CATHERINE, LIAM, EMMA and Britta enter the lobby of the Daley Center. Reporters with their film crews, sound booms, earbuds, mics and aggressive attitudes instantly descend on them like locusts on a wheat field. As Catherine had foretold, multiple questions, statements and accusations are shouted out and echo off the marble walls.
Though instructed to look straight ahead, pass through the security station and proceed directly to the courtroom, Britta pauses to take in the frenzy. She is dazzled. They are all there because of her and she cannot help but express her appreciation for their interest. Indeed, it was her hope from the very beginning to draw attention to Ole Hendricksen and his wartime betrayals. From beneath her wide-brimmed linen hat adorned with straw flowers, she smiles sweetly and nods to each of the reporters as she passes them, like she would to a classroom full of toddlers. “How are you, dear?” she says to a female reporter who has managed to budge in line close to her. Britta also makes it a point to establish eye contact whenever she can, all of which seems to effectuate a shift in the tenor of the verbal exchanges. The reporters begin to address her more politely. The questions are less accusatory and more inquisitive, often preceded by “Please,” and spoken rather than shouted. Though Catherine had counseled against such a parley, Britta seems to be winning the moment.
Liam elbows Catherine. “She may be the most likable ninety-two-year-old in the city,” he says. Nevertheless, even though the reporters’ questions are more polite, they clearly assume that Britta has painted a swastika on Henryks’s property.
Catherine leads Britta to the elevators. When the door slides open, Liam blocks the reporters from coming into the car. Alone for the few minutes it takes to reach the 21st floor, Catherine once again admonishes Britta not to say anything. “You can smile and nod, that’s okay, but please do not respond verbally to the reporters. Let’s just walk directly into the courtroom and take our seats.”
Catherine’s instructions are more easily spoken than followed. Reporters are standing outside the courtroom waiting for the deputy to unlock the door so they can jockey for their seats. Catherine steers Britta to a corner of the hallway by the windows, and Emma and Liam take up position as barriers to keep the reporters at bay. Liam leans over to Emma and says, “I guess we’ll never know for certain what your grandmother did yesterday, and I hope she’s telling us the truth that all she did was take a walk, but I will tell you one thing for sure: she has charmed the pants off these reporters. If Sparks manufactured this stunt in order to generate media publicity, it’s going to backfire on him. She is clearly not the demented, crazy, maniacal witch he has characterized. She’s a sweet old woman everybody loves.”
Emma smiles. “That’s my Bubbe.”
“In the end,” he says, “I doubt it will matter very much what the press thinks. It only matters what the eminent Obadiah Wilson thinks.”
Emma disagrees. “In the early stages of the case, you may be right. But if we actually go to trial, potential jurors who have been following the reports in the press will be influenced. Many will come into court with their minds made up.”
There is a sudden rush as the courtroom door is opened and reporters scramble through to get a seat. Video and photojournalists are prohibited from entering the courtroom by Wilson’s standing order. Catherine, Liam, Emma and Britta hold back until the doorway is cleared and they enter to take their seats at the counsel table. Sparks has not appeared. The first row is reserved for witnesses and, as of yet, it is vacant. There is a low rumble of conversation as everyone gets settled.
The last to arrive, Sterling Sparks makes his grand entrance. He struts in with Ole by his side and the conversations pick up. He is dressed today in a dark gray pinstriped suit, masterfully tailored to his thin body, and complemented by a blaze of colors in his tie and his pocket square. He moves with the grace of a dancer, twirling from side to side to make eye contact with as many as he can. He seats Ole at the plaintiff’s counsel table and begins a quick round of handshakes with reporters he knows. He flashes his Colgate smile and chuckles affectionately, especially at the women. For the moment, Sparks is sailing on his personal sea.
All of this prehearing theater plays on around Britta, but her eyes are fixed on Ole Henryks. Her head and shoulders are turned toward him, and her face is locked in a freeze-frame. If her eyes possessed the mythical quality of beaming fire, Ole would be incinerated on the spot. Ole returns the attention with a quizzical look, as if to say, “Why are you doing these things to me? Why don’t you leave me alone?” This moment is not lost on the reporters. They scramble to make notes on what they will refer to as “The Face-off.” Courtroom artists quickly jot pencil drawings that they will later embellish with watercolors.
The Face-off is not lost on Catherine and Liam either. Britta’s stare is not a look that seeks confirmation of her identification. It is a certainty that bespeaks accusation and judgment day. Though proof of the matter—whether Henryks is indeed a traitor, betrayer and Nazi collaborator—will not be reached until trial, Britta has achieved a stepping-stone toward that goal. She has brought Henryks into the valley of confrontation and created substantial doubt of her guilt in the minds of those present, who now have to wonder whether this sweet woman is telling the truth after all. Thank you, Mr. Sparks, for advancing that day and turning those tables, Catherine thinks.
“All rise.” The corner door swings open, and Judge Wilson enters, preceded by his clerical staff. His appearance is regal. He scans the room with a menacing look and takes his seat on the elevated bench. “I see that there are no standees this afternoon and for that I am grateful. Let me reiterate my earlier warnings for those who may have forgotten: no pictures, no sound recordings, no videos, no talking.” His sonorous baritone comes from deep within his chest, evincing his classical training in voice. As a young man, he considered a career in opera and pursued his studies in New York before the law took him in another direction. The height of his brief operatic career occurred in 1976 when he was the primary understudy for the principal role in Verdi’s Simon Boccanegra. The Playbills for the two Sunday matinees in which he performed are framed and sitting on a shelf in his chambers beside a flattering review from the Times.
Wilson reaches out, opens the case file, removes Sparks’s petition for contempt, and places it on the bench before him. “Will the parties please identify themselves for the record,” he says.
Sparks jumps to his feet. “Sterling J. Sparks, attorney for plaintiff. I am pleased to be joined today by Mr. Ole Henryks, the plaintiff, who is sitting to my right. It is, of course, my petition to hold defendant Britta Stein in contempt of this court for her intentional and—”
“That’ll do,” Wilson says without any emotion, and looks to his right. “Ms. Lockhart, for the record, please.”
She stands. “Catherine Lockhart on behalf of Britta Stein, who is present in court today.” She motions to her left. “I am assisted in this proceeding by attorney Emma Fisher.”
“Has Ms. Fisher entered her appearance?”
“Not yet, your honor.”
He nods again and says, “We’ll note for the record that attorney Emma Fisher also appears for the defendant. May I remind all concerned that I have read the pleading.” He tips his head in Catherine’s direction. “Is the defendant prepared to proceed?”
“Your honor, all of this came on quite suddenly. We were served at noon today, and we have not had adequate time to respond or prepare. Defendant requests a continuance in order to file her written response.”
Wilson shakes his head. “I will certainly allow you to file your written response, and we may end up adjourning to a later date, but I will hear evidence today. On its face, this is a very serious charge. My injunction order was clear. Mrs. Stein was not to approach Mr. Henryks or his establishment. The petition asserts that the defendant intentionally violated that order and painted a Nazi sign on his front steps. Mrs. Stein has a history of painting similar accusations on Mr. Henryks’s property. She has admitted so. For that reason, I extended the temporary restraining order when you were last in court. As I recall, Ms. Lockhart, you did not object to the extension.”
“That is correct, your honor. With regard to today’s petition and its accusations, if an evidentiary hearing were to occur, I anticipate that Mrs. Stein will deny that she violated the order or painted a swastika. But we object to proceeding this afternoon, not only because of short notice but because the petition is defective. If given the right to file our response, we will move to strike and dismiss the petition.”
Sparks laughs loudly. “Defective,” he says. “Oh, I’m sure. Ha! We attached a copy of a picture of the swastika, Ms. Lockhart, in case you didn’t look. It’s there in black and white!”
Wilson rolls his eyes and slams his gavel. “Enough, Mr. Sparks. Tell me, Ms. Lockhart, why is the petition defective?”
“The affidavit supporting the petition—”
“Yep,” interrupts Sparks, popping out of his seat, “it’s supported by an affidavit and it’s signed. The original signature is right there on the petition and Ole Henryks is sitting right here in court.” Sparks swivels around to smile, nod and gaze at the reporters.
Wilson is peeved. “Mr. Sparks, if you interrupt again, I will continue this hearing for six months.”
Sparks quickly sits down. “Sorry, your honor.”
“What about the affidavit Ms. Lockhart? Why is it defective?”
“It is based on information and belief. It doesn’t swear that the facts alleged are true to Mr. Henryks’s personal knowledge.”
Wilson raises his eyebrows and studies the affidavit. He turns to Sparks. “She’s right.”
“But your honor,” Sparks says, “he’s sitting right here. He’ll testify under oath. That’s better than a sworn affidavit. He’ll take the stand, swear to tell the truth and testify to everything in the affidavit. Besides, the defendant is also in court and she’ll testify. I expect her to proudly admit she painted the swastika, just like she boasted about the other Nazi words she painted.”
Wilson pulls on his lower lip as he ponders his next move. “I should make you refile,” he says. “But then we’d all be back here tomorrow and that would be a waste of everyone’s time. I’m deeply concerned that my injunction order may have been intentionally violated and I do want to hear the evidence. Call your first witness, Mr. Sparks.”
“I call Nils Henryks.”
Ole’s son rises from the first spectator row. He is tall, lanky and dressed in a blue blazer over a light blue button-down shirt, open at the collar. He takes long steps and makes his way to the witness stand, where he swears to tell the truth. After a few introductory questions, Nils says, “I was coming to work yesterday about three o’clock. That’s the time I usually get there for my evening shift. As I walked to the front door, I saw it on the ground. You could see it from a block away, it was very large. A Nazi swastika on my father’s front step.”
“Were you surprised?” Sparks asks, and there are several giggles from the spectator gallery.
“Of course I was. I mean, maybe I shouldn’t be, because Mrs. Stein has already painted a half-dozen hateful signs, but yes sir, I was.” He turns his head to the judge. “My father’s no Nazi. He fought the Nazis and helped people escape. I just think this name-calling has got to stop. It upsets him quite a bit.”
“Just answer the questions posed to you,” Wilson says.
Sparks hands Nils the photograph of the swastika. “Did you take this picture yourself?”
Nils nods. “Yes sir. I took it with my phone and printed it out for you.”
“No further questions of this witness.”
Wilson looks down at Catherine. “Cross?”
“Mr. Henryks, the swastika was already on the sidewalk when you arrived, is that your testimony?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“And I think you testified that you were surprised when you saw it on the ground?”
He snickers. “Well, yeah. Wouldn’t you be if it was painted at your law office?”
Catherine is unfazed. “Well, the fact that you were surprised when you saw it on the ground means that you didn’t see someone out there painting it or leaving the scene, did you?”
“No ma’am, I didn’t.”
“Or you would have taken a picture of that person.”
“Yeah. That’s not all I woulda done.”
“We know from prior court proceedings that The Melancholy Dane has security cameras. That’s how you identified Mrs. Stein in connection with the other painted statements, am I right?”
“Yes ma’am.”
Liam is nervous. He knows where Catherine is going and it’s a dangerous path. She is going to ask to see the video of Britta painting the swastika. If they have it, it’s good night Britta, but it’s better to get it out now during the cross.
“Mr. Henryks,” Catherine says, “did you bring a copy of the video with you today, the one showing the person who painted the swastika?”
Nils shakes his head.
“Is that a ‘no’?” Catherine says. “You didn’t bring any video or photographs showing a person painting the swastika?”
“Don’t have a video. The camera is on the side of the building, not in the front. I’m sure that’s why Mrs. Stein painted in the front and not on the side.”
“So, you didn’t see her paint, and you have no photographic proof to offer us today that Mrs. Stein was the person who painted a sign in front of your father’s establishment, am I correct?”
“No, I don’t, but she did it. ’Cause that’s what she does. Who else would defame my father like that?” He points at Britta. “She did it!”
“Move to strike everything he said following ‘No, I don’t,’” Catherine says.
Wilson nods. “It will be stricken. Anything further, Ms. Lockhart?”
“Nothing further for this witness,” Catherine says and sits down.
“Call your next witness, Mr. Sparks.”
With the broad smile of a boy about to eat his chocolate cake, Sparks announces, “Petitioner calls Mrs. Britta Stein to the witness stand.”
Catherine leans over and whispers, “You do not have to answer any questions at all. Remember our discussion.”
Britta nods. “I understand.”
Emma helps her to rise from her seat. She takes her by the elbow and wraps her arm around her waist for support, and they walk to the witness stand.
The clerk administers the oath to Britta, but before Sparks can ask a question, Judge Wilson says, “Mrs. Stein, do you understand what this proceeding is all about this afternoon? Do you understand that you are being accused of violating an order of this court?”
Britta nods and as she does the brim of her hat flops up and down. “I do, sir.”
“Has your attorney fully advised you of your Fifth Amendment protections against self-incrimination?”
“Yes sir, she has.”
Wilson takes a deep breath and says, “Your witness, Mr. Sparks. You may proceed.”
Sparks prances up a few paces and says, “Where were you yesterday afternoon at approximately three o’clock?”
“I was at Belmont Harbor, taking a walk.”
Sparks stifles a snicker. “Did anybody see you there? At Belmont Harbor? At three o’clock?”
“Oh yes, I’m sure they did. There were many people there.”
“What are the names of the people who can testify that you were there?”
“I have no idea.”
“I thought so. You say you went to Belmont Harbor; for what purpose?”
“I enjoy watching the boats. One boat, I think it was the very largest boat in the harbor, was gliding out through the channel on its journey. Very picturesque. Lovely.”
“Right, lovely,” Sparks says amidst a few chuckles. “Would you agree, Mrs. Stein, that you cannot name a single person who could come to this courtroom and verify your alibi that you were watching lovely boats at Belmont Harbor? Agreed?”
Britta shrugs. “I cannot give you a name, but that is where I was.”
Liam stands, whispers to Catherine and dashes out of the courtroom.
Sparks continues. “Isn’t it a fact, madam, that yesterday at approximately three o’clock, you went to The Melancholy Dane and painted a Nazi swastika on the pavement in front of the door?”
“I did not, nor would I.”
“Nor would you?” Sparks laughs out loud, and Wilson slams his gavel. Sparks nods. “I apologize, your honor.” Then to Britta he says in a pointed tone, “You confessed to painting six horrible accusations on my client’s property, but now you say you would never paint a Nazi swastika, is that what you want us to believe?”
“Exactly. When I painted statements on Mr. Hendricksen’s wall, they were my words and they were true. When I wrote ‘Traitor, Betrayer, Informer’ those words were a part of my vocabulary and I used them to express myself. I have never used a Nazi symbol in any expression, because to do so I would have to internalize that symbol; make it a part of my vocabulary. A swastika is the vilest symbol imaginable to a Jewish person. Its use is prohibited in several countries, including Germany, where it is a crime. No practicing Jew would ever choose to adopt a swastika for any personal use whatsoever. It was a sign of exclusion, torture and death. If I had painted that swastika, made it mine for the purpose of expressing my hatred, I would be no better than the Nazis who wore it on their sleeves. I will call Ole Hendricksen a betrayer, a collaborator, and a traitor, and those are my words, but you will never see me use a Nazi symbol; not a swastika, not an SS emblem, not an oak leaf cluster, nor a Totenkopf death’s-head. Never!”
Wilson peers down at Sparks. “Anything further, Mr. Sparks?”
Sparks hesitates. He has another question, but he doesn’t know how she will answer, and there is a strong possibility that he will get burned again. “Not with this witness.”
Liam reenters the courtroom and hands Catherine a note. She smiles.
Wilson says, “Ms. Lockhart, will there be a cross-examination?”
“Yes, your honor. Very brief.” She walks up to the witness stand and says, “Britta, if I say ‘Monica’s Island,’ does that mean anything to you?”
Britta smiles. “Yes, it does. It’s the name of a boat. That is the boat I saw yesterday going on its journey from Belmont Harbor.”
Catherine turns to face the judge. “Your honor, if you will give us a short continuance, I will subpoena the harbormaster at Belmont Harbor. He will testify that the fifty-five-foot cabin cruiser, named Monica’s Island, left its slip yesterday at three o’clock for a trip to New Buffalo, Michigan. He specifically recalls that boat and that hour because it purchased three hundred gallons of fuel before it left.”
“It’s not necessary to subpoena him,” Wilson says and looks at Sparks, who shrugs his shoulders. “Call your next witness, Mr. Sparks.”
“We have no further witnesses, your honor.”
“You rest?”
“We do.”
“Hmm,” Wilson says. “I take it Mr. Henryks is not going to take the stand and testify that he saw the defendant painting the swastika?”
“He wasn’t there at the time.”
Wilson slowly nods his understanding. “Petition denied.”
“But your honor,” Sparks pleads, “this honorable court is obliged to take into consideration a defendant’s pattern of criminal conduct. This court may infer that Mrs. Stein painted that swastika because it is consistent with her past course of conduct.”
“Denied.” Wilson slams his gavel and stands. He is about to leave the bench, when Sparks says, “Your honor, we do not have a trial date set in this matter. Given the volatile atmosphere surrounding this case, it is essential to convene a trial at the earliest possible moment.”
“Volatile atmosphere?”
“Absolutely. My client feels that his life is in danger because of the atmosphere Mrs. Stein has created. Personally, I still believe that she painted the swastika, but if someone else painted it, Mrs. Stein is no less responsible. Her defamatory campaign has turned society against Mr. Henryks, and it’s wrong. As I have said many times, the longer this case lingers on the court’s docket, the more credibility it gathers and the more it will cause Mr. Henryks to suffer. He is entitled to a quick and public resolution. Either Ole Henryks is a Nazi collaborator, or he is not. Either he is a traitor, or he is not. He is entitled to his day in court. Convene a jury and let it do its rightful fact-finding job—decide once and for all if Mr. Henryks is an innocent victim and if Mrs. Stein is guilty of leveling false accusations. Justice requires that this matter be resolved. We demand an immediate trial!”
Wilson sits back down. He strokes his chin and breathes heavily through his nose while he ponders the dilemma. He has heard Sparks’s blustery oratory more times than he cares to remember, but this time, his rants deserve consideration. He tips his head in Catherine’s direction. “Ms. Lockhart, how soon will defendant be prepared to try this case?”
“Soon? Not soon. This case isn’t even at issue; we haven’t filed our answer or our affirmative defense. You gave us thirty days, and they are not due to be filed for eight more days. Thereafter, we intend to engage in thorough discovery as permitted by the rules: depositions, interrogatories, exchange of documents.”
Wilson taps his fingers on the file folder. There is a prolonged pause. Finally, he places both palms on the table. “I’ll tell you what. We’re going to set this matter for status on the day after your pleading is due. At that hearing I will enter a case management order with specific dates. But I can tell you right now, I’m thinking I’ll set a deadline of September 30 for completion of all discovery, with a trial a few months thereafter.”
“But, your honor, we haven’t begun discovery,” Catherine says.
“Then you better get to work.” Wilson taps his gavel and turns to leave the courtroom. “That will be the order.”
The reporters are all standing, gathering up their notepads, getting ready to call in their stories when Sparks turns and loudly addresses them all. His face is red. “She may have been able to slip one by today with that cute boat trick,” he says, “but I want you all to keep in mind she was caught and has confessed to painting six defamatory remarks on my client’s wall. No boats are going to get her out of that. Trust me, in a very few months you will all come and witness a trial, there will be a huge verdict, and the only boat you’ll be talking about will be the Titanic.”
Catherine rolls her eyes. There are chuckles skittering through the gallery. On the way out of the courtroom, several reporters take the time to shake Britta’s hand and wish her well.