The Mourning Sexton Read Online Free PDF

when.
    Nevertheless, as he'd told himself again just last week, there was still time.
    And there was. The lawsuit was barely three weeks old. There'd been no press coverage of its filing. No attorney for any of the defendants had yet to enter an appearance.
    All of which meant that it was possible the judge had another reason for the meeting. The two of them did have a shared past, although their four years together as young assistant U.S. attorneys dated back more than a quarter of a century.
    He closed his briefcase and strolled over to the windows. McCormick's chambers were on the seventeenth floor of the federal courthouse. He looked down at the Civil Courts Building, where he'd filed the wrongful death case a few weeks ago. The structure looked even more bizarre from above. What was otherwise a staid 1930s fourteen-story limestone office building veered into the surreal at the “roof,” which consisted of a Greek temple crowned by an Egyptian step pyramid crowned by two sphinxlike creatures seated back to back. He'd read somewhere that the hodgepodge replicated some ancient structure, although what it was doing on top of a St. Louis government building was a mystery.
    “His Honor will see you now.”
    Hirsch turned as four lawyers emerged from the judge's office—three men and a woman, chatting quietly, seriously, all carrying leather briefcases. Following behind was a young man in khakis, white shirt, and dark tie, carrying a legal pad filled with notes. Presumably one of the judge's law clerks. As Hirsch stepped toward the judge's office, the young man glanced back at him before turning into a side office.
    Seated behind a large desk at the far end of the imposing room was the Honorable Brendan R. McCormick, United States District Judge for the Eastern District of Missouri. The judge was frowning and scribbling something onto a yellow legal pad. As Hirsch approached, he looked up and the frown vanished.
    “Hello, David.” The familiar, hearty voice.
    Capping his fountain pen, the judge stood, grinning broadly.
    As they shook hands, Hirsch noted that McCormick's taste in clothing had gone upscale in the decades since their AUSA days together. Back then, he bought wash-and-wear suits off the racks at JCPenney and picked up shirts from the irregular bins at the discount houses. These days, Hirsch guessed, McCormick's clothiers knew him by name and kept his measurements and current wardrobe on file. Today's outfit included a monogrammed dress shirt, gleaming gold cuff links, an elegant silk tie, and a navy pinstripe suit perfectly tailored to his large frame. The crisp white shirt contrasted nicely with the deep tan, which, if Hirsch recalled correctly, he'd likely picked up playing golf over Christmas in Bermuda, where he had a second home.
    “Good afternoon, Judge.”
    “‘Judge?' Christ, David, cut that formal crap. Outside my courtroom I'm just Brendan. Grab a seat. How 'bout something to drink? Soda? Coffee?”
    “I'm fine.” Hirsch settled into the chair facing the desk.
    “So I hear you're a bankruptcy lawyer these days.”
    “Mostly Chapter Thirteens.”
    “Do you enjoy them?”
    Hirsch shrugged. “They have their challenges.”
    “Not exactly the fast lane.”
    “I spent enough time in the fast lane for one lifetime.”
    They talked a bit about the bankruptcy practice and a bit about the whereabouts of some of their colleagues from the U.S. Attorney's Office and a bit about a recent football recruiting brouhaha at Mizzou and a bit about the contrasts between the college football players these days versus the real men of their era. This was Brendan McCormick's meeting. Eventually, he'd get around to the reason he called it.
    He hadn't seen McCormick for maybe twenty years. Time had taken its toll. Back in his college linebacker days, Brendan McCormick had carried a strapping 240 pounds on his six-foot-four-inch frame. He'd stayed in shape at the U.S. Attorney's Office, but the years since then had