The patrol car moved through the fallen leaves like a silent predator in the fading afternoon light. It finally slid to a stop before a small white house in need of a new coat of paint. The house exuded an air of tenacious though slightly irrational dignity.
A tall police officer emerged from the passenger seat and checked a pad to reassure himself that he had come to the right address. Then he slammed the door shut and walked up the front steps. The driver remained in the car.
The police officer knocked on the door sharply, and moments later, an old man in a tallis appeared.
“Excuse me, sir,” said the police officer respectfully. “Is this the synagogue?”
“Yes, it is,” said the old man. “My name is Meyer Feuerstein. I’m the gabbai here, the manager I guess you would call me. What seems to be the problem, officer? I hope it’s nothing serious, Heaven forbid.”
“Well, it’s hard to say,” said the police officer. “My name is Lieutenant Mitch Moley, and I’m with the criminal investigations division of the Detroit Police Department. I’m looking for Dov Mann. He’s wanted downtown for questioning. I understand he is here right now. Can you please get him for me?”
Meyer Feuerstein’s eyes widened and the blood drained from his face. “Dov? You want Dov for questioning? What about?”
“With all due respect, I think I should discuss this with Mr. Mann, not with you. Would you be so kind as to get him for me?”
Meyer Feuerstein fought back the urge to argue further. He nodded and hurried away. Two minutes later, he returned with a balding, youngish man with a bushy red beard and wire-rimmed glasses, who
stopped short when he saw the lieutenant.
“Rabbi Grossman?” said the lieutenant, equally surprised. “This is
your synagogue?”
“It certainly is, Lieutenant Moley,” said the rabbi. “Meyer, you can
go back to the shul. The lieutenant and I know each other. We can work
this out on our own. And Meyer, not a word about this to anybody. Do
you hear me? Anybody!”
Meyer Feuerstein looked doubtfully from one to the other, then he
shrugged his shoulders and left.
“Come on,” said the rabbi. “Let’s go up to my office. We can talk
there.”
The rabbi led the police officer up a flight of stairs to a windowless
room in which all of the wall space was occupied by inexpensive
bookcases overflowing with sefarim, notebooks and loose papers. A
desk with a slate top, an armchair with frayed armrests and two straightbacked
chairs stood in the center of the room. On one side, a tiny tintedglass
window covered overlooked the shul below; shelving was attached
to the wall above and below the window. The rabbi showed the
lieutenant to a straight-backed chair. He himself sat in the other.
“This isn’t very pleasant for me, rabbi,” the lieutenant began
uncomfortably.
“Mordechai, the name is Mordechai. Come on, Mitch, we don’t need
to stand on formalities here. Let’s just pretend it’s an ordinary
Wednesday in the Goldenrod Nursing Home, and we’re just sitting there
as usual discussing every topic under the sun while you wait for your
father and I wait for whomever I’m visiting at the moment. After all our
arguments, we always come up with a solution that satisfies both of us,
don’t we?”
“Hey, wait a minute. Let’s not forget all the times we agree to
disagree.”
“But that’s also an agreement of sorts, isn’t it?”
The lieutenant laughed. “Spoken like a true rabbi.”
3
“Okay, so what’s the problem?”
“There’s no problem. I need a guy by the name of Dov Mann. He’s wanted at headquarters for questioning. Just send him out, and I’m on my way.”
The rabbi stroked his chin thoughtfully. “It’s not so simple. Do you what day it is today?”
“Sure. It’s Wednesday. October 4.”
“Do you know what day it is on the Jewish calendar?”
“No.”
“It’s Yom Kippur. The Day of Atonement.”
“Oh yeah. I heard about it on the news. Yom Kippur. That’s the holiest day of the year for Jewish people, right?”
“Right.”
“And today’s the day?”
“Yes.”
“You had anything to eat today?”
The rabbi smiled. “No, Mitch. It’s against the rules.”
“Yeah, I know. So is it against the rules to talk to Dov Mann?”
“No, it’s not,” said the rabbi. “Take a look through this window. The glass is tinted. You can see into the synagogue, but they can’t see you. Those people down there, they’re all fasting and praying. According to Jewish belief, this day is like a court of last resort. It’s your last chance to square things away for the new year.”
The lieutenant stared down curiously. “Which one is Mann?”
“That one over there,” said the rabbi, pointing to a heavyset man with a tallis draped over his shoulders.
“Yeah. He fits the description. Okay, Mordechai. Let’s not waste your time and mine. You wanna go back to your folks down there, and I gotta get back to headquarters. So just send out this Mann guy. I got a car waiting outside.”
The rabbi shook his head. “You don’t seem to understand. This is the Day of Atonement. Think of what something like this will do to my
4
people, let alone to the Mann family. An arrest in the synagogue on Yom Kippur? It’s too terrible to consider.”
“Oh, come on, Mordechai. It’s not an arrest. He’s just wanted for questioning.”
“A pretty euphemism. What is he suspected of doing?”
“Complicity in a jewel theft.”
“Dov Mann? You’ve got to be kidding. Dov’s an accountant, not a jewel thief.”
“Why don’t we let the judge decide that, huh? Right now, just get me the guy, and I’m outta here.”
“Please, Mitch. Can’t it just wait for a couple of hours? It’s late afternoon already. In a few hours, it’ll be dark and the fast will be over. Why don’t you take him then? No one will know about it. Anyway, I’m sure the whole thing’s a mistake. His lawyer will straighten it all out, and no one ever has to find out about it. Why make a scandal?”
The lieutenant hesitated, and sensing an advantage, the rabbi plunged ahead desperately.
“Think about it, Mitch. If you arrest a Jew in the synagogue on Yom Kippur, it’ll make all the papers. And not only here in Detroit. It’ll be all over the papers in Brooklyn and Chicago and Los Angeles, even in Israel. It might even make the national news networks. And what do you think people are going to say? Antisemitism!”
“Hey, wait a minute! Nobody’s ever accused me of antisemitism.”
“And no one is accusing you now, Mitch. But people who don’t know you are going to think it. And even if they don’t think it they’re going to say it. Jews have this tendency, you know. Anytime a Jew gets arrested, all the other Jews think there must be antisemitism behind it. Ridiculous, I know. But that’s the way it is. Do you want to spend the next few weeks explaining to reporters that you’re not a bigot? That you don’t put on a sheet at night and leave burning crosses on people’s front lawns?”
The lieutenant ground his teeth. “Okay, let me see what I can do,” he said. “Can I use your telephone?”
5
“Sure,” said the rabbi. “If you want to, you can wait right here in my office where you can keep an eye on things. I’ll get you something to eat and drink. And if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, maybe you can send the police car away. I’m sure everyone’s wondering about it.”
The lieutenant grunted and turned to the phone. He dialed a number. “Captain? Moley here. I’m at the synagogue . . . Yeah, the guy’s here, but there’s a little problem . . . Naw, nothing like that. It just that it turns out that today is Yom Kippur . . . Yeah, that’s a Jewish holiday. The Day of Atonement. They sit in the synagogue all day and fast and pray . . . Yeah, I know. But that’s the way it is. Anyway, if I pull the guy in, there’s going to be a holy ruckus here . . . Listen, captain, can you trust me on this? The rabbi here’s a good guy. I know him from way back. This Mann isn’t going anywhere . . . Yeah, community relations and that kind of thing You understand, don’t you? I’ll send Officer Smithson back with the car, and I’ll wait here by myself, okay? I’ll call for a car when I need one. Yeah, yeah . . . That’s pretty funny, but I’m not gonna repeat it. Okay, thanks.” He hung up the phone.
The rabbi came around and patted him on the back. “Thank you, Mitch. I really appreciate it. You’re doing the right thing. Can I prepare a cup of coffee for you while you send away the car?”
The lieutenant nodded. Less than a minute later, he was back. A cup of coffee and a plate of cookies were waiting for him on the desk. The lieutenant bit into a cookie and took a sip of the coffee. He loosened his collar and visibly relaxed.
“So, Mordechai,” he asked, “how long till this is over?”
“I told you. Till nightfall. So just make yourself comfortable. Can I get you anything else?”
“Nah. I’m fine. Police officers are used to stakeouts. In fact, this whole thing began with a stakeout.”
The rabbi leaned forward. “What do you mean?”
The lieutenant reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a disposable lighter. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
6
A slight grimace flashed across the rabbi’s face. “Go right ahead and smoke if that makes you comfortable.” He looked around for a window to open, but there was none. “You were speaking about a stakeout.”
“Oh, yes.” The lieutenant paused uncertainly. Then he lowered his voice conspiratorially and said, “You understand, of course, that anything I tell you is purely confidential. I shouldn’t be telling you any of this, but what the heck. I can trust you . . . I think.”
“You certainly can, Mitch, and you know it. What’s this about a stakeout?”
The lieutenant cleared his throat and leaned forward. “I don’t know if you read the local papers too much, but we’ve had quite a few jewel heists in the Westfield area during this last year. It looks like the work of professionals, and it took us a long time to get some leads. The main problem these guys have is fencing the rocks after they grab ’em. That’s where we had our best shot at tracking them down. Day before yesterday, we were tipped off that a courier was picking up a package of hot rocks in the Pontiac Room, that fancy penthouse lounge in the Willow Grove Marriott. So we set up a stakeout.”
“Did the guy show up?”
“He sure did.”
“Did you arrest him right away?”
“No, but I guess we should have. We wanted him to lead us to the rest of the gang, so we just set up some tight surveillance.”
“So what happened?”
“The courier met with the suspect in the lounge and picked up the package, but then he gave us the slip. But we lucked out. We managed to track him down.”
“Good. Did you arrest him?”
“Not yet. We have to wait for nightfall before we can pull him in. I gave my word.”
“What? Mann?” the rabbi exploded incredulously. “Impossible!”
The lieutenant grinned broadly, relishing the shock of his revelation. “No, not impossible, my good friend. We have evidence.”
7
“Really? What evidence?”
The lieutenant stroked his chin doubtfully. “I don’t know if I can reveal that much to you. I gotta think about it. By the way, where are your facilities?”
The rabbi pointed to a door in the corner of the room. “Go through that door. It’s the first door in the hallway on the left side. I have to go back downstairs. Everyone’s probably wondering what happened to the rabbi. But I’ll be back at the break. Don’t go away.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere. And make sure your friend Mann doesn’t go anywhere either.”
Rabbi Grossman returned to his place in the synagogue, ignoring the curious and frightened stares of his congregants. Apparently, the visit of the police had not gone unnoticed. With a great effort, he drove all thoughts of Mitch Moley from his mind and concentrated on catching up to the tzibur in the tefilos.
A half hour later, a twenty-minute break was announced, and the rabbi was immediately bombarded with questions.
The rabbi stole a glance at Meyer Feuerstein. The old gabbai nodded his reassurance; he had said nothing.
“It’s all nothing,” the rabbi declared. “The lieutenant is a friend of mine. We spend time together in the nursing home. He needed my help with something and came by. He didn’t know it was Yom Kippur. Look outside, the car’s gone. It’s nothing.”
Slowly, the shul returned to normal. People relaxed and stepped outside to take a short break from the relentless Yom Kippur program. The rabbi took advantage of the respite to walk over to Dov Mann and put an arm around his shoulders.
“So, how’s it going, Dov?” he asked.
“Pretty good, rabbi,” the young accountant replied amiably.
The accountant chuckled. “Excellent! You know, sometimes I have to fast longer during tax season. This is a piece of cake.”
The rabbi frowned. “A piece of cake? Is that what Yom Kippur is, a piece of cake? Who’s talking about fasting? Fasting is supposed to make
8
you think, Dov. It’s supposed make you feel humble and sorry and contrite. It’s supposed to suppress your material side and highlight your spiritual side. Your neshamah, Dov! Your holy neshamah!”
“Hey, Rabbi Grossman, take it easy. You don’t have to jump down my throat. I didn’t mean anything. What’s the big deal? Don’t you see me sitting here in shul? Don’t I have my Machzor open like everybody else? Did you see me sleeping or something? Hey, what’s the problem?”
The rabbi grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, Dov. I just got carried away. Nothing personal. You’re a good man. I just want the best for you. How’s your wonderful wife?”
“Fine.
“And your lovely children?”
“Just great.”
“And how’s business?”
“Can’t complain.”
“So you’ve really got your life together?”
“Yeah. I guess you could say that.”
“Terrific. Don’t take anything for granted. You never know what danger lurks in the future. You’re standing here in shul on Yom Kippur. You’ve got a real shot to wipe out those dangers, to protect yourself and your family. You should daven as hard as you can, Dov. Don’t waste your chance.”
Dov Mann gave the rabbi a strange look. “Hey, what gives, Rabbi Grossman? This is all great drashah talk, but give me a break. What’s with these dangers lurking in the future? What’s going on?”
“Dov, don’t you believe your destiny is in the hands of the Ribono Shel Olam? Isn’t that why you’re here on Yom Kippur?”
“Yeah, sure I do. But –”
“Then why do you argue with me? All I’m asking is that you take this thing seriously. You’ve got a couple of hours left to this day, make the most of it. Think about your life, about how you’ve been living it and how you’d like to live it. Make yourself some promises and try your best to keep them. I’m sorry if I came on a little strong, but I have only
9
your own welfare in mind. You’re a good man, Dov, and you’ve got a beautiful family. Make this day work for you, okay?”
“Sure, Rabbi Grossman,” said Dov. “Anything you say. I think I’ll go outside to catch some fresh air. They’ll be starting soon.”
The rabbi nodded. He waited till Dov was gone, then he went up to his office where Mitch Moley was waiting patiently for darkness to fall.
A haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air in the windowless room. The lieutenant was seated in the armchair. He had taken off his shoes and put his feet up on the desk top. He looked comfortable. The rabbi stifled a cough and sat down on a straight-backed chair.
“We were talking about evidence,” he prompted.
“Were we now? Yeah, I suppose we were. In strict confidentiality, of course.”
“Of course.”
“This courier was a short, heavyset guy. He was wearing a tan raincoat with a belt. It has a rip down one side that was stitched up, like by a tailor. Pretty good job. He got the package from the guy in the Pontiac Room, then on the way out he picks up his briefcase from the checkroom. Then he goes into the bathroom and stays there for an awful long time. The surveillance officer thought he might have gone out the window or something. Not likely on the twelfth floor, but who knows? Anyway, the officer was just about to go in after him when the guy comes out. The package is gone, probably in the briefcase. The guy takes the elevator downstairs, and just before he goes out to the street, he goes into one of the lobby bathrooms. A couple of minutes later, the surveillance officer goes in after him, but the place is empty.”
“The guy went out the window?” asked the rabbi.
“Not likely, because there is no window.”
The rabbi sat forward. “So how did he get out?”
“He got out the door. Oldest trick in the book. Took off the raincoat. Put on a wig. And walked right out. We found the abandoned raincoat and briefcase in the bathroom behind one of the ceiling tiles. Wiped clean of prints. The briefcase had been bought in Walmart. Untraceable.
10
But the coat was something else. It had identifying marks and that mended rip down the side.” He paused.
“Well?” prompted the rabbi, dreading what he would hear.
“It belongs to Dov Mann.”
The rabbi felt as if he had been punched in the solar plexus. He took several deep breaths to calm himself.
“Are you sure?” he finally asked.
“We’re sure. We have a positive identification of the coat.”
“But, Mitch, there could any of a dozen explanations for the courier having Dov’s coat. And maybe Dov has a good alibi.”
“He doesn’t. We checked.”
“So he doesn’t. According to the mystery books, most people don’t have alibis. So what? Is what you have enough proof to convict a man?”
“Of course not. The surveillance officer didn’t get a very good look at the courier, but your guy fits the general description. And it’s his coat. That’s enough for us to pull him in for questioning.”
“Do you think it’s enough for him to be indicted?”
The lieutenant shrugged. “That’s up to the prosecutor. I think it may be. But don’t worry. If he’s innocent he’ll get off.”
“If he’s innocent he’ll get off?” the rabbi exploded, jumping to his feet. “Is that all you have to say? This man’s life is on the verge of being ruined. Imagine the disgrace, the heartache of going on trial for fencing stolen jewels. So what if he’ll get off in the end – if indeed he does – what’s going to be left of this man’s life?”
The lieutenant got to his feet and went to look down into the shul through the tinted window. The people were filing in from the break, and Dov Mann had returned to his seat. The lieutenant stared at him for a while before he turned to the rabbi.
“I’m really sorry about this, Mordechai,” he said, a serious look on his face. “The guy doesn’t look like a criminal, but neither do some of the serial killers that finally get caught. It’s not up to me. I have to do my job. That’s how the system works. Some innocent people get hurt, I know. But it can’t be helped. I’m sorry, Mordechai. I really am.”
11
“I know you are, Mitch,” said the rabbi softly. “I know you are. I have to go back down now.”
The rabbi went out with a heavy tread, his mind consumed with the enormity of the tragedy about to unfold in his little shul during the waning hours of Yom Kippur. As N’eelah began, his mind searched feverishly for an answer to the seemingly insoluble problem he faced. Once or twice, he felt a tiny flicker of hope, a sense that an important element had been missed. But no solutions materialized in his mind, and the minutes slipped rapidly away.
Outside, the sun’s last rays faded away, leaving a magenta glow on the rooftops and ominous shadows under the trees. The Chazaras Hashatz began, but the rabbi couldn’t hear his words over the beating of his own heart. He glanced out the window and saw an ancient station wagon pass by. Its cargo area was piled high with folded white towels.
Suddenly, the missing element flashed into his mind with the overpowering brilliance of the midday sun. Trying to control his excitement, he got up from his seat, and with studied nonchalance, he left the shul.
“Mitch!” he shouted as he burst into his office. “I’ve got it.”
The lieutenant jumped to his feet. “Take it easy, Mordechai. What’s going on? What’ve you got?”
“I found the hole in your investigation.”
“You did?” said the lieutenant scornfully. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”
“You can mock me. I don’t care. Just listen. You checked out the bathroom in the lobby from which the guy disappeared, right?”
“Right.”
“But did you check out the bathroom outside the Pontiac Room?”
“No, what for? The guy came out and we followed him downstairs. Why go back and check out that bathroom?”
“Because the Willow Grove Marriot is a fancy hotel and the Pontiac Room is a fancy lounge, and in such places they usually have bathroom attendants, you know, the guys who give you the soap and the towels
12
because it’s too hard to pick them up yourself. It wouldn’t surprise me if they have one in the bathroom of the Pontiac Room.”
“Go on,” said the lieutenant, his voice no longer mocking.
“If there is such an attendant, he may be able to make a better identification than your surveillance officer who didn’t get such a good look at him.”
“I see. You know, you may be right. But do you realize that if your guy is guilty you may have just cooked his goose?”
“I’ll take that chance. I know Dov Mann. He’s innocent.”
“All right. I’ll check it out. Come back in twenty minutes.”
Rabbi Grossman returned to the shul, but he found it difficult to concentrate on the prayers. The best he could do was try to maintain a semblance of normalcy so that his mispallelim would not suspect that anything was amiss. Ten minutes later, he could no longer contain himself. He slipped out of his seat and returned to his office.
The lieutenant greeted him with a puff of smoke and a look of grudging respect.
“Good work, Mordechai,” he said. “You were right. There’s a bathroom attendant outside the Pontiac Room, an old African American named George Deebles. He remembers the guy because he stayed there so long. Officer Smithson picked him up a few minutes ago and is bringing him here right now. He should be here any time now. Say a prayer, Mordechai, that he doesn’t identify your guy.”
The rabbi went downstairs to wait by the open door so that he could let the new arrivals in as unobtrusively as possible. Moments later, the patrol car slid up to the curb, and Officer Smithson emerged, accompanied by a tall African American with a full head of close-cropped gray air and an air of immense dignity. The rabbi held his finger to his lips and motioned them inside. He led them up to the office, where the lieutenant awaited them.
“You are George Deebles?” he asked.
“Yeah, I am.”
“Were you on duty in the Willow Grove Marriot night before last?”
13
“Yeah, I was.”
“Do you remember a guy in a tan raincoat?”
“Yeah, I sure do. Guy spent a lot of time in the stall. Then he walks out without even giving me a tip.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him?”
“Sure would. Never forget a face, especially if the guy doesn’t leave a tip.”
“Okay, come here. Look down there and tell me if you see the guy.”
George Deebles marched solemnly to the observation point. Taking his time, he surveyed the entire shul several times before he was ready to respond. “Nope. I don’t see the guy.”
“How about that guy over there?” asked the lieutenant, pointing to Dov Mann. “The heavy guy in the corner over there.”
George Deebles shook his head. “Nope. That’s Mr. Dov Mann. He’s an accountant here in town. Takes clients to the Pontiac Room pretty often and always leaves me a tip.”
The lieutenant threw up his hands. “Well, I guess that’s that. Mr. Deebles, we are very beholden to you. You have prevented a serious miscarriage of justice. Smithson, wait for me in the car. We’ll take Mr. Deebles wherever he wants to go.” He turned to the rabbi and clasped his hand. “Mordechai, how can I ever thank you enough? You’ve done a great thing tonight. My hat’s off to you.”
“I have to thank you, Mitch,” said the rabbi. “You couldn’t have been more cooperative if you tried.”
Just then, the air was rent by the long wail of the shofar.
Startled, the lieutenant spun around, his hand on the pistol in his belt. “What’s that?”
The rabbi smiled. “No need to worry. That’s the sounding of the ram’s horn to signal that Yom Kippur is over. We’ve been reprieved.”
“Yeah. I suppose you could say that. Good night, Mordechai. See you in the nursing home.”
“Good night, Mitch.”
14
The rabbi returned to the shul with a placid smile on his face. In a blissful daze, he bade good night to the people as they went home to break the fast. Only Dov Mann lingered a while longer.
“Rabbi Grossman,” he said when everyone else had gone. “You know you really gave me the heebie-jeebies before when you hit me with that little private drashah. I don’t think I ever davened like I did today. You know, I got this awful feeling that there was something hanging over my head, something too dreadful to think about. I didn’t like the feeling, and I want to ask you, rabbi, not to scare the daylights out of me again like you did today, okay?”
“But maybe there was something hanging over your head today, Dov. Maybe it’s good that you got frightened. After all, it was Yom Kippur. A little fright can’t hurt.”
“Come on, Rabbi Grossman. Get real. I don’t need this kind of grief. And if there is anything hanging over my head, you don’t have to worry about it. I can take care of myself.”
“By the way, Dov, what ever happened to that tan raincoat you used to wear?”
“The one with the rip in the side? I gave it away to the Bikur Cholim thrift shop on Culver Avenue. Why do you ask? What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Oh, nothing, Dov. And everything. Have a good year, Dov.”