The Mourning Sexton Read Online Free PDF Page A

Hirsch had heard somewhere that Rosenbloom had multiple sclerosis, he'd never accepted the debilitating reality until he saw his Sancho hauling himself through the doorway of the restaurant on the walker.
    Over a platter of linguini with red clam sauce, Rosenbloom had read through the terms of the Missouri Supreme Court's reinstatement order. When he finished, he wiped his chin with a napkin, broke off a piece of Italian bread, and shrugged.
    “There must be an empty chair somewhere in my office. Until Sharon Stone passes the bar, I might as well stick your sorry ass in it.”
    These days, Rosenbloom was confined to a wheelchair from the disease that gradually, inexorably, whittled away his bulk and darkened his moods. As courtroom appearances became more difficult, Hirsch had increasingly become his legs. He handled about half of the firm's bankruptcy docket, representing debtors at the creditors meetings and at the hearings to approve their wage-earner plans.
    Hirsch said, “It's easier to eat your opponent's liver when you have the facts on your side.”
    “Don't worry. As Don Quixote teaches, ‘Fortune always leaves some door open to come at a remedy.'”
    “As I recall, he also teaches that many go out for wool and come home shorn themselves.”
    Rosenbloom was grinning. “So? Just keep your eyes peeled for badass shepherds toting shears.”

CHAPTER 4

    H is Honor's secretary had a prim moon face, penciled eyebrows, and gray hair gathered in a neat bun. A pair of reading glasses hung from a gold cord around her neck. The scent of talcum powder reminded him of his grandmother.
    She gave him a tidy smile. “The judge is still in his three o'clock pretrial. I shouldn't think it will be much longer.”
    Hirsch took a seat, opened his briefcase, and removed some of the files for the next day's creditors meetings. He tried to focus.
    He'd been edgy ever since the judge's secretary called two days ago to schedule the meeting. Given that Hirsch had no case before Judge McCormick and hadn't spoken with him in more than a decade, the request had seemed almost out of the blue.
    Almost.
    But not quite.
    He'd been thinking about setting up his own meeting with McCormick. Even though he kept putting it off, he knew a meeting was inevitable.
    The first time he'd almost called McCormick was an hour before he filed the lawsuit. His secretary had just finished the final revisions to the petition and come in with the original, three copies, and the check for the filing fee. He'd stared at the petition, shaking his head over the slapdash nature of it all. Cobbling together a lawsuit on the very last day was contrary to everything he'd learned and everything he'd practiced during all those years as a federal prosecutor and a partner at Marder McFarlane—years when nothing was done slapdash, when every court filing, no matter how routine, was carefully vetted.
    He'd checked his watch that afternoon. Quarter to four. The courthouse was just a ten-minute walk, which meant he still had almost an hour's leeway. Paging through the petition, he'd wondered whether there was anything else he should do—could do—before the deadline. He'd read Abe Shifrin's file, of course, and he'd done a quick review of the case law and researched the identities of the registered agents for each of the defendants. He'd done all that and he'd drafted the lawsuit and suddenly the mad blur of preparation had slowed to the sharp focus of the telephone on his desk.
    He'd stared at the phone—stared and mulled over whether to call Brendan McCormick.
    Minutes had passed in silence
    And then he'd gathered the court papers and headed for the elevator.
    The docket clerk stamped the date and time on the first page of the petition: December 18, 4:37 P . M . As of that moment, his meeting with the only eyewitness in the case became inevitable. He'd be conducting an interview of Brendan McCormick, and eventually he'd be taking his deposition. It was no longer if but