PIZZA ANGEL
Almost every winter, Washington DC is visited by one or two blizzards. And this February brought a dilly. Snow began falling just before the homeward bound rush-hour traffic, snarling workers in the District of Columbia headed home. It took Gabby an extra hour and a half of hard, nerve-racking, bumper-to-bumper driving to reach her Bethesda townhouse where a bitter wind ripped through naked dogwood and cherry trees lining her street. For some reason, the automatic thermostat failed to activate her oil-burning furnace and her home was a bone-chilling cold. Fortunately, a manual emergency switch reset the burner. While collecting the day's voice and email, she remained huddled in her heavy wool overcoat and gloves.
Early in her career, she experimented with an unlisted phone number. On occasion, she would give it to friends, but before long it became a favorite for many congregants eager to reach their rabbi in the evenings and on weekends. A new and heavily-guarded number produced a groundswell of angry mail to the synagogue's Board of Directors. Members felt entitled to have access to Gabby 24 hours a day, 7 days a week and resented any barrier to protect her. The Board passed a resolution affirming the right of their rabbi to privacy, but simultaneously acknowledged the corresponding right of members to call when in need and relied upon their discretion not to abuse the privilege. The result was that Gabby's private number rang more than the published number. She had no alternative but to accept the inevitable as an occupational hazard. Often, when it became impossible to take care of her personal life, she would let her voicemail collect messages, then answer them at a more convenient time.
On this occasion, there were thirteen voices and seven emails – one of which caught her eye because it arrived with the distinctive logo of the company motto: Only Connect.
Hi, Gabby,
Please come and have lunch with us tomorrow. My associates were very impressed with you on New Year's and they think you're an absolute dream candidate for the Eighth District. We like to think of ourselves as a family and there is unanimous feeling that you would fit in very well. Lunch here is informal and not particularly nutritious. Given our financial condition, we've become reluctant peanut butter addicts. At least it will give you an idea what we're like when not horsing around.
Kye
Slipping away from the synagogue to have lunch with Kye and his associates had definite appeal. She liked what she had seen on New Year's Day and was intrigued by the dynamism of this youthful organization, rushing against the clock to bring their technology to the upcoming congressional elections. This was unlike any business she knew. The sense of community at Politicstoday stirred her natural affinity for communalism. She couldn't talk in public about this penchant for communalism because who in these heady days of capitalism wanted to be mistakenly labeled a socialist or, God forbid, a Communist? Were she to declare her feelings that God's abundance ought to be more equally distributed among His creatures, she would be regarded as a left over from the flower children days of the 1960s. Kye's organization of shared dreams she found spiritually refreshing.
During the wee hours of the next morning, warming air replaced frigid northern air, melting much of the previous day's snow. Heavy rains pattering on the roof woke Gabby before dawn, promising to melt the snow before the commuter rush hour to town. Yet on National Public Radio the early morning forecast remained unfavorable. The Weather Service predicted that on the tail of the rain a second arctic cold front was sweeping south from Canada and would turn the newly melted snow into dangerous sheets of ice. Travel by midday was expected to be extremely treacherous.
When Chuck Browner entered Gabby's office to receive his marching orders for the morning, he observed her weariness. Usually, she managed to sound cheerful and optimistic, but a faint gargle in her throat and eyes that failed to rise above her reading glasses revealed an inner exhaustion.
"Know much about Politicstoday?" she asked as he stood in the doorway, watching her from afar.
"Only what I read in the papers. Kye Naah attracts enemies like Charles Darwin in the southern Bible belt. Moi? I think he's on to something with his e-campaigning. This town needs some shaking up. We've become complacent about our government being the very best that money can buy. If Naah's technology can change things, he's got my support. Unfortunately, I read in the Post that his creditors are ganging up to topple him."
She was startled that he knew so much, yet Chuck often surprised her. "He's invited me for lunch today in Prince George's County."
"You're not going across the street until this ice melts," Chuck asserted his protection. "You're probably right, but let's see how things develop. Major roads will clear as soon as they lay down salt. Once I get on the Beltway, it's an easy shot to Lanham. Lot's of heavy trucks to clear the roads."
A small smile parted his lips and his eyes began to dance. "Well, well, Rabbi Gabby. What are you up to these days?"
On the spur of the moment she decided to drop a bombshell. "They want me to run for Congress in the Eighth District of Maryland. Should I?"
He shot back without an instant's hesitation, "Only if you'll take me to Congress with you,"
"Whoa, horsey. I'm only running not elected. But if a miracle occurs, I wouldn't want anybody else."
"Okay, now stop toying with me. You're not really thinking of it, are you?"
She studied her reddish knuckles before lifting her eyes to regard him. "I'm not sure. I'm intrigued and flattered. Don't bother trying to talk me out of it. I already know it's a dumb idea. Why give up a profession I love for one I would probably hate?"
"Because you live dangerously," he said. "If this isn't an oxymoron, you're more comfortable in a discomfort zone than a comfort zone. But before you think of driving to Lanham in this weather, I recommend having lunch with me here where we can work out your mid-life crisis on a full stomach."
"I need a favor, pal," she added.
He eyed her skeptically. A request like that usually meant something outside his job description.
"Sooner or later, the Fire Marshal's office will issue an official report of the Morgenstern accident. Most of what caused it is pretty clear. Still, I'd like you to call the Fire Department and request a copy of this report. If the Department won't cooperate, get in touch with Dominion Mutual Insurance. Harold Farb will give you the contact and phone number."
"Playing detective… again?" He drew out the last word for dramatic emphasis.
"No. I want to know what's in store for us. My hunch is that before we see any daylight on this issue, we're going to be in a long, dark tunnel for some time."
A few minutes later, he called through the open door to her study. "I can't get Politicstoday on the phone to decline the lunch invitation. No answer. I just called the phone company. They said there's a power outage in Lanham – due to ice on the power lines. Phone lines are also down."
"Please, keep trying. I don't think they'll expect me in this weather."
Before leaving the office at the end of the day, Chuck leaned though the door to Gabby's study and shook his head negatively. "Sorry about not reaching Politicstoday. I just learned that power's been restored to the area; the phone company also admits to loss of service, but claims all phone lines have been restored. I still can't get through."
"Thanks for trying," she said, then lowered her eyes to the desk. Queasiness stirred her stomach and telegraphed an intuition that this was more serious than it appeared. She didn't believe in extrasensory perceptions, yet could not ignore the strength of her intuition, however irrational. Something was wrong at Politicstoday and there was no way for her to know exactly what without driving to Lanham. Travel by car in the rush hour was likely to be hell. But that condition was likely to change in a few hours. She reckoned that since most employees at Politicstoday lived in an adjacent office building, finding Kye after hours shouldn't be difficult.
In the interim, Asa Folkman weaved his way through Chuck's cluttered office and found Gabby's door open. She was at her desk with her rimless reading glasses perched above her forehead, nestled in wavy brunette hair that was normally allowed to float where it liked. In a rare moment of idleness, her eyes were gazing abstractly through the window and, until he stepped into the office, remained glued on some distant object. When she finally acknowledged his presence, her dimples rippled. She liked him to feel free about interrupting her.
He froze behind one of the chairs facing her desk until she rose and marched around it to shake his hand. But that did not satisfy her and she planted a kiss upon his cheek. In order to maintain their professionalism she had previously restricted kissing him to Shabbos greetings. But given their troubles such professional distancing no longer seemed warranted.
He hid his embarrassment by waving an envelope. "A messenger dropped off this summons. They're going to depose me. It's really going to happen now, Gabby."
"Depositions aren't so bad. You're going to get a lot of coaching by a lawyer named Horace Corcoran, who represents the insurance company, and one or more of the Ohav Shalom lawyers. The main thing, Asa, is that you have truth on your side. You don't have to lie or fabricate anything that isn't exactly the way you remember it. The synagogue will be exonerated by facts, nothing less."
He looked dubious. "Will you be there when they flay my carcass?"
"If they'll let me. It won't be a picnic but it won't be that bad either. David Morgenstern's lawyer will get around to deposing me later so I'd better know exactly what you say. Shirley Delinsky will be there with you, but she said her role is limited by rules about depositions. But before answering, you can confer privately with Mr. Corcoran or whatever defense counsel he appoints."
"Is it true that Marc Sutterfeld is a barracuda?"
"That's his reputation yet I doubt he'll expose his fangs to a rabbi. Many people are scared of us or the power we're supposed to represent. Hopefully, he's one of them."
***
Gabby arrived by car in the New Carrolton area near Politicstoday at a quarter past eight in the evening and immediately headed for the Metro East Business Campus. How different this cluster of office and low-rise buildings appeared after business hours when their deserted parking lots were blanketed with fresh snow. A heavy vehicle had left behind deep tracks in the ice for her to follow. Distant street lights silhouetted the headquarters of Politicstoday. No signs of life shown through its dark windows, though the adjacent building used by the staff as a dormitory was slightly less ghostlike. A faint light beyond the glass door suggested the presence of life inside.
While tracking over slippery ice, she wondered why Politicstoday remained dark when neighboring buildings appeared to have recovered from the power outage. Her pulse increased as she passed through the front door into a vast lobby bathed by faint light from a hurricane lamp deposited on the receptionist's counter. Rock music permeated the surrealistic atmosphere. It took Gabby only a few moments to appreciate there was no heat.
On the first floor in open space used for a canteen, she discovered a dozen young employees huddled around a kerosene space heater. Here music was louder and in order to be heard over it, voices were elevated. Bundled in winter jackets and wearing fleece mittens, no one seemed to notice her approach along the dark corridor.
"I'm Gabrielle Lewyn," she introduced herself as she emerged from the shadow into light from two additional hurricane lamps. "I'm looking for Kye Naah. Any idea where I might find him?"
A heavy-set girl with a ski cap restraining bushy hair erupting around her ears rocked onto her knees in the act of standing and eyed Gabby with dawning recognition. "Aren't you the woman going to challenge Toby Ryles for the Democrats?"
To be recognized both flattered and alarmed Gabby. "Yes, in theory that's the program. Kye invited me to have lunch here, but the blizzard snarled everything. Are you planning to spend the night without heat?"
A slim young man with an adolescent beard and wrapped in thick fleece followed the girl to his feet. "This is our home. Where else are we gonna go?"
Gabby refrained from saying what first popped into her mind. "Any place warmer than this." Instead, she said, "I'd like to talk with Kye Naah."
"He's across the way at South Pole salvaging our computers," the girl said. "You can go over, but you're going to need a flashlight. We need the hurricane lamps here."
"What's to salvage? Won't everything just return when you get power back?" Others clustered around the space heater turned their attention to Gabby and immediately perceived that she didn't understand the situation. A thick necked, plump girl said, "The whole frigg'in shooting match. They got us good. Everything is fried."
The remark puzzled Gabby but she didn't want to sound dumb and ask for clarification. "Can somebody lend me a flashlight for a few minutes. I'll bring it back on my way out."
A rubber-handled flashlight made its way from the inner circle outward through several gloved hands toward Gabby. "Anybody interested in accompanying me?" she asked at the last second before turning to leave.
A slender youth accepted her invitation; she couldn't tell if from a desire to be helpful or just out of boredom. "Journey to the bowels of Disasterville," he uttered to those remaining behind.
Batteries powering the flashlight were weak. In the path of a dim beam that flickered on and off, Gabby barely recognized the thriving nerve center of Politicstoday she had visited on New Year's Day. Her guide apologized for malfunctioning elevators and led her into a stairwell descending to the South Pole, where artificially cooled air had once contrasted with warmer temperatures on the floors above. Now that differential was negligible. Cold air snaked through her lined fleece jacket and attacked exposed wrists. Once in the basement, the pair navigated wide corridors to the interlocking computer rooms housing Politicstoday's mainframe memory. The continuous growl of the air-circulating chillers was gone now, along with the humming of the computers. A gaggle of distant voices penetrated the purr of temporary generators.
Ahead, four hurricane lanterns provided illumination for seven engineers working on a bank of servers. Beside them, two portable oil-burning generators pumped power into an improvised command post. The engineers' concentration precluded them from noticing Gabby's approach. Kye was huddled beside a monitor punching a keyboard with the aid of a headlight strapped to his forehead. A companion nearby was dictating numerical code from a rumpled spiral notebook.
After a long moment, Gabby's guide addressed Kye, knowing that an interruption would not be appreciated. "The rabbi has come to see you."
The light attached to Kye's forehead swung in her direction, but almost immediately returned to the keyboard. "Just a second, please," he called to her. "We're almost finished with this sequence…" His keystrokes increased in velocity. A spate of expletives issued from his partner's lips. Beside an adjacent monitor additional cursing erupted.
It took twenty-five minutes before Kye was able shift his attention to Gabby, who shivered in the cold, thinking that nothing could be colder than a dark, unheated office building in the winter. She drew herself into the ring of light and offered a gloved hand. His well-shaven look she was accustomed to seeing had vanished. From behind sweat-coated glasses, his eyes were weary. When she tried to withdraw her hand, he held on, dragging her from the circle of his associates in shadows beyond the penumbra of hurricane lamps.
She said, "I tried to answer your email about lunch, but couldn't raise your server. The phones were also dead. So I said to myself, the only way to find out what's going on is to drive over. Looks like I caught you at a bad time."
His lips curled with irony and his eyes seemed to disappear entirely into the darkness surrounding them. "Thanks, Gabby. I appreciate your concern. We got hit real bad."
"I thought high-tech companies like this had emergency generators."
"We do. Three separate redundancies. But none work when sabotaged."
The word sabotaged sent a secondary chill rippling through her already chilled body. "I don't understand. Is this more than a power outage?"
"We've made a lot of enemies around this town. People who make their livings in Washington feel threatened by what we do. And for every politician there are a dozen associates whose livelihoods depend upon business-as-usual. And that's not to mention all the people we owe money. They'd be just as happy to lynch me from the White House portico. Whoever sabotaged us knew what he was doing. He waited for a blizzard like this and went after our jugular – all three emergency generators. They bled fuel from one. Then cut belts of another. Redirected the exhaust lines of a third. When PEPCO went down, my backup generators also failed. I figured on one or two failing, but not all three at the same time. If that was all we got, we might have been able to recover the bulk of our data. But they went way beyond that. Somehow they hooked into our input from PEPCO. When power returns, you're vulnerable to electrical surges. We have resistance protectors to guard against this. But whoever did this to us tapped into our main line and pumped six or seven times the juice expected from a normal surge. It fried our resistance coils to a crisp and traveled on to attack our memory banks. We're trying to assess the full damages now. Several servers are destroyed beyond repair; others crippled. We're employing some pretty heroic methods to salvage what's left."
Both her hands felt for his in the darkness and failing that, gripped his upper arms. "I'm sorry, Kye. You must feel like you've been hit by a meteor."
He sighed audibly, breathing heavily. "It isn't me, Gabby. Somehow, I'll survive. I always do. But I've got people here who have worked their asses off for this organization. They've sweated and sacrificed so we could build a company that does more than just make money. They've deferred their compensation. Eaten beans. Foregone marriages and children. They've lived like penniless hermits in a dormitory that wouldn't pass muster in the Congo. All because they believed in what we're doing. I promised to repay my creditors and I will, even if some of them are behind this shit. That's a solemn promise. They have my word and I've never, never gone back on it. All I ever needed was time to prove what we could do. Now that's doubtful."
She stepped closer and wrapped her arms around his torso, embracing him. In the darkness, her lips press against his neck. His arms completed the circle coupling behind her back. When she lifted her chin, moisture from his skin transferred to her cheek. Was this sweat or tears, she asked herself? Perhaps a combination of both.
"I haven't figured out yet what to do with your campaign," he said. "I'll get some part of this operation moving again, but it's too early to know exactly what."
"Don't worry about that, Kye. In the big picture that isn't important."
"PEPCO turned on our power just long enough to fry our hardware, but then turned it back off until I cough up cash for my overdue bills. One or two days in the cold and I'm going to have to release my associates. As long as I ask them, they'll stay behind and endure anything. These aren't ordinary people, you must understand. They're the very best in the industry. But I can't imperil their futures. Once gone, they'll scatter over the country. I fear Politicstoday will be nothing more than a bad memory."
"I've got access to wealthy entrepreneurs in the Jewish community. Can I introduce you?" Her lips caressed his neck again. It was damp and coated with a granular residue, but she didn't care.
"Thanks, but I can't. To maintain the value of the stock warrants, I promised not to dilute the company's ownership. Nobody's going to lend me money flat out without wanting a part of the equity. We've been backloading our financial success knowing that the more we show our product the more customers will buy it. I just didn't see this one coming." His hands rose to touch her hair, then fall over her cheeks and the indentations of her dimples, now flat for lack of a smile. "Sorry, Gabby. I've got to get back to work. It's going to be a long night. And when the sun rises in the morning, it will still be bloody cold."
"Go, Kye. You know my phone and email address. Thanks for taking time to fill me in. I'll wait until I hear from you. And I'll recite a prayer, too. It probably won't do much good, but it will make me feel as though I'm helping. And by the way – how many people are in the dorm right now?"
"About seventy, plus or minus five."
"Do they eat pizza?"
"What techy doesn't?"
"Good, because I know a great place that delivers – even on cold nights like this."
"That's not necessary, but I can't say it wouldn't be appreciated." He seized her hand and led her back in the direction of the lanterns. Gabby's guide remained with the engineers, waiting to usher her out. "Please take Rabbi Lewyn to her car, Carl. Be careful on the ice. We've already had one injury," Kye said to him. And to her, he said, "Thanks for coming. You made this shit a little easier to accept. I'm really glad you came. I'll be in touch. Promise."
She replied, "Whatever I can do for you, Kye. And I'm serious about the offer to make contact with rich investors."
Once in her Volvo with the heater turned high, she called Chuck Browner by cell-phone at his apartment. "Sorry to disturb you," she was abrupt. "I've just been at Politicstoday at the New Carrolton station. Somebody's sabotaged their operation. Kye's people there are working in the cold and dark. What's the best delivery pizza we can get at this hour, Chuck?"
"I don't know, but I can call around. What do you want?"
"Assorted pizzas for seventy-five hungry and cold people. No. Make that ninety. Delivered hot and as soon as possible to 8120 Corporate Dr., Lanham, Maryland. Tell the deliveryman that the building is dark and cold. It's the building in the rear, not the one up front with the Politicstoday logo. The main door is open. Warn the driver it's on the dark side there, too, but he'll find people on the first floor."
'Ninety?" Chuck sounded incredulous. "That's some pizza party."
"Charge it to my Visa number. Or if they won't take it, to my account at the synagogue and I'll repay it tomorrow. If they won't take either, use your own Visa and I'll give you a check first thing in the morning. I'll call you as soon as I get home."
"That's what I love about you, Rabbi Gabby. My girl's always trying to save the world. Feed the hungry. Shelter the homeless. Heal the wounded."
"Hey, Chuckyboy," she interrupted. "Don't get carried away with your metaphor. This isn't manna from heaven, you know. Just common, everyday pizza, okay?
***
That evening in bed, Gabby's mind kept returning to Kye's kisses in the cold at South Pole and yearned for more of them. She could no longer hide from herself a fondness for him. Everything she knew about successful romances between couples with such different backgrounds told her to control her emotions. That he was a practicing Baptist was reason enough, to say nothing about being Korean. And this was more than her hormones talking. Her career, for a starter. An affair with a Gentile Asian was certain to upset the delicate relationship she enjoyed at Ohav Shalom. There wasn't a single encouraging factor in this relationship. Still she could not ignore her fascination with Kye, who lived on the cusp of convention. Nor the stirring in her body that felt wonderful when near him. Sleep arrived fitfully that evening and only came when she agreed that sometimes one is compelled to be foolish, to reject conventional wisdom and listen to new music.
***
As expected, counsel for the prosecution, Marc Sutterfeld, barred Gabby from Asa's deposition on the grounds that she would later be deposed herself. That didn't prevent her escorting Asa from his study to the synagogue boardroom, but when she went to collect him, he wasn't there, so she waited outside the boardroom to encourage him where the deposition was scheduled to convene.
Ohav Shalom's boardroom was originally designed to inspire a sense of solemnity and purpose and, in this respect, provided a perfect venue for a legal deposition. Already in place sat a handsome looking silver-haired woman in a dull gray pantsuit, adjusting a stenographic machine with a compact keyboard and an oversized roll of paper. A video technician tucked into a corner of the room was making final preparations to his equipment.
Shirley Delinsky, whom Stan Melkin had assigned responsibility for monitoring this deposition, sat at the mahogany table with a cell phone to her ear and fumbling through a folder. Anthony Horace Corcoran, counsel representing Dominion Mutual Insurance, was scribbling notes on an 8x14 inch legal pad. Four minutes later, two Morrison and Grand lawyers breezed through the door with effusive excuses for being tardy. Both had cultivated the demeanor of extremely busy, Type A personalities.
Asa arrived still later, looking bewildered. After receiving a quick word of encouragement from Gabby outside he dashed in. A large swath of whiskers had escaped his morning razor and his necktie was poorly knotted. Darting eyes looked around the table for friendly faces. Before he could sit, Shirley Delinsky rose to escort him outside again for last minute instructions. Gabby had already retreated to wait in her study.
"Please remember, Rabbi Folkman," Shirley said in a modulated professional tone, "what Mr. Corcoran and I emphasized to you by phone. The person being deposed can't win anything, but he has much to lose. Bad answers now will be cited later in the courtroom. I'm not worried because you need only tell exactly what happened with the Morgenstern girls. But please answer only the questions. The ground rules of this proceeding don't require you to do any more than respond to the immediate questions. Above all, don't volunteer information not specifically demanded. That's what usually does a witness in, so don't be a star by making good argumentative points. If you do, you'll only help the Morgenstern attorneys prepare for the trial. Save your ammunition for the court where your testimony can do some good. And don't let Mr. Sutterfeld intimidate you into saying something you don't mean. He has a reputation for being a bully. I'll do what I can to prevent bad behavior, but my powers in a deposition are limited. And beware the quick follow-up question that comes immediately on the heels of another question. Go slow. Take your time. Don't be afraid to say you don't know the answer or say that you don't remember. Nobody expects a human being to know or remember everything."
Asa sniffled nervously.
"And one last thought," she said. "What the stenographer records on her machine is your testimony for later use in court. That should drive home a simple point. While Marc Sutterfeld or his associate will be asking the questions, the stenographer will be taking down your responses. Think of it as a triangle. Sutterfeld asks you, and you answer to the stenographer. You're not required to look at Mr. Sutterfeld. You're free to talk directly to the stenographer. Sutterfeld won't like that, but hey, that's his problem, now isn't it?"
When they re-entered the boardroom, Corcoran, who knew Asa from two previous rehearsals, positioned himself protectively at his left, while Shirley Delinsky guarded his right flank. Sutterfeld's associate, a prematurely balding young man not many years out of law school in an expensive dark silk suit and mauve silk necktie, sat beside his senior. Sutterfeld, a gaunt, intense man without an ounce of extra fat and the concaved cheeks of a dedicated jogger, withdrew a bundle of documents from a black leather case. He abstained from conversation while shuffling through notes. A nervous check of his wristwatch indicated he was a busy man with no time to waste. The stenographer, in her role as an officer of the court, asked Asa to stand and take an oath, then Sutterfeld opened with a series of quick introductory questions.
"Rabbi Folkman, do you have an employment contract with Ohav Shalom?" he inquired in a clipped interrogator's voice.
"Yes, I think so."
"Please tell us what you mean when you say you think so."
"When I was appointed I got a letter from the congregation. Is that a contract?"
"Let me ask the questions, if you please, Rabbi," Sutterfeld snapped, raising his voice to establish authority. "We'll have to examine that letter. At the end of the session we'll give you a list of documents we will need in addition to those already supplied by the congregation. This letter will be one of them. Are there any other employment agreements, either written or oral?"
He thought about that and shook his head negatively.
"Rabbi, you must answer verbally since everything goes down on the record," Sutterfeld said, pasting a plastic smile on his face and glancing around the room to let everybody know he was in charge. "For the record, Rabbi Folkman, answer the question verbally."
"No."
"Thank you. Now tell us specifically if there are any other documents regarding your duties at Congregation Ohav Shalom."
"None that I'm aware of."
"Please tell us what you do as Associate Rabbi in this synagogue."
"How about conducting religious ceremonies? Supervising the religious school? Teaching students and adults? Officiating at life-cycle events, such as circumcisions, weddings, funerals, Bar and Bat Mitzvah ceremonies? Visiting the sick? Representing the Jewish community at ecumenical events? Writing sermons and studying Torah? Oh, yes, I must also help plan social and education programs. And I fill in for Rabbi Lewyn when she's busy. I also interview new members. Counsel the depressed and sick. That sort of thing."
"It sounds as if you're not certain and are asking me what your duties should be. Please answer in declarative sentences. If I can assume you were outlining the scope of your duties, that's a lot. I never sat down to think about how many things a rabbi might do, but that's quite an impressive list. It must be exhausting, right?"
Asa had been warned about trick questions and this one sounded suspicious. "Sometimes. Yes, but you get used to the pressure. There's never enough time to get all your work done."
"Would you describe this as intense pressure?"
"Yes. But not all the time."
"Airline pilots and physicians argue that under daily stress, they're inclined to make mistakes that affect their passengers and patients. Would you say that the same goes for you?"
Asa attempted to navigate through the question without making an error. "It's stressful, but not the type of stress that affects my ability to function on the job."
"Please tell me why this type of stress does not cause you to make mistakes, when it would in other professionals."
Asa looked to Shirley, whose lips remained sealed but whose eyes were ice. He expected her to interrupt but she didn't. Horace Corcoran proved no more helpful. "I don't know. I never gave it any thought until you asked. But I'm sure my performance doesn't suffer under pressure and it might even improve."
"Now that's hard to believe even for one as gullible as myself, Rabbi. But I won't belabor the question at this moment. I will, however, come back to it in a minute and at that time ask you to make a guess. Now is it true that you have primary responsibility for the religious school while Rabbi Lewyn focuses on other matters?"
"Rabbi Lewyn and I share responsibilities in the religious school."
"Tell us what you do there."
"I work with the principal, Ziporah Kleindeinst, who frees me from all administrative duties so I can spend time with the kids, teaching and interacting. There's rarely a Sunday when I'm not teaching in one class or another."
"And did you teach in the fifth grade class of Deborah Seligman, on the morning of November 24th?"
"Yes, sir. I think so."
Sutterfeld's eyes rose over his thin-rimmed round glasses. "Once again, we'll need something more specific than that you think so. Ms. Seligman's class curriculum called for a half hour with the rabbi. Are you suggesting that was Rabbi Lewyn and not yourself?"
"I'm not suggesting anything. I think I taught in that class. But we were in and out of many classes before Chanukah."
"Was Tybee Morgenstern in Ms. Seligman's class?"
"Yes."
"And did you also teach in Howard Tillian's seventh grade on the same day?"
"As I said, I taught in many classes before Chanukah and didn't keep a record."
Sutterfeld dropped his chin over a page of notes, before sharply lifting it to view Asa. "Is it fair to say that you came in contact with the Morgenstern girls through the religious school?"
Asa felt being led by the questioning but saw no alternative. "Yes. I guess you could say that."
"Any other contact with these girls?"
"Yes," his voice was low and gravely.
"Can you explain to us what that contact was?"
"In the classes I covered history of the Maccabees. I also talked with the kids about the holiday celebrations."
"And do you drink the wine, too?"
"No alcoholic wine if that's what you have in mind. For the kids, grape juice works just fine. We don't serve alcoholic beverages of any kind to the kids."
"I didn't suggest that, Rabbi. And do you also light candles?"
Asa was slow to answer, recalling Shirley Delinsky's counsel not to offer unsolicited information. "Yes," then fell silent.
"So," Sutterfeld became animated as if unearthing a great discovery, "you stand before class and physically light Chanukah candles. Is that right?"
"Not always. Sometimes the teacher ignites the matches and sometimes I do."
"Do the children also use matches?"
"Absolutely. How else are they going to learn?"
"At all ages?"
"No. As soon as their teacher believes they are old enough."
"Are eight and ten, the ages of Tybee and Janean Morgenstern, old enough for this practice?"
Asa didn't appreciate Sutterfeld's inquisitional tone. "Sometimes."
"How do you know that?"
"I haven't given thought to the subject. I guess by their hand coordination and general maturity."
Sutterfeld pouted for dramatic effect while listening to the stenographer peck away at her machine. When the clicking paused, he resumed. "Now let me get this straight, Rabbi. You let children use matches on the synagogue premises, but you haven't any established policy about who is too young to participate? You evidently don't regard matches as dangerous, do you?"
Asa was uncertain how to continue and received no sign from Corcoran. "Well, you could say… maybe under certain conditions. The question is ridiculous."
Sutterfeld growled. "Rabbi Folkman, I don't ask ridiculous questions. Your job is not to pass judgment on the quality of my inquiries, but simply to answer them. Understand?"
"Is that a question?"
"Yes, it is. Do you understand who is being deposed here and what your obligations are?"
With a pointed finger at Sutterfeld, Shirley signaled to the video technician that she specifically wished him to train his camera on the prosecution team, then barked. "Marc, you're talking to a distinguished member of the clergy who deserves more courtesy. I demand that you ask your questions respectfully and stop goading Rabbi Forkman."
He turned fiercely on her. "Last time I looked, you were not Rabbi Folkman's counsel, Shirley. If Mr. Corcoran here doesn't take issue with the way I pose my questions, why should you?" Immediately, he pivoted back in Asa's direction. "Now please, Rabbi, answer the question."
Shirley nodded for Asa to provide his best response. He began again, cautiously. "We all know that the sole purpose of a match is to start fires, hopefully small controlled fires. Cigarettes, for example. When they start damaging fires such as forest fires most of us would acknowledge their danger."
"But you don't have a rule at Ohav Shalom about who is too young to use matches. Is that true?"
"No written policy that I'm aware of."
"So, by encouraging Janean and Tybee Morgenstern to light matches, you were not breaking any synagogue rule. That is correct, isn't it?"
"Excuse me," Shirley Delinsky interrupted before Asa could answer. "I'd like to confer with Mr. Corcoran before our client answers that query."
The interference annoyed Sutterfeld. This time he asked Horace Corcoran, "Is she managing the Dominion Mutual case or are you, Mr. Corcoran? I asked a perfectly reasonable question and I expect an answer."
"Congregation Ohav Shalom has a vested interest, as well you know." Shirley Dubinsky intoned. "I don't believe your client would approve of your disrespectful tone to a member of the rabbinate."
"I don't believe you have the slightest idea what my client wants or doesn't want," he responded, his voice raised several decibels. "Now let me continue, if you please."
Both Shirley and Horace rolled their chairs behind Asa to confer in a whisper. A few moments later, Corcoran rotated back to his original position. "Mr. Sutterfeld, with all deference which you obviously do not extend to us, we think your inquiry about encouraging the use of matches begs the question. Encouragement to practice Chanukah rituals is not the same as encouragement to light forest fires. Please recast your question."
The presence of two lawyers protecting Rabbi Folkman irritated Sutterfeld. He knew the question led the rabbi but had hoped it would slip by. Begrudgingly, he rephrased. "Rabbi, by encouraging eight and ten year-old boys and girls to conduct holiday rituals, were you breaking any synagogue rules?"
"No."
"And was your contact with the Morgenstern girls confined to their respective classrooms?"
"No."
"Please tell us where else?" "In my study here at the synagogue."
Sutterfeld's eyebrows rose. This revelation was not new to him but he possessed a flare for drama. "Do you often see eight and ten year-old girls in your study?"
Corcoran whispered to Asa before answering. Then Asa responded. "Would you please define the word often."
"More than once a week," Sutterfeld responded. "Do you meet with your students in your study more than once a week?"
"I'll have to look back over my schedule," Asa replied. "Let's put it this way: this is not a common occurrence."
"And do you close your door?"
"Usually."
"And you're not extra cautious about accusations of inappropriate behavior with young females behind closed doors?"
This he hadn't expected. "Why should I?" he fired back.
"A spiritual leader of this very congregation has been the subject of a major sex scandal. Normally, one thinks of the clergy as extremely cautious by nature. I'm told that these days keeping one's door open is a common professional practice. Do you do that at your firm, Mr. Sutterfeld?"
For a brief instant, Sutterfeld hesitated. "That's irrelevant for this disposition. Just answer the question, Rabbi."
Asa said. "We don't regard that as necessary. The rabbis at Ohav Shalom are trusted. Not a single parent has voiced any suspicions about our reliability."
A disingenuous smile enlarged Sutterfeld's lips. "Of course. So, is it fair to say that you were alone with Janean and Tybee in your study with the door closed?"
"Yes."
"And how did that occasion come about?"
"It was after religious school on a Sunday morning. Probably just before Chanukah. I didn't record the date so I'm not entirely certain which Sunday it was. The Morgenstern sisters approached me in the hallway outside their classroom and asked if I would listen to them recite the Chanukah blessings. They said they wanted to surprise their parents by fulfilling the rituals. I told them I had to see somebody first, but they could go to my study and wait for five minutes and I would meet them there. When I arrived, they were standing outside with a small pamphlet we produce for the children to practice from."
"And how did they come to light the candles?"
"We used a menorah I've possessed for years. We placed it on my desk. Janean, I believe, recited the blessing. Tybee practiced another blessing over bread, which we didn't have. In Jewish practice that's not kosher, because you should never say a blessing without first fulfilling a commandment, such as eating bread immediately after reciting the barachah. But I felt that for instructional purposes we could make an exception. I was impressed because they knew their stuff cold. I hardly made any corrections."
"Did they light the candles in your study?"
"Yes," Asa said, thinking that he was talking more than necessary.
"Again, who lit the candles, Rabbi?" Sutterfeld followed immediately.
"Janean. She was the oldest. It seemed appropriate."
"Why do you say that?"
He had to pause before looking at Corcoran for a signal to go on. A nod of his head was sufficient. Shirley disagreed, trying to get him to change his mind. She had always regarded insurance lawyers as slow witted. Corcoran was far too passive for her tastes, but what could she do?
"Since Janean was the oldest."
"What has age got to do with it, Rabbi? Is it written somewhere in Jewish laws that this is the prerogative of older children?"
"No."
"Might it be because lighting matches is intrinsically dangerous?"
"It might be, but that was immaterial at the time. I was standing next to them. There wasn't any reason to anticipate a fire."
"And did you warn them about the dangers of lighting matches?"
He had been prepared to expect this question because it was critical to the case of negligence against Ohav Shalom. Sutterfeld wanted him to say exactly what he already knew. There was no way of wiggling out without lying. "No." Asa said in a low voice.
Sutterfeld hesitated in order to be certain the stenographer had recorded the answer faithfully, then continued, "Is it not standard procedure at this synagogue not to warn children about the dangers of matches?"
Asa frowned, running the query through his mind. "I'm afraid there are too many negatives in that question. I don't understand."
"Is it synagogue practice to warn your children about the dangers of using fire?" he rephrased reluctantly, aware that the use of negatives to confuse Asa had failed.
"No. I don't think the issue has come up. Nor do we warn them about eating contaminated food or walking though traffic."
"I didn't ask about food or walking, Rabbi Folkman. I want you to confine your answers to my questions and we're talking here about the use of fire. Do you mean that warning the children is done by some teachers and not others?"
"I don't know what our teachers say in their classrooms when teaching about the lighting of candles."
"I repeat, so there's absolutely no confusion on this point, is it true that you don't have a synagogue policy about this?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Could there exist such a policy and you might be ignorant of it?"
"There could. After the tragedy, we checked our Manual of Policies approved the
Board of Directors and found nothing."
"But you do agree that matches can be dangerous, don't you?"
"Objection, Marc." Shirley interjected. "This hair-splitting is unnecessary. It doesn't establish any matter of fact. Your question has been asked and answered."
Sutterfeld glared across the table at his adversary with a predatory eye, forcing civility into his response. "My follow-up question is perfectly acceptable in deposition. I'm only trying to establish Ohav Shalom's practices with regard to lighting matches. Do you have an answer for that, Rabbi?"
A nervous twitch on the corner of Asa's lip emerged. Aware of navigating a carefully constructed minefield, he remained intense. How would his answer play out later? How would the prosecution twist his words to fit their intention? He stammered, "We, we assume the proper place for educating children about life's dangers is in the home. Parents usually instruct their kids long before they come to our school. No doubt such things are also taught in their primary schools."
"And on this specific occasion, sometime in late November, you didn't warn Janean and Tybee Morgenstern about lighting Chanukah candles, even though you had them do it in front of you in your study?"
"I think that's right."
"Why didn't you?"
Asa's nervousness became apparent. His eyes darted from Sutterfeld to the stenographer as he felt the trap closing around him like the sharp daggers of an Iron Maiden during the Inquisition. Why he should have to answer such questions in the first place seemed manifestly unfair. "It didn't occur to me," he blurted and could not stop himself from adding more. "The girls never told me they would attempt to light candles in the absence of their parents. In fact, they made it clear that they very much wanted them around. They wanted to show off their skill. I think they also wanted to surprise them with what they had learned."
"It just didn't occur to you." Sutterfeld paraphrased slowly, then growled his displeasure. "Isn't that a rather serious oversight?"
"Stop!" Shirley Delinsky placed a hand on Asa's forearm. "Just wait a minute." And to Sutterfeld she said, "Marc, you know that's inappropriate. Your client is making a case against the officers of Ohav Shalom on the basis of negligent omission. In deposition you cannot ask a major party in this lawsuit to admit that omission. "
Annoyed at being blocked, he snorted at Asa. "Rabbi, in view of the tragedy that occurred, do you now regret that you didn't warn the Morgenstern children?"
"Excuse me," Shirley interrupted again. "I'm not going to let my client answer that as phrased. His state of mind today is irrelevant to what occurred to the Morgenstern children last November. We all feel terrible about what happened and not one of us in this room doesn't feel regret at not anticipating the tragedy and interceding to prevent it. But that has absolutely nothing to do with any alleged negligence before the accident occurred. Withdraw your question."
Sutterfeld looked to Horace Corcoran who might have allowed the question to slip by. To Asa, he said in a callous manner, "Your explanation for not warning the Morgenstern girls was because it never occurred to you that they might be endangered. Is that true?"
Asa remained silent.
"Well, is it or isn't it?"
"Yes."
"And you didn't think ahead to a scenario in which they might be injured?"
"No."
"But you did know they were planning to light Chanukah candles?"
"Yes. But not without the supervision of their parents."
"And you didn't anticipate that having learned the prayers and knowing how to use matches, they might attempt to do this on their own without parental supervision?"
Asa paused, trying to discern the effect of his answer. Hesitantly, he said, "Yes, that's right."
"Had you warned them about the dangers of using matches, would it have made a difference?"
Asa looked to Corcoran then Delinsky. Neither objected. "I don't know. That's pretty hypothetical, now isn't it?"
"Remember, Rabbi. I'm asking the questions here. But do you think it might have helped?"
"I'm… I'm just not sure even of that." He stuttered, uncertain exactly where Sutterfeld was headed.
"So are you saying that the Morgenstern girls would accept your counsel on how to say the blessings and conduct the ceremonies, but they wouldn't obey you on the matter of lighting matches?"
"I don't believe I'm saying that at all. You're putting words into my mouth, Mr. Sutterfeld."
Sutterfeld's voice smarted with reprimand. "Just answer the question. Do you convey authority on religious rituals and not on matters of fire safety?"
"I'm a rabbi not a bloody fireman."
A ripple of chuckles spread around the conference table. That was not the expected response.
"Would they have heeded your warning, if given?"
"I don't know. Maybe yes and maybe no."
"If they were before you at this very instant, would you attempt to warn them?"
"Knowing what happened, of course, I would. Anybody who cares about children would. But I didn't know then the accident would occur. And I didn't have any idea that David and Laura Morgenstern would be having cocktails when these rituals were performed."
The attorney persevered. "The Fire Marshal's Report says that Chanukah candles were the probable source of the fire. Why it is silent about any rituals before or after the accident?"
"Perhaps Tybee Morgenstern can enlighten you, Mr. Sutterfeld."
Marc Sutterfeld turned to regard the stenographer, waiting until all the words were recorded and nodded approval, as though he now had on the record exactly what he needed to make his case. "Well then, I suggest we take a short break. I've got to make an urgent telephone call and recommend we resume in, say, fifteen minutes. Anybody have any problems with this?"
The air was frigid. Counsel for Ohav Shalom and its rabbi were not happy with the tone of the questioning. Sutterfeld had established himself as a strong advocate who knew how to convince a jury of negligence. As soon as the meeting recessed, Sutterfeld and his associate immediately exited, heading first for a bathroom, then a phone.
Gabby was waiting as Asa and the lawyers left the conference room. She placed a hand on his shoulder for encouragement and said, hatzlachah, for success in Hebrew. "I'm sure you did beautifully; I'm very proud of you."
Asa looked doubtful. "It was wretched. But then I guess you know from personal experience on the witness stand."
"Don't remind me. That was a catastrophe on wheels."
He laughed a hollow laugh. "That's not what I recall. The whole bloody country came to your support. But I'm different. I'm the guy who destroyed two young lives."
"That's about as stupid a thing as I've heard you say."
"My words will read back like a bad novel. I walked squarely into Sutterfeld's trap."
Shirley Delinsky broke from a conversation with Horace Corcoran to encourage Asa. "You did just fine, Rabbi Folkman. Just remember when we resume that you can't win anything in a deposition. But you can lose big time. Try to answer the questions with a simple yes and no. As little explanation as necessary."
Corcoran added over her shoulder. "Marc is wily. He likes to let you hang yourself. I think he wants us to relax so he can come get something bigger than what he's already got."
Asa shook his head to acknowledge that Sutterfeld had him on the ropes and was pounding his ribs with heavy blows. How much longer could he take such punishment before collapsing?
At lunchtime, Gabby again waited outside the conference room for Asa. Corcoran approached her. The lip of his briefcase was secured by no more than his index finger. From under it he withdrew a small ream of stapled papers. "Nelson MeKesson at Dominion Mutual said that your secretary requested a copy of the Fire Marshal's Report. The final draft arrived at company headquarters yesterday. He asked if I would deliver this copy to you personally."
Her eyes dropped over the papers entitled Fire Incident Report, Office of the Fire Marshal for the District of Columbia. 3414 Quebec Road, N.W. Family: Morgenstern.
Personal Injury: Yes. Mortality: Yes.
"Thanks," she said. "I don't suppose there's anything here we don't already know. But I'd like to review the details anyway."
She took Asa's arm, leading him to her study for sandwiches and drinks from a local deli.