, in the garden actually. But my mother-in-law was quite upset. I gather that she spoke to Laura and made her promise that when she got married, it would be by a rabbi. Laura agreed. She was very fond of her grandmother Beck. Then her grandmother told her that she was setting up a trust fund for her that she could draw on when she was twenty-one.”

  “It was contingent on her being married by a rabbi?”

  “Perhaps not legally, but Laura felt that she was morally obligated from the time she began to draw on the fund, five or six years ago.”

  “I see. Well, I don’t know how much of it your daughter has drawn, but I don’t suppose you’d have difficulty replacing the money.”

  “No, it wouldn’t do. Laura is determined.”

  “I see. Well, there are some Reform rabbis who do occasionally consent to participate with a minister or a priest in what you might call an ecumenical wedding. Offhand, I don’t know of any Conservative rabbis who have. And certainly no Orthodox rabbis.”

  “And Rabbi Small is
of course Conservative,” said Magnuson.

  “With leanings towards Orthodoxy,” Halperin added.

  “It wouldn’t have to be done in the temple, you know.”

  Halperin shook his head. “It wouldn’t make any difference to Rabbi Small. I’m sure he wouldn’t agree.”

  “But dammit, this kind of thing must come up every now and then.”

  “Of course. These days it’s more common than not. My own nephew—”

  “Married a Gentile?”

  “Uh-huh. They had a civil wedding, so there was no problem. But my folks were pretty upset. Then there was Ben Joseph’s niece, and Marty Slobodkin’s sister, and Ira Lamport’s brother and—you know something? I’ll bet there isn’t a single member of the board whose family doesn’t have an intermarriage—a brother, a sister, a nephew, a niece, a cousin. I’ve heard that it’s one in every two marriages.”

  “And what did they all do?”

  “Different things. In some cases the Gentile gets converted. Sometimes it’s the Jew who does. Or maybe it doesn’t constitute an actual conversion, but some of them get married in a church by a minister or a priest. I understand the Catholics have eased up a little. They used to require a written agreement that the children would be brought up Catholic. I don’t think they do now, at least not a written agreement. Most of the time, I guess, they have a civil marriage. There’s a rabbi up in New Hampshire, I think, that makes quite a thing out of the intermarriage business. He goes all over New England, I’ve heard.”

  “I might want to contact him,” Magnuson mused.

  “I can get his name and address easily enough.”

  “Good. But of course I’ll have to speak to Rabbi Small out of common courtesy.”