Just Revenge Read online

  “You don’t know how it feels to be violated and not get even. Cutting up Joe Campbell would do me a lot of good.”

  “Forget about it. It’s illegal, and I don’t want to have to defend my own daughter.”

  “It’s only a fantasy,” Emma said with a weary smile. “I’m not the acting-on-it type. I’m the talking-about-it type. That’s why I told my professor about our deal.”

  “What exactly did you tell her?”

  “I told her how you had represented Campbell and that you had gotten him off, even though you knew he did it.”

  “Suspected! I didn’t know. I suspected. Remember, he denied it.”

  “Yeah. I understand the drill. I just don’t agree with it. You knew he was guilty. And you still got him off. And then . . .”

  “I know what happened then,” Abe said despondently, hanging his head. “You don’t have to remind me. I still have nightmares.”

  “So do I,” Emma shot back, her voice rising both in pitch and volume. “That’s why I have to talk about it—and do something about it.”

  “What do you mean, do something?” Abe asked in a worried voice.

  Emma rolled her eyes. “No. Nothing stupid. I’m doing a paper for my crim class. My project is to demonstrate that good lawyers shouldn’t represent bad people.”

  “But the system—”

  “It was the system that made you get that bastard off. Don’t you see how not right the system is?”

  “Can we argue about this some other time? I just want to talk about you, not the system.”

  “We are talking about me. I was telling you what I told Professor Stith. It’s important to me.”

  “I’m sorry. Please go on. I want to hear.”

  “I said that as a result of my case you had decided never again to defend somebody who you knew was guilty.”

  “I hope you made it clear that I haven’t changed my principles. I still believe—”

  “I know what you believe. I told her I had to be satisfied with small victories when I deal with the Attila the Hun of the defense bar.”

  “I’m not that out of touch. Most defense lawyers—”

  “I don’t care about most defense lawyers,” Emma said, doing her best imitation of Abe in his lecture mode. “I only care about you. You’re my special mission. By the time I graduate from law school, I’m gonna convert you.”

  “You’ve already converted me, sweetie. You don’t have to rub it in.”

  “I haven’t converted you completely—yet. So far, all I got you to do is compromise your principles.”

  “Isn’t it enough that you’ve made a hypocrite of me?”

  “It’s a start. Some dead white guy once said that hypocrisy is the homage that vice pays to virtue.”

  “I’m glad you’re still quoting dead white males, sweetie.”

  “Almost everyone we study in law school is a DWM. I appreciate your hypocrisy. I won’t be completely satisfied until I convince you that the principle of representing guilty people is wrong. I know you agreed to the deal because of what happened to me, and it is a bit patronizing.”

  “Give me a break here. After all, the root of ‘patronize’ is father. I’m entitled.”

  The scars left by the Campbell situation had caused Abe to reevaluate the kinds of cases he took. He was still a zealous—some would say ferocious—defense lawyer for his clients, but now he was more selective about which clients he chose to represent. “I hope you also told Professor Stith that I never turn down a capital case—regardless of the defendant’s guilt,” Abe added.

  “Death is different,” said Emma, quoting the exact words her father had said to her many times. “When the state wants to kill someone, it shouldn’t be easy.”

  Beyond the occasional death penalty case, there was nearly always a family feud about which cases Abe should take. Before he would agree to take on a paying case, Abe would try to assure himself of the defendant’s innocence. It was not always easy. He remembered how convinced he had been of Joe Campbell’s innocence when he took that case. But now Abe was more conscious of his old affliction—“defense lawyer’s blind spot.” He was no longer as susceptible to DLBS. Now he could see the evidence more clearly, and when it pointed to guilt, he would refer the case to his former associate, Justin Aldrich, or to other defense lawyers.

  “I’ve paid my dues—and more—to the notion that it is better for ten guilty to go free than for one innocent to be wrongly convicted. I’ve represented too many of the ‘ten guilty’ defendants,” Abe acknowledged to Emma and Rendi. “Now I’ve earned the right to defend some of the innocent ones.”

  “I would never prosecute anyone I believed was innocent, so why shouldn’t the same rule apply to defense lawyers?” Emma insisted.

  “Because the innocent shouldn’t be prosecuted. The guilty must be defended,” Abe responded.

  “But not by you, Dad.”

  “Look, you’ve convinced me. A good lawyer knows how to sit down when she’s won. Don’t argue anymore, or you’ll talk me out of it.”

  “I’m getting great ammo from my profs.”

  “What can you expect from a bunch of former prosecutors?”

  “Low blow. There are also a few recovering defense lawyers.”

  “Low blow yourself. Being a defense lawyer is not an illness.”

  “Well, at least it’s not contagious. That I can promise you.”

  “Boy, you’re good—and fast. But let’s get back to you. How’s your roommate . . . what’s her name?”

  “You know what her name is. You just don’t like it. Angela Davis Bernstein. A genuine revolutionary.”

  “She’ll end up working for Cravath, Swaine and Moore—like the rest of them.”

  “No way! Sue them, maybe. But work for them—never. And neither will I. I applied for an internship for the summer with Linda Fairstein, the chief sex crimes prosecutor in New York.”

  “After what you went through?” asked Abe, shocked.

  “I’m a different person,” Emma continued. “I learn from my mistakes.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Rendi insisted.

  “Going out with that creep was my fault. What he tried to do to me wasn’t. And anyway, nobody would dare try to rape a rape prosecutor.”

  “Don’t even joke about that,” Abe said.

  “That’s the way I deal with the pain, Daddy. And anyway, I’m serious. We’d cut his—”

  “Enough already with your fantasies of surgery. Maybe you should have gone to medical school. My daughter the doctor. It certainly would have made Grandma Ringel happy.”

  “I can’t stand blood.”

  “By the way, I know Linda Fairstein’s husband. Good guy. A defense lawyer.”

  “I bet he represents only innocent defendants.”

  “As I do, sweetie. When I can find one. They’re not so easy to find. My business has gone down quite a bit since I agreed to your deal.”

  “It doesn’t show. What’s that?” Emma asked, pointing to a new painting on the crowded living room wall.

  “It’s a Soutine.”

  “It’s ugly.”

  “Life’s ugly. He painted it as he saw it.”

  “I like it, but I wouldn’t want it in my bedroom.”

  “I haven’t offered. What do you have hanging in your bedroom?”

  “Some Keith Haring posters, your old Ben Shahn litho of Martin Luther King, and a Beatles poster.”

  “Talk about Jurassic. You’re back in the seventies.”

  “I love the seventies.”

  “You were an infant in the seventies. What do you know about them?”

  “Mom used to talk about them. She said the sixties really happened in the seventies. Then it all ended in the eighties.”

  Emma averted her face, trying to hide her tears. Her mother, Hannah, had died in an automobile accident in 1987, and nothing had ever been the same since. Rendi was a wonderful stepmother—even more, a friend—but no one could ever re
place Hannah. Abe saw the tears and put his arm around Emma’s small shoulders. He took out his handkerchief and wiped away the tears as they fell.

  “It all ended in the eighties,” he repeated. “And then there was a new beginning in the nineties.”

  Emma paused for a moment, then shrugged her way out from beneath Abe’s arm. “Daddy, I’ve invited a friend for Shabbat dinner tomorrow night. I hope it’s cool. He’s a graduate student from Amsterdam, studying human rights.”

  “That’s great. Max is coming, too.”

  “Perfect. Jacob will love Max. They’re both so European. Can’t wait for you to meet him. But don’t make a fuss. I’ll die if you scare him away.”

  “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

  “You’ve got to do better than that,” Emma said, pinching Abe’s cheek.

  Chapter 2

  THE NEXT NIGHT

  “He’s drop-dead gorgeous,” Rendi exclaimed. “Where did you find him?”

  “He found me in the library.”

  “Well, that’s no surprise. You’re drop-dead gorgeous, too. Is he fun?”

  “In a European kind of way. You know, not funny like Dad, who jokes about everything.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know!”

  “Not that I don’t love Dad’s sense of humor. He uses jokes to avoid serious issues. I guess I do, too—with Dad. Jacob is different. He really loves serious discussions—about everything.”

  “Even emotions?”

  “Even emotions.”

  “Well, that certainly is different from your dad. Are you sure he’s really a man?”

  “That I’m sure of. But he’s a very unusual man. We talk about everything—all through the night.”

  “And the sex?” Rendi asked, lowering her voice and arching her eyebrows.

  “Very sensual. Very European. Very sophisticated.”

  “Sounds like you can teach me something.”

  “Let’s not go there. Even you and I have to have some limits,” Emma said, laughing.

  “Are you in love with Jacob?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t have to confront the ‘L’ word,” Rendi said.

  “It’s great for what it is.”

  “A one-semester stand?”

  “Maybe more. Maybe not. It’s perfect for now.”

  “Unless Abe screws it up. Do you trust Jacob down there with Ward Cleaver?”

  “Thank God Max is with them. He’ll keep Daddy under control.”

  Max Menuchen had been introduced to the Ringel family by Abe’s mentor, Haskell Levine. Haskell, who had died shortly after the Campbell case several years earlier, had been Boston’s greatest lawyer and Abe’s teacher at Harvard Law School. He had immigrated to Boston from Lithuania just before the outbreak of World War II and had become part of the Ringel family.

  Though neither Abe nor Rendi was particularly religious, they always stayed home on Friday night for a traditional Sabbath dinner. Usually there were guests, and Haskell had been a regular. His spirit still permeated the discussions.

  Since Haskell’s death, Max Menuchen had become the Ringel family’s connection to their Jewish roots in the old country. Although Abe’s grandparents had emigrated from southeastern Poland, Hannah’s parents had come from a small town in Lithuania, not far from Vilna. Emma had felt a spiritual connection to her mother through Haskell and now through Max. They spoke with the same slight European accent, the same warm politeness, and the same love of tradition. Their enigmatic smiles were similar, reflecting experiences too painful to bring to the surface. They even dressed similarly, in old-fashioned conservative suits, neatly pressed with white shirts and dark ties.

  Despite their obvious similarities, Max was very different from Haskell. When Emma was younger, she had once described Max as having three hands and Haskell only one. “Max always says ‘on the one hand’ and then ‘on the other hand’ and then ‘yet on the other hand.’ Haskell, the advocate, was more single handed.”

  Max was a frequent guest at the Ringel Friday night dinners, especially when Emma was in town. Emma loved Max. Hannah had been a wonderful storyteller, and Emma was always reminded of her mother when Max told his Bible stories. Max was a professor of Bible at the Harvard Divinity School. Emma always looked forward to Max’s latest twist on the old stories she had studied in Sunday school. There was never just one interpretation, always a second and third way of looking at the simplest of stories. She also loved Max’s serene approach to life. She wished that her father could be more like his two older friends and mentors, and she even selected boyfriends who were more like Haskell and Max than like her own father.

  Jacob Bruner, the graduate student with whom Emma was currently involved, was a human rights lawyer whose ambition was to become a judge at The Hague. He was studying at Yale for the year.

  Emma and Rendi joined them in the living room, surprised to see Max and Jacob in animated conversation, with the usually voluble Abe sitting quietly listening to the two Europeans.

  “Abe Ringel silenced! Details at eleven!” Emma exclaimed.

  “We must have missed a great conversation,” Rendi chimed in. “Fill us in.”

  “Only if you fill us in on what you two gals were gossiping about in the bedroom,” Abe replied.

  “Still with the ‘gals,’ Daddy. Won’t you ever learn?”

  “I’m entitled to call my own daughter and wife ‘gals’ if I want to.”

  “Not in front of company,” Max said in a tone of reproval. “We don’t want this young man to think you’re—what’s that word Emma always uses?”

  “Jurassic, Uncle Max.”

  “Yes, Jurassic. I love that word. It’s elegant. Don’t you think, Jacob?”

  “Emma sometimes thinks I’m Jurassic, too, just because I’m almost thirty.”

  “Better watch out. Soon she won’t be able to trust you,” Rendi quipped.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Didn’t Emma tell you that in America, you can’t trust anybody over thirty?” Rendi mocked.

  “That’s a joke, right?” Jacob asked with an embarrassed smile.

  “It’s a joke,” Emma said reassuringly as she took Jacob’s hand and led him to the dining room table, which was beautifully set with candles, a challah, and gefilte fish.

  Even before they sat down, Abe began humming the traditional melody of “Shalom Aleichem,” the greeting of the Sabbath. Rendi and Emma joined in. Jacob tried to pick up the melody. Max sat silently. Rendi and Emma then lit the candles, covering their eyes with their hands. Abe recited the blessing over the wine and invited Jacob to make the blessing over the challah.

  As soon as the rituals ended, the conversation began.

  “Tell us about your family,” Abe said to Jacob, glancing at Emma to see if he had said the wrong thing.

  “My father escaped from Poland to Amsterdam in 1939. He knew Anna Frank’s family. He also went into hiding and made it through the war and remained in Holland, where he met my mother, who had also survived.”

  “What do your parents do?” Rendi asked.

  “My father is a jeweler. My mother teaches high school math.”

  “Tell us about the Jewish community in Amsterdam,” Max said.

  “Mostly survivors like my parents. A few American ex-patriates, some Israelis in the diamond business. And now a lot of Russians and Ukrainians.”

  “Any Lithuanians?” Max wondered.

  “Not many. There were very few survivors from the Baltic countries. Is that where your family is from?”

  “Yes,” Max said peremptorily.

  “Did they survive?”

  “No.”

  “None of them?” Jacob probed.

  “I am the only one.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Jacob.

  Max nodded. There was a brief silence, then the conversation moved on.

  Abe knew that Max was his family’s sole survivor, but even he—who had been Max’s friend for years
—did not know any more than that. He had once asked Haskell Levine about Max’s family, but Haskell had promised Max that he would never discuss his family’s tragedy with anyone.

  The Shabbat dinner ended with one of Max’s Bible stories.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Max began, as he always did when he talked about the Bible. “Would our biblical tradition approve of my dear friend Abe defending some of the terrible people he defends?”

  “No fair. Did Emma put you up to this?” Abe interrupted. Emma and Max both smiled as Abe continued to protest. “Why don’t you talk about the Garden of Eden or something abstract like that? Stop picking on me.”

  “All right, I’m your guest,” Max replied with his characteristically enigmatic smile. “If you insist, we will talk about the Garden of Eden. Does anyone remember what God’s first prohibition was?”

  Emma raised her hand as if in class.

  “No need for such formality, go ahead,” said Max.

  “Not to eat from the tree of knowledge.”

  “Correct. Now what did God tell Adam would happen if he ate of that tree, Jacob?”

  “I think God said he would die.”

  “Right. Now he did eat of the tree. But he did not die. So why didn’t God carry out his threatened punishment?”

  “I know,” Abe said.

  “Then tell us.”

  “Because Adam didn’t have a defense lawyer, and you can’t carry out a death sentence without the defendant having a lawyer.”

  “See,” Max said, smiling. “I knew we would get back to my original question. Thank you, Abe.”

  “You tricked me.”

  “Just like the serpent tricked Eve,” Max said.

  “Wait,” Emma said. “Dad is wrong. There was a defense lawyer. Why do you think God created serpents?” She laughed as she high-fived Rendi.

  “Very funny. First I was a dinosaur, now I’m a serpent. Nice way to talk about the man who’s paying your law school tuition.”

  “From money you earned defending people lower than serpents. I bet you would have defended the serpent—and got him off, too.”