CHAPTER 7

FRIDAY, APRIL 17, 1981

 

-1-

 

Judge Simon Gomita banged his gavel to quiet the court-room so that Avram Levy’s bail hearing could begin. Appointed to the bench in 1967, Gomita heard only criminal matters and had earned the respect of both defense counsel and prosecutors. He knew the law, let attorneys try their own cases, and didn’t reject legal arguments because of their novelty. The chief justice of the Superior Court routinely assigned the most sensitive cases to him because he was thorough, discreet, and rarely reversed on appeal. Exempted from military service because of a medical deferment, he had the physical stature of a man who could still fit into the uniform he never wore and an intellectual curiosity about military tactics and strategy ranging from The Battle of Algiers to Sun Tzu’s The Art of War to Homer’s Iliad to the latest theories of mutual assured destruction. Dr. Strangelove was his favorite movie.

The court-room’s air conditioning did not temper the emotions of the mob that competed for the few seats reserved for the public. People crawled over each other like rats swarming through the tunnels of Boston’s archaic subway system. An elbow to the sides here, a kick to the ankle there, and another body shoehorned itself in, adding to the sweat and stink of the overcrowded room. Talk of a public lynching suppurated the air, one noose for Levy, a second for Maddie Devlin. The more militant argued for the guillotine or the rack or both.

Boston’s Tactical Police Force, in riot gear including masks in case they had to deploy tear gas, patrolled the court-room and adjacent corridors. The Massachusetts State Police had responsibility for the rest of the building. Observers from the U.S. Department of Justice monitored the hearing, equating Boston with Birmingham or Jackson and Massachusetts with Alabama or Mississippi in the early 1960s, another of the aftermaths of court-ordered busing. Although Massachusetts had abolished the death penalty, one of the many concerns of the Department of Justice was that someone would take the law into his own hands and that neither Boston nor the Commonwealth would exert itself to prevent vigilante justice. Mayor Charlie did not understand how federal monitors could prevent an assassination, but he understood his constituency and knew that if secession were put to a vote, it would easily carry the city. His private polls showed him a lock to be Massachusetts’s next United States Senator.

A spectator scrawny to the point of emaciation with long stringy hair tipped with beads and wearing a Free Bobby Sands tee shirt mouthed an obscenity and gave Maddie the finger. Bobby Sands. She had lost count of the number of days into his hunger strike. From Robert Emmet to Bobby Sands to me, she thought, the line seemed more direct than ever. Before the spectator could lower his hand, Gomita slammed down his gavel and ordered him jailed for contempt of court, remanding him to custody pending a hearing scheduled for Wednesday, May 13th, which, Gomita said with a loud, clear voice and fear-inducing snarl, was the earliest opening on his calendar.

About one hour into Levy’s bail hearing, Assistant District Attorney Don Miguel Bonturo called Professor Husam al din al-Saffah as his next witness. Maddie had anticipated this, prepared for it, but not for al-Saffah’s guise. A dark, gaunt figure, cloaked in black, mounted the witness stand. The glow of the whites of his eyes exaggerated the coal pits of his pupils. A jagged scar split his cheek like a lightning bolt in the night sky or a firebreak in a forest. He reminded Maddie of the devil in “Night on Bald Mountain” and the weeks of nightmares she had after seeing Fantasia.

“I object, Your Honor,” she said before al-Saffah settled into the chair on the witness stand. “Relevancy.”

Gomita harrumphed, one of the warnings he gave counsel when his patience was beginning to fray. “Mr. Bonturo.”

“The witness is a professor of Semitic studies who is an expert in comparative religions.” Bonturo’s head squatted on his shoulders as if his neck had been surgically excised. His face was pie-shaped, flat, two dimensional, his nose and the grotto between his lower lip and the point of his chin the only features with a third dimension. People called him “Fireplug” and joked about dogs mistaking him for a hydrant. Others spread rumors he worked his way through law school as a tackling dummy for the New England Patriots. Those with pretensions said he looked like an early Picasso cubist portrait. Bonturo did not realize he was being insulted. To him, being ragged was an expression of camaraderie and a sign of his acceptance into the fraternity of attorneys. “He will testify,” Bonturo continued, “about the peculiar historical and religious aspects of this crime.”

“This is a bail hearing,” Maddie said. “Not a trial.”

“Let me review the bail statute,” Gomita said, bending over a statute book taken from the shelf behind him.

The hearing lapsed into a state of suspended animation. Maddie counted down from one hundred. Bonturo doodled. Reporters made notes. Television sketch artists worked on background scenes. Al-Saffah bowed his head, folded his hands. The police scanned the room, alert for sudden or suspicious movements. Court officers armed with handguns flanked Levy, ready to subdue or restrain him, or, if necessary, defend or protect him. Within limits. They had decided among themselves no one would take a bullet for the Jew. Catch the assassin? If they could. Submit him to the criminal justice system? If they caught him. Intercept his bullet? No. Never. Levy shifted his weight. His chains clanged. The court officers jumped. Bonturo sniggered. One of the Justice Department observers whispered into a micro recorder. Maddie’s countdown reached thirty-three. Gomita returned the statute book to its shelf.

“Ms. Devlin,” the judge said. “Could you foresee any circumstances under which Mr. Levy would jump bail before trial?”

Maddie adjusted the goose-neck of the microphone on the lectern reserved for defense counsel. The only sound in the court-room was the soft tapping of the court stenographer’s machine. Maddie wished someone would cough or sneeze. Her answer, she knew from previous appearances before Judge Gomita, would lead to another question and every answer thereafter to another until her final answer was the same as Gomita’s conclusion. She measured her words with care knowing the choice of an imprecise word would weaken her argument or, worse, cause it to be misinterpreted or misunderstood. Simple language, she decided, would be best. “If Massachusetts had not abolished the death penalty and if the evidence against Mr. Levy were air tight, he would have nothing to lose by jumping bail; but the death penalty has been abolished and the evidence is not air-tight.”

Titters cascaded throughout the court-room until Gomita gaveled them to silence. “He is charged with a crime punishable by mandatory life imprisonment. Why would that not be incentive to jump bail?”

“The law does not deal in hypotheticals, Your Honor. Especially the criminal law. Anything is possible, but very little is beyond a reasonable doubt.”

“Is that the evidentiary standard at a bail hearing?”

“Mere possibility is not the standard.”

“Neither is ‘beyond a reasonable doubt.’ I am required to admit a defendant to bail unless I determine, in the exercise of my discretion, releasing him will not reasonably assure his appearance at trial. In order to make that finding, I must determine whether Mr. Levy’s perception of the likelihood of conviction and subsequent sentencing is such that he will flee. Why isn’t the testimony of this witness relevant to that inquiry?”

“Because until this witness testifies, Mr. Levy will not know what his testimony will be. The testimony itself may change Mr. Levy’s perceptions. If he is not likely to flee now, he can-not be held without bail because you admit testimony in his presence at this hearing which manufactures the likelihood of flight. It’s a form of entrapment which is contrary to law both for the police and for judges.”

“I could sequester him,” Gomita said.

Maddie wished Gomita would. It would violate Levy’s constitutional right to confront the witness against him. Gomita, unfortunately, was too astute to make such a fundamental mistake.

Gomita continued, “Mr. Levy may not know what this witness’s testimony will be, but he may know from other sources the information the witness will provide.”

“In that case, it should be excluded as being so inflammatory as to be prejudicial.”

“Are you suggesting I will be swayed by inflammatory evidence?”

“You are not the only audience. This witness’s testimony may be inaccurately reported by the press and misunderstood by the public. They may become even more enraged, which will incite further action by Bumper’s Brigade and make it impossible to select an impartial jury for trial.”

“Are you prepared to waive your request for bail?”

“Are you prepared to close this hearing to the public?”

“No.” Gomita’s voice froze the humidity in the court-room.

Maddie glanced around. She did not see Moskovitzky or Rabbi ben Reuben. Hornstein smirked. C. J. Ant nodded approval. Michelle Furey smiled. Levy had the expression of someone listening to a speech in a foreign language. If bail were denied by the court rather than waived by defense counsel, Maddie would be beyond reproach. Yes, it was form over substance. Yes, it was faking the good fight. That would be her strategy, to appear beyond reproach, to be beyond reproach. “No, Judge. The defendant will not waive his request reasonable bail be set.”

“I am inclined to let this witness testify provided Mr. Bonturo can qualify him as an expert in comparative religion.”

“Please note my objection for the record.”

The rules of trial were so courtly. No matter what Maddie thought of a judge or his ruling, she registered her opinion by asking the judge to note her objection for the record. This simple phrase could mask contempt, disgust, dismay, disbelief, and on rare occasions, merely dissatisfaction. Experienced trial counsel mastered the skill of mouthing this simple phrase in a monotone which never varied, which never revealed their true reaction unless they intended it to. She was better at this than Bonturo, who announced his objections like a batter arguing a called third strike with a blind umpire. Like those batters, he had been thrown out of the game more than once, held in contempt, fined, threatened with imprisonment. Maddie hoped she could bait him into erupting without Gomita realizing what she was doing.

“We’ll take the morning recess now,” Gomita announced, “and reconvene in fifteen minutes.”

The court officers flanking Levy closed ranks around him, keeping everyone away save for Maddie who tried to explain why she did not waive bail. The more she talked, the blanker his expression became until she excused herself to use the ladies’ room. Security accompanied her. As the recess dragged on, those who had rushed to buy coffee or use the bathrooms drifted back. Reporters lined up at the pay phones to transmit preliminary stories to their copy editors. Television news personalities primped and preened in preparation for taping background filler to use on the evening news. Attorneys joked about the judge being on the phone with his stockbroker or his bookie or arranging an afternoon tee time or an illicit liaison at the Parker House. Maddie refused all requests for interviews. By the time the recess reached thirty minutes, Rabbi ben Reuben and Moskovitzky had arrived.

“Predictable,” Maddie said in response to the rabbi’s question. “Charlie Sullivan described the appearance of the library when he found Bumper’s body and identified the skull-cap he found under the chair. Forensics described the tests it did on the hair found in the seam and on one of Levy’s hairs and concluded both came from the same head. The coroner gave his report on the cause and time of death. Bonturo called Professor Husam al din al-Saffah as an expert on comparative religions and Gomita overruled my objection. The court’s been in recess since then.”

Moskovitzky handed Maddie a thick file. She had time only to scan the first few pages before the hearing resumed.

In response to Bonturo’s well-planned and well-phrased questions, a selective biography of al-Saffah was entered in the court record: degrees from universities in Cairo and Beirut; teaching appointments to the Arab-American school in Saudi Arabia and Leeds, one of the lesser British universities; publication of numerous books and articles comparing the Semitic religions and explicating the influence of Christianity on their development–the normal indicia of a professor asked to testify in court as an expert concerning his academic specialty. Al-Saffah answered each question with precision and conviction as if he were trying to convince the court and the media he belonged on the faculty of Harvard rather than that of a secondary commuter campus of a state university. Bonturo had woodshedded him well.

“Do you wish to cross-examine on qualifications?” Gomita asked when Bonturo finished.

Maddie positioned herself at the lectern. “How, when, did you get your facial scar?”

“Objection!” Bonturo’s face reddened.

“It’s a foundation question, your Honor.”

“You may have it de bene.”

Al-Saffah caressed the scar with the nubs of his missing fingers. “I do not remember not having this scar.”

“Does June, 1937, refresh your recollection?”

“I received my degree from Beirut that year.”

“May I approach, Your Honor?” Gomita nodded and Maddie walked slowly to the witness stand, leaned against the railing next to al-Saffah’s chair, and looked directly into his eyes. Images of Fantasia flashed through her mind. Willing herself not to break eye contact, she removed a page from Moskovitzky’s file and held it so the blank side faced al-Saffah, then paused as if she were reading it. “Is it not true, Professor, you suffered your facial scar and lost your fingers in a terrorist raid on a Jewish stone quarry in Haifa in June, 1937?” She lay the sheet of paper face down on the railing.

“Objection!” Bonturo shouted, half-rising from his chair.

“Bias, Your Honor. The defendant is Jewish and the precise accusation against him, a blood libel, is made only against Jews. This witness has a history of anti-Semitic terrorist activities. This history is essential to your consideration of his credibility.”

“You may have the question.”

“I am a professor of Semitic studies. I have spent my life studying comparative religions, the ways in which people record and interpret God’s revelations.”

“Perhaps the British Parliament debates of July, 1937 concerning the Peel Commission Report will refresh your recollection. Are you the same Husam al din al-Saffah who is mentioned so prominently?”

“Zionist lies.”

Maddie withdrew the sheet of paper and returned to the counsel table. She picked up a report prepared by the rabbi comparing and contrasting Judaism and Islam, then paused until she sensed Gomita’s anticipation was edging toward impatience. Impatience tended to defeat the yawns of boring testimony and focus the attention of judges. It was analogous, C. J. Ant had once explained, to a partially clothed woman being sexier, more alluring, than a naked one. When she had hooked Gomita, she asked her next question. “Islam and Judaism are both Semitic religions, are they not?”

“Yes,” al-Saffah replied.

“Abraham is a patriarch of both religions?”

“Yes.”

“Both religions share many common beliefs?”

“Yes.”

“But their development diverged?”

“Yes. Allah sent his messenger Muhammad to purify the corruption of Abraham’s religion caused by Jews and Christians.”

“And your mission in life is to speed up the purification process, is it not? No further questions.” She looked directly at him. I’m digging up your past, her eyes said, and this morning I’ve put the first skeletons on display.

“The witness qualifies as an expert,” Judge Gomita ruled. “As defense counsel so ably reminded me, the issue of bias goes to his credibility and the weight to be given his testimony, not its admissibility. Proceed, Mr. Bonturo. You may have your objection, Ms. Devlin.”

Maddie glanced at Rabbi ben Reuben and Moskovitzky. The night before in the rabbi’s study they had educated her on the history of the blood libel accusation to prepare her to cross-examine al-Saffah, reviewing with her the litany of false accusations that Jews murdered young Christian boys for their blood to bake Passover matzoh: Norwich, England in 1144; Blois, France in 1171; southwestern Germany between 1336 and 1338; Poland in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries and again in the first half of the eighteenth; Russia in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries; the Damascus affair of 1840; the Beiliss trial in Russia in 1913; and the Massena, New York incident in 1928.

“Five popes,” the rabbi had explained, “denounced blood libel accusations as false: Innocent IV, Gregory X, Martin V, Paul III, and Clement XIV. Confiscation of Jewish property and the aggrandizement of the local church and clerics inevitably followed blood libel accusations, both of which suffered from extreme poverty before the accusation and enjoyed comfortable wealth after.”

“The cases,” Moskovitzky had said, resting his elbows on the rabbi’s desk, “are nothing more than contrivances engineered by recognized anti-Semites to legitimize looting.”

“Not one allegation of blood libel,” the rabbi had added, “has been proven in the nine hundred years the accusation has been utilized to justify violence against Jews and forfeiture of their property.”

“So what?” Maddie had replied. “The falsity of a blood libel accusation in Norwich, England in 1144 does not establish Levy’s innocence in Boston, Massachusetts, in 1981.”

Now, Bonturo asked his next question, raising his voice for the benefit of the judge, the police, the reporters, the spectators. “Professor al-Saffah. Please explain the historical and religious significance of the blood libel accusation, and its relevance to the murder charge against Avram Levy.”

Al-Saffah took a deep breath. He, too, Maddie thought, knows how to bait his audience. “I’ve made a careful and complete study of the historical record. Most commonly, this accusation is made when a Christian child disappears and cannot be found. A suspect is apprehended, always Jewish, and his property is confiscated. Then, as if by miracle, the child reappears and provides the evidence necessary to convict the accused. Symbolically, it is a reenactment of the crucifixion and resurrection. From a practical viewpoint, it is a mechanism to transfer and redistribute wealth and property.”

“In your expert opinion,” Bonturo asked, “is this explanation correct?”

“No. It is a false explanation fabricated by the Jews themselves to make them appear persecuted and to mask the real reason for their ritual murders.”

“Please explain.”

“The purpose of this false explanation is to mislead people into believing the crime did not occur.”

Gomita wrote furiously in his notebook. Maddie habitually watched judges to gauge their reaction to testimony. When a judge’s attention wavered, she changed her line of questioning or, sometimes, called a different witness. If the testimony were essential to her case, she moved around the court-room until she was in the judge’s line of sight. Gomita’s undisguised interest in al-Saffah’s testimony worried her. It was a gauge of its persuasiveness. Judges did not daydream through testimony likely to influence their decisions. Bonturo paused to let Gomita finish taking notes.

“Are you saying Jews do engage in ritual murder but offer a false explanation as proof they do not?”

“Objection,” Maddie said. “Leading the witness.”

“This is a bench hearing, Ms. Devlin. You may have the question, Mr. Bonturo.”

“Precisely,” al-Saffah said. “By convincing everyone the historical explanation is false the Jews mislead them into believing the ritual murder did not occur.”

Gomita stopped taking notes. Another bad sign. He was not losing interest. On the contrary, his interest was so heightened he did not want to distract himself with note taking. He had the court stenographer’s transcript to fall back on.

Bonturo paused, as if he were an actor playing an attorney in the movies or on television. “Based on your study of the historical record, in your expert opinion what is the correct historical explanation for the occurrence of blood libel murders?”

Gomita leaned toward the witness. Maddie did likewise.

“The truth has been hinted at by those who observe that these crimes always occur near Passover. Not because Jews use Christian blood to make matzoh. They don’t. The truth goes back much further than 1144. It goes back to the significance of Passover for Jews. Blood and death are central elements of the Passover story.”

Al-Saffah’s testimony wove a spell over the court-room. The reporters at the press table, the sketch artists, the spectators, the police, the court officers, the monitors from the Department of Justice, the rabbi, Moskovitzky, Maddie, Levy, Bonturo, Gomita, everyone listened with the intensity of acolytes awaiting a divine revelation. The court stenographer, a veteran of many trials, recorded every word. Her smile hinted at her dreams about the things she would buy with the money she would make selling copies of the transcript, a new car: a Cadillac, first and foremost. All eyed al-Saffah.

“While Egyptians held the Jews in bondage,” al-Saffah continued, “the Egyptians hurled their sons into the Nile River.”

”Whose sons?” Gomita interrupted.

“The sons of the Jews. This is commemorated at the seder by mixing red wine, symbol of the blood of infants, into the haroses.” Al-Saffah spoke slowly. “When God, as it is set forth in the Old Testament fable, visited the ten plagues on Egypt, the tenth plague was the slaughter of the Egyptian first born. Jewish first born were saved because God instructed the Jews to mark the lintels of their doors with the blood of the Paschal Lamb so He would pass over their homes. To this day, the first born sons of Jewish families fast and pray the day before Passover to commemorate this.

“The Passover story is retold every year at the seder,” al-Saffah continued, “and stresses the obligation of every Jew to memorialize the experience of his forefathers on the night they left Egypt by reenacting it. Eating matzoh is part of this, but Christian blood is not part of the recipe for matzoh. This superficial explanation distracts us from fully comprehending how Passover is celebrated.”

“Is it your expert opinion,” Bonturo asked, “that Jews have been engaging in the ritual murder known as the blood libel as part of their observance of Passover since the Exodus because of the commandment that they must reenact the experiences of their ancestors on the night of their departure from Egypt?”

“Objection. Leading the witness.”

“A bench hearing, Ms. Devlin.”

“Preserving my objection for appeal.”

“Of a bail hearing? Overruled.”

“Yes. By committing blood libels, they are reenacting the slaying of the first born sons of the Egyptians.”

“Your witness,” Bonturo said to Devlin.

“Will you finish up before lunch?” Gomita asked.

“No, Your Honor.”

“We shall recess now so you can proceed without interruption. Court will reconvene at precisely two p.m.”

 

-2-

 

Four court officers escorted Levy to one of the holding cells in the basement of the New Court House. Built during the Great Depression as a public works project, it was called the New Court House to distinguish it from the Old Court House built several generations earlier. As an example of architecture, it had the character of the political hacks who had profited from its construction. As a building, it had their quality. Like most Massachusetts public construction projects, decay had set in about the time of the ribbon cutting at the dedication ceremony. Now, some fifty years later, the trial bar dubbed the New Court House Jericho as they waited for the clap of thunder or the truck backfire that would cause its walls to come tumbling down.

Narrow and cramped, the basement holding cells lacked furniture except for a bench built into the wall and sandpapered smooth by fifty years of prison denim. A guard positioned a paper plate with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the floor outside the bars. With his foot, he lined it up with the opening at the bottom of the door. Starch sharpened the creases in his uniform. His boots, steel tipped, ideal for kicking hapless prisoners, rode up his legs to just below the knees. His tie rested on the bulge of his belly like a bib on a pudgy baby. He looked like an extra in a bad World War II movie.

“Is the Jew hungry?” the guard taunted. He nudged the plate along the floor like a hockey player moving a puck up ice, then kicked it with the instep of his boot. The plate skimmed along the floor before hitting Levy’s foot. The sandwich caromed into a mound of dust neatly collected under the bench by a previous detainee. “Enjoy.” The guard winked.

Levy rested his arms on his lap. His muscles ached from the weight of the steel bands around his wrists and the chains binding his wrists to his waist and ankles. The chains chafed his skin and he had the urge to scratch. When he was young, he scratched insect stings and bites until his arms bled. Skin stuck to his sleeves when the blood dried. His mother bandaged him with love then, and he wondered if she would love him now. He forced his fingers beneath the wrist band and dug his fingernails into his raw skin. The more he scratched, the more it itched. The more it itched, the greater the pain. The greater the pain, the harder he scratched. His skin split open and blood smeared his arm. His mother would not come and soak away this blood, nor clean and bandage this wound, nor feed him chicken soup, scold him with a smile, comfort him with a hug. He thanked Hashem his mother of blessed memory had not lived to see this day.

 

-3-

 

In the conference room at Suffolk County Legal Services, Maddie, Rabbi ben Reuben, and Moskovitzky pondered the logic of al-Saffah’s testimony. Maddie spread a lunch of apple slices, honey, cheese, hard rolls and coffee on the conference table. The rabbi nibbled at a piece of bread, collecting the crumbs from the hard crust as if he were saving them for another meal. Moskovitzky dipped an apple wedge in the honey, then set it aside. Usually doing well in court made Maddie hungry, but the heat still sapped her appetite.

“We need a golem like in Chelm and Prague,” Moskovitzky said

“He’s making a leap of faith and disguising it as a logical conclusion,” the rabbi said.

“I can’t cross-examine a leap of faith,” Maddie said.

“Think it through,” the rabbi said. “First, he testifies Jews have contrived a false explanation to deceive the public into believing a ritual murder has not occurred; then he says there was a ritual murder and offers the real explanation. How can that be?”

Maddie said, “Saying there was no murder doesn’t mean there was no murder. People once said the world was flat. Saying so didn’t make it flat.”

“Flat, schmat,” Moskovitzky said. “She should care, her and my grandson.” He picked up a hard roll and tried to tear off a piece, then put it down.

“What would Howard Kaplan do?” Maddie asked. “What would you do?” she said to Moskovitzky.

“Force him to answer the rabbi’s question.”

“I’m going to waive cross-examination and rest without putting in any defense.”

“You’re condemning Avram to prison,” the rabbi said.

Maddie sipped some coffee to build a pause into the conversation. Silence created anxiety and anticipation. Anxiety and anticipation created good listeners. She needed two good listeners. The deaf were rarely persuaded. She took another sip of coffee. “Suppose I cross-examine al-Saffah or the rabbi testifies and we manage to cast reasonable doubt on his testimony. First, that’s not the standard of evidence at a bail hearing. Second, Bonturo still has his suicide argument. Third, al-Saffah would gain the benefit of experiencing cross-examination. Fourth, Bonturo would gain the benefit of hearing the rabbi testify. Fifth, Levy would gain nothing because he won’t be bailed no matter what we do. Trial is war. You choose your battlefield, sacrifice a battle when necessary to win the war, and you never expose your flank.”

“What I would expect from a lawyer who thinks her client is guilty,” Moskovitzky said.

“Wishful thinking has reduced your doubts to a scintilla.”

“If you were defending Robert Emmet,” Moskovitzky replied, “would you be so cold and clinical?”

“As cold. As clinical.”

“I’ve been an attorney,” Moskovitzky said, “almost twice as long as you’ve been alive and I’ve learned there are times when moral principles, not the individual client, come first. This is one of those times.”

“The public isn’t the client,” Maddie said. “History isn’t the client. The only client who matters is Avram Levy and the only audience that matters is Judge Gomita today, the jury tomorrow. Disclosing defenses at a preliminary hearing prejudices Kaplan’s ability to try this case. Find some other way to rebut al-Saffah. Call your own press conference. Hire a PR firm. Co-opt the media. But do not tell me what I should or should not do inside that court-room.”

“Resign now,” Moskovitzky said. “I’ll take over.”

Maddie said, “You’ll do more harm than good.”

“She may be right, Jacob.”

“Age has made you weak,” Moskovitzky replied.

“Of body, but not of mind.” With his little finger, the rabbi swept the bread crumbs into a tiny pyramid. “You speak of moral principles, Jacob, as if we were Talmudic scholars debating some fine point of scripture. We are not in the bet sefer. We are on the battlefield. At war. We are fighting to survive. Our survival is our best and only way to defend moral principles. Is that not the lesson of the Passover story?

“Ms. Devlin. After today’s testimony, you must have a strange notion of what a seder is. Please join Jacob and me at the first seder tomorrow night.”

“No. I’m sorry. I couldn’t.”

“You’re not curious?”

Maddie’s heartbeat accelerated. She breathed deeply to mask her anxieties. If Levy’s name were Emmet, she would not, like an informer, allow herself to be bought off by the promise of a few pieces of silver. If Levy were Emmet, the skull-cap would be a plant, al-Saffah’s involvement a frame-up. She felt as jumbled as a child trying to understand the difference between a lie and a white lie or a truth and a half-truth. She longed for the simplicity of certainty, the comfort of the absolute, the bright line of black-letter law; but, even more, she longed for some sign she was doing the right thing.

Maddie gathered the refuse from the uneaten lunch–apple slices turning brown, cheese sweating from the heat, lukewarm coffee, the pyramid of crumbs–and stuffed it into a brown paper bag. “We have to get back to court.”

 

*

 

Judge Gomita denied Levy bail because, as he explained, he was convinced Levy would flee if released. At Maddie’s request and over Bonturo’s objection, he agreed to report a question of law to the Single Justice session of the Supreme Judicial Court.

“May I have until next week, your Honor?” Maddie asked.

“Wednesday. Eleven o’clock a.m.”

 

-4-

 

Michelle Furey walked Maddie to her car which was parked on the roof top level of the Government Center parking garage. Walking down New Sudbury Street, Maddie wanted to hold Furey’s hand, but the windows of the District 1 police station on one side of the street, the JFK building on the other, stared down at her, at them, with divine disapproval, reminding her of the eyes of the nuns who terrorized her in parochial school if she were not deemed devout enough. Maddie had enough turmoil in her life and she didn’t need the additional aggravation that would come from being seen in public holding hands with a woman. Nor the turmoil of Michelle Furey’s refusal to hold her hand. She was fleeing to Washington, she now understood, not only for the money, but to avoid being rejected by Furey. She opened her car doors to allow the heat to escape.

“Tough morning,” Furey said.

“’Bout what I expected,” Maddie replied. “Brandeis himself wouldn’t bail this defendant.”

“What now?”

“It’s Howard Kaplan’s problem.”

“Who?”

“Some handpicked Jew attorney taking over the case.”

“And you?”

“Washington office of the Mosca firm.”

“Just like that?”

“Come to D.C. with me.” The words escaped before Maddie knew what she was saying.

“My life’s here. My parents. Sister and brother. My practice.”

“I’ve got to get out before Boston eats me alive.”

“The sow that eats her own children.”

“There’s the Washington shuttle,” Maddie said. “Trains to New York where we can meet half-way. It’s not the end of the world.”

“Is this good-bye?” Furey asked.

“If it is, you’re saying it, not me.” Maddie tossed her brief-case into the front seat of her car. “I can’t stay in Boston. It’s suffocating me.” She reached out to hug Furey, but Furey stepped to the side. “It’s not you, Michelle. It’s Boston.”

“Boston. Boston. How convenient to blame Boston. Go to Washington. I’m sure you’ll have your pick of the single women on the Hill. The married ones, too.”

“I don’t want ‘women.’ I only want you.”

“Then stay.”

“I can’t.”

“You’re saying good-bye, not me.”

From across the roof of the parking garage, Maddie watched Furey step into the elevator and the elevator doors close behind her. She leaned against the car door to regain her equilibrium. She felt like a piece of molten iron on an anvil being pounded into shape by heat’s hammer.

Maddie crawled into the front seat, closed the car doors. A straitjacket of heat imprisoned her. Driving home, Furey’s voice accompanied her on every radio station she tuned in, AM or FM, talk or all-news or all-sports or easy listening or oldies or rock or classical. On Suzy’s Swap Shop, Furey offered one soul, used, with years of penance ahead of it in exchange for a power lawn mower and two hundred feet of garden hose. On Sports Boston, Furey’s voice assured the host that the Celtics, now led by a great white hope, would win the NBA championship. On Cousin Brucie’s Top 40 Countdown, Furey’s voice dedicated every song to an Irish lassie identified only by her initials, MAD.

Maddie shut off the radio and still Furey’s voice accompanied her. She inserted a tape in the tape deck; Furey’s voice. She ejected the tape; Furey’s voice. It was as inescapable as the tap of the valve lifters in her engine, the screech of her power steering when she turned a corner, the squeal of her brakes when she stopped for traffic, the tea stains in the fabric of the front seat.

May fire and brimstone, Furey’s voice said, ne’er fail to fall in showers upon you. May every woe that e’er marred mankind dance upon your dish. May the devil cut off your head and make eternity’s work of your heart. May the flames through which your soul wanders be bigger than the Connemara Mountains were they on fire. May you die without a priest in a town without a church. It is said, Furey’s voice continued, you should never rest your eyes beyond what is your own, whether awake or asleep. Did you dream last night of serpents, dragons, and other water beasts? Or, of great birds who arrive bearing honey and depart with plume bloody? The day will come when your arms are bony and thin, your cheeks withered and weathered, your hair gray and thatched with age; the day will come when you drink whey and water with shriveled hags, not mead and wine with warriors and kings; the day will come when you seek the way to the house of judgment. On that day the Son of God will come and claim payment of your debt.

And unsung will be your bones. And unsung will be your bones.

All this and more Furey’s voice proclaimed.