The Mourning Sexton Read Online Free PDF Page B

changed him into a bulky slab of a man with a neck and torso that seemed too big for his legs. The chiseled features that once stirred women jurors had starting eroding—the jutting chin receding into a puffy neck and jowls, the strong nose beginning to bulge, the eyelids sagging over the corners of his blue eyes. Even the hair—still jet black, though likely from dye—had thinned into a comb-over.
    Eventually, the chitchat petered out. McCormick paused, and leaned forward, his expression grave.
    “David, I want you to know how relieved I am that you filed that lawsuit for Judith.”
    “How did you find out?”
    He gestured out the window toward the Civil Courts Building. “I sent someone over there to check on the filings.
    “Why?”
    “Why?” McCormick's features softened. “Because I wanted to know. I had to know. I assumed you'd understand why.”
    “You were there that night.”
    “It was more than just that. She was my law clerk, David. That's a special relationship, and she was a special gal. Loyal, hardworking, dedicated. I had great affection for her. Great affection, and great respect.” He leaned back. “And yes, she was in my car. Died in my car. Even worse, died behind the wheel because I had too much to drink at that damn Christmas party. Judith Shifrin would be here today if I'd been driving.”
    “You don't know that.”
    “Don't tell me what I know. An icy road? Hell, I drove that Explorer through the Rocky Mountains in a snowstorm. I could have handled that road dead drunk.” He paused. “You know me, David. You know I'm no fan of personal injury litigation. Even so, I raised the possibility of a lawsuit with Judith's father a few weeks after the funeral. I wanted to have something done. He wouldn't hear of it. Talk about a tough old bird. I tried again after the first anniversary of her death. What's the name you people have for it?”
    “
Yahrzeit.
”
    “Right. I went to his synagogue that Saturday. Spoke with him after the service. He still wanted nothing to do with a lawsuit. Even so, I couldn't forget about it. I knew the exact day the statute of limitations would expire. I have that date etched in my memory. As the deadline approached, I couldn't stop thinking about it. On December nineteenth—the day after—I sent one of my clerks over to state court. Had him check on the filings. I expected nothing, but when he came back carrying a copy of your petition I almost called to thank you.”
    “For filing the lawsuit?”
    “And for giving me a chance to do something for her, or at least for her memory.” He paused and leaned forward. “That night, well, by the time we left my house that night I was feeling pretty okay, but she wanted to drive. Said she loved being behind the wheel of such a big car. Jesus Christ.”
    McCormick turned sideways in his chair to stare out the window, his eyes watering. Off in the distance to the east, a long line of barges slowly passed under the Poplar Street Bridge heading upriver.
    Hirsch waited.
    Mounted along one wall of the office were stuffed trophy heads of an elk, a bobcat, and a grizzly, each with a little brass plaque stating the date and spot where McCormick shot the animal. Another wall had a gun cabinet that displayed, in addition to some of McCormick's rifle collection, the cowboy hat, spurs, and vintage Colt '45 given to him by the St. Louis county police when he became a state circuit judge. During his years as the county's chief prosecutor, one of the local newspaper columnists dubbed him McCowboy because he liked to ride with the cops on big raids. The alternative weekly gave him a second nickname, McCrazy, after he pistol-whipped a cocaine dealer arrested in a drug bust. The dealer, handcuffed at the time, had made the mistake of calling McCormick a “pussy,” or at least that's what the alternative paper reported. The prisoner spent a week in the hospital, but nothing came of the incident. The cops stayed mum, the doctors