Rabbi Gabrielle's Scandal: The Rabbi Gabrielle Series - Book 1 Page 3

  “Tell me about it, but in this case it might be a benefit,” Tally responded. “There are thousands of women who get raped every week and nobody seems to care.”

  “I see your point,” Junqueira said, “but let’s not put the cart before the horse. Before we initiate a new crusade against rapists, we must ascertain if there’s sufficient evidence for the state to prosecute your complaint. After we’ve made our preliminary report, the District Attorney will decide if there’s a reasonable chance of conviction. If he does, we’ll take this before a grand jury for an indictment. Your attorney must have told you that no matter what our determination on the criminal action, you’re free to pursue a civil case.”

  Tally’s eyes narrowed and her thin, sculptured lips curled. “Are you suggesting the State of Maryland has doubts I was raped?”

  “Absolutely not,” Hines answered in his Chicago twang. He was partially balding and easily thirty pounds overweight, with heavy jowls covering a portion of his frayed collar. During the train ride to New York, his necktie had slipped from his throat and the collar button had snapped open. Both remained in that position. “There’s no reason to doubt what you told the police in Easton, Maryland. But circumstances leading up to and during the crime might give a jury pause for thought. Sylvia and I been in the criminal trade a long time. We’ve seen many battered and raped women. If we go to court, we expect to win. And the bastards we prosecute end up in the slammer, not in a white-collar detention facility with daily maid-service, gymnasium privileges, tennis courts, and the services of a Manhattan chef who just happened to get caught with his fingers in his restaurant’s cash register. The law says we’ll have to prove our case and for that we’ll need your help. The details you gave the Easton police are excellent, but we don’t have a clear context for the crime. If we don’t get the background right, Noah Zentner’s defense will munch on our entrails for lunch.”

  Junqueira withdrew from a scuffed attaché case a thick document held together by a spring-back metal paperclip. “Here’s what we’ve drafted about the rape, giving special attention to details leading up to the crime. We’d like you to verify the accuracy and add anything you’ve remembered in the meantime. They say the Devil’s in the details and, Ms. Waller, I can assure you He is. The side that doesn’t master them loses. It’s that simple.”

  Tally scanned the papers, reading only a word or two from each paragraph. She had no intention of doing more for the moment. Her backside eased into the dressing chair and a shoe she had worn all day slipped from her foot to the floor. Her toes took a position on an open lower drawer. “I’ll give this my attention as soon as possible. You need to know up front that I’m under pressure. The partners in my firm are nervous about bad publicity. That’s because they’re men and have never been violated. I can assure you they’d have a different view if they were sexually assaulted by a wild Amazonian woman threatening to bite off their you-know-whats.”

  “Every man’s dream,” Hines remarked offhandedly and, when neither woman responded, added, “Sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

  Junqueira threw her hands out, palms up, as if signaling traffic to halt. “If you’re having second thoughts, Ms. Waller, we haven’t a song in hell. In a rape case no prosecutor will risk a trial without full cooperation of the victim.”

  Tally snapped, “I didn’t say I was bailing out. Only that I’ve got more to lose than gain. In my field, one can’t afford the luxury of illusion. A smart woman would probably put this horrid episode behind her. Do what she could to forget it. If I were the only lady in this predicament, I’d probably bag it. But I’m not. Every week there are thousands of women who get raped. Very few go to the police. So the offenders just walk away to hit on other women. I’m not going to let that happen. Noah Zentner took a small piece of my body and a damn big hunk of my pride. Thousands of women see me on TV. They’ve got to know that women refuse to be intimidated. A trial will give others the strength to see the law enforced.”

  “That’s very noble,” Junqueira stated in a sympathetic tone.

  Hines’s pudgy, smiling face belied his competitive nature. “You understand, Ms. Waller, that if we go forward, the media will play a major role. A cable network has approached our department to televise the trial. The press will hound you. Reporters will talk with anybody and everybody -- family, friends, acquaintances, old school buddies, long abandoned heartthrobs, adolescent dates, laundry men, cab drivers, garbage collectors--anybody. They’ll try to portray you as a promiscuous lady, bedding everything with pants on.”

  “Raped women need publicity, but as you can see for yourselves, I personally have more than I need.”

  “A trial will divide over gender. Women want rapists punished. Men excuse them. It’s that simple,” Hines added.

  “Are you trying to discourage me, Mr. Hines?” Tally asked.

  “Zentner’s hired Greenwald, Molletz, Steiner, and Mavenhouse. If they lead with Zoe Mountolive, we’ll have our hands full. She’s a pro at moving a crime from the black to the gray, at maximizing ambiguities, nurturing doubts among jurors.”

  Talk of the legal profession caused Tally to dispatch a sarcastic aside. “I suspect someday you’ll both be defending rich clients and there will be another junior team representing the state. Defense is where the real money is, isn’t it?”

  “You don’t see silver-haired prosecutors, do you?” Junqueira acknowledged with a grin of agreement. “But that’s exactly why you need youth on your side. Someday Sydney and I might become rich and fat on the law, but we won’t get there unless we establish ourselves as good prosecutors first.”

  Tally slipped her foot back into her shoe. “I’m on the panels of two financial talk shows a week. While on camera questions will be put to me.”

  “Reply with the phrase ‘no comment.’ Stick to your professional field. And, before we scoot, one last question. What does your firm actually do, Ms. Waller?”

  “The Hawthorne Group syndicates real estate loans and securitizes the future cash flow of real estate assets. When things get really ugly, we supervise bankruptcies.”

  “Is that how you came to know Zentner?”

  “I met him at a Democratic fund raiser in New York, where he mentioned that Pyramid Development was burdened with debt. I told him my firm might be able to help.”

  “In layman’s terms, what does that mean?” Junqueira thought she already had a grasp of the subject, but wanted to sample how Waller might explain it to a jury.

  “Lending money for building and maintaining large real estate complexes, such as office buildings, shopping centers, and apartment complexes, is normally done by pension funds and insurance companies. When the economic cycle declines rents often don’t cover the funds needed to pay the servicing on debt. Owners look to lenders to lend them more. Or they sell their assets to raise cash. We help them work out their debt problems, sometimes by placing their buildings into a trust and selling small pieces of ownership to the public on the stock exchange. Jonathan and Noah Zentner’s Pyramid Development wanted to reduce its debt burden. Of course, that’s a dead issue now.”

  As Tally stepped toward the door to show her visitors out, Hines threw in a final question. “Were you and Noah Zentner dating?”

  “Are you crazy? He’s separated from his wife but still a married man. I don’t go around breaking up families. Our meetings were strictly professional.”

  “Of course,” Junqueria said while glancing at her watch. “Please put our timeline into context. Make changes if necessary. See how finely you can tune it. Before we make any irrevocable decisions let’s see what our investigation brings. We’ll look forward to your narrative.”

  A single flush of mauve from hanging fuchsia punctuated the bleached walls of Restorante La Piccola Roma on Connecticut Avenue. The maitre d’hotel squired Gabby past a serving cart with eggplant, spinach, anchovies, and sautéed tomato antipasti, then between tables with starched white tablecloths and straight-backed mahogany chairs to a banquette seat reserved by Ephraim Rothman’s secretary. From an open kitchen, where Italian chefs bantered in their native tongue, wafted the unmistakable aroma of hot olive oil and garlic. Located too far from the city center for the power lunches of Washington lawyers and lobbyists, the restaurant was only a third full when Gabby scooted across the black Naugahyde banquette to wait for Eph.

  He had come from a patrician family of Jewish leaders that considered rabbis, not boards of elected or appointed lay officers, the rightful leaders of their congregations. During his previous tenure as president of Ohav Shalom, he scrupulously honored his conviction that the governing directors should take no action without first winning consent from the rabbis. He invited Gabby and Seth to lunch a week before each board meeting to hear their views about the upcoming agenda. And to defuse controversial issues before they unexpectedly erupted, he also made a point of lunching with most of the lay members. So well were these meetings prepared that he was usually able to complete the business agenda in an hour.

  Eph’s family had nurtured an unbroken chain of communal leaders -- some working for the United Jewish Communities and others within their respective synagogues. He served two consecutive terms as president of Ohav Shalom, uncomplaining about how this responsibility took time from his family and the furniture business he had inherited from his father and grandfather. To his credit he had built a modest manufacturing company into a corporate giant, then taken it public. Neither wealth nor power changed him. As far as Gabby could determine, he considered himself to be nothing more than a competent furniture merchant whose wealth arrived well after his standard of living had been established. He lived in a modest home that belonged to his parents, avoided luxury cars and opulent country clubs. His respectable game of tennis was played
on public courts in Rock Creek Park or at Sidwell Friends School on Wisconsin Avenue. Yet wealth failed to shield him from the travails of an alcoholic wife and the death of his second son to testicular cancer.

  Since he rarely did anything without a purpose, Gabby wondered what was on his mind when he invited her to lunch. To monitor the time, her eyes dropped frequently over her wristwatch--a large, hexagonal timepiece faced with black Roman numerals--a keepsake that once belonged to her grandmother, who had made the fatal mistake of saying goodbye to Gabby’s mother on the dock in Bremerhaven before returning to her home in Frankfurt to await the fall of the Nazis. Gabby’s mother, who survived the Holocaust in the Yorkshire countryside with an English family, presented this heirloom to Gabby when she was ordained. To keep it running became Gabby’s fetish, a living memento of the grandparent she never met. She would often quip that with what she paid an Austrian watchmaker in New York for annual cleanings and semi-annual repairs, he could send several kids to college.

  Ephraim arrived fourteen minutes late and weaved through scattered tables with powerful steps. His dark striped suit was immaculately pressed, his light blue shirt and flowered silk necktie well coordinated. He dropped into the opposite chair and reached out to take Gabby’s hand, damp from contact with a glass of iced mineral water. She noted a worried expression on his face.

  He seemed eager to shortcut the normal introductory banter, saying, “I finally reached Jonathan Zentner this morning. He’s mighty disappointed about not locating Seth. I recommended he have Noah call you but the idea didn’t sit well. I’ve known Jonathan for half of my life. There were times when the two of us were inseparable. These days he seems consumed by health problems, not the least of which is postponing the inevitable male plumbing job. Now he’s worried about his son. Jonathan believes Seth abandoned Noah in his hour of need.”

  “An unfortunate interpretation,” Gabby responded, “though I can sympathize with his frustration. Everybody feels betrayed.”

  “Jonathan has a stubborn streak.”

  Gabby put down the lunch menu she was fingering to study Ephraim’s face. His auburn hair, salted with gray, was cut close to the scalp. Glasses with thin circular rims, the kind often worn by Washington lawyers, enlarged his hazel eyes. Most of his front teeth were exposed behind lips that seldom closed. In that moment, her feeling that he was holding back something gave rise to a devilish thought. She imagined that he has just finished reading the popular self-help paperback, How to Deliver Bad News, by Gladys Goldstone, Ph.D.

  A girlfriend who had been diagnosed with bilateral breast cancer had recommended Goldstone’s work to her, thinking that rabbis often convey bad news and would find Dr. Goldstone’s insights useful. Gabby found the author’s tips written to fill a niche in the growing library of How To titles -- a bit too commercial for her taste. Still, she saw Ephraim mentally checking off Gladstone’s chapter headings as he spoke.

  The waiter removed an unused place setting to make more room on the table. From a note pad, he read the luncheon specials as if auditioning for a TV sitcom and was visibly disappointed when Gabby selected a radicchio salad with Porchio mushrooms and Ephraim, the same, garnished with strips of roasted chicken.

  When they were alone again, Ephraim said, “The Board has asked me to communicate with you. We’ve scheduled several meetings about Seth’s successor to which you will purposely not be invited.”

  So, Dr. Goldstone, here we go! From the dour look on Eph’s face, she prepared herself for bad news --- perhaps the coup de grace.

  “I’m not in favor of this, but my views are in the minority. Several members don’t feel comfortable talking in your presence about Seth’s betrayal of trust. I think you understand that. The rest, perhaps the majority, feel that for the time being you’ve got enough on your plate. We want you to concentrate on keeping the synagogue running. You shouldn’t be diverted to unpleasant matters the board must now face.”

  Gabby wrestled with the implications of Eph’s declaration, saying nothing. She was distracted when a busboy arrived with a basket of dry bread sticks and onion rolls, accompanied by a vial of yellow-green olive oil.

  Eph tried to regain his lost momentum. “First of all, everybody recognizes how Seth’s departure will put extra pressure on you.”

  “You said first of all,” Gabby interrupted, sensing the shoe had not yet dropped.

  “The board will soon appoint a rabbinical search committee to find Seth’s successor. There’s unanimous feeling that this search must begin immediately. That means bringing several candidates to Washington for interviews. Maybe some trial sermons, but that is not yet settled. None of this can or should be accomplished behind your back.”

  Her eyes fell, but only momentarily for she ratcheted them up to gaze across the table. They were colder than she would have liked, but accurately reflected her disappointment. Until that moment, she had hopes for an automatic promotion to Seth’s post, a sort of field promotion, like a colonel becoming a brigadier when the general is injured or incapacitated. Obviously the Board of Directors had other ideas.

  Eph sat silently as Gabby digested the news, allowing ambient noise from the restaurant to fill the vacuum.

  She asked, “Will I be a candidate before this search committee?”

  Eph took an audible breath as though preparing an answer. But a waiter arrived with their entrees. Neither had much appetite, but the waiter didn’t know this and set the plates down. Nothing could happen until he withdrew.

  Ephraim cleared his throat with a quick swallow of mineral water. “You know, I’ve always held you in the highest esteem. In my judgment, you’re one of the best all-around rabbis this congregation’s ever had.”

  Gladys Goldstone had written several paragraphs about what comes before and what comes after the pivotal word but. You’re the best employee the Allied Can and Rust Company has ever had on its payroll. No firm in our industry has ever enjoyed more loyalty and commitment. BUT unfortunately we’re forced to make some personnel changes. You know, modernize the plant with new talent and strike out in a new direction. Praise always precedes the but. Then the axe falls.

  “I’ve watched you grow from a promising rabbinical graduate to a mature, thoughtful woman. You’ve been a perfect complement to Seth’s flamboyance and that’s meant as a compliment. Personally, and here I’m speaking for myself and not the congregation, I wish the board would simply appoint you as our Senior Rabbi. And I am not alone, but our opinion is far from the majority. The board has its reasons.”

  Of course there were multiple reasons. Gabby believed one preeminent. Gender. Gender. Gender.

  She carefully positioned her fork to signify her intention not to eat. Her throat was dry. “If no one else will, I would like to tender my own name to the search committee. With a little luck, somebody in the congregation will second my nomination.”

  His eyebrows rose high over the thin rims of his glasses before he reached across the table to press her wrist against the tablecloth. “If Seth had controlled his lust, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  “So I’m not going to be considered even as a candidate?”

  “That’s not final. The board won’t overlook you. I won’t let that happen. That’s a personal promise.”

  “Will you recommend me, Eph?”

  He paused too long to sound convincing. “If you wish.”

  She pulled her hand from under his. “Now that’s a tepid endorsement for you. Tell me what I’ve done wrong. Why am I being passed over?”

  “There are compelling reasons why a man is preferable. People argue that Ohav Shalom cannot return to health until there’s a strong male leader to restore our tarnished image. When it comes to images, it’s no good replacing a fallen male with an upstanding female like you.”

  “So it’s because I’m a woman, is it?”

  “You could put it that way.”

  Her lips tightened and her fingers dusted the silverware. “What else, Eph? There’s got to be more to this than that.”

  He reached out a second time to touch her hand. She pulled back. “You want the truth or pap?”