The Best Assassination in the Nation Read online

  The Best Assassination

  in the Nation

  Joshua Cohen

  Kasva Press

  St. Paul / Alfei Menashe

  Copyright © 2021 by Joshua Cohen

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Kasva Press Alfei Menashe, Israel / St. Paul, Minnesota

  www.kasvapress.com

  The Best Assassination in the Nation

  ISBNs:Trade Paperback: 978-1-948403-50-4 Ebook: 978-1-948403-51-1

  To Marci, of course

  One

  I spent July of 1952 tailing Eugene Bramble, president of Ambassador Tool & Die. His wife thought he was having an affair with her sister Myrtle and wanted me to find out one way or the other.

  Her suspicions missed the mark, but only partially. Bramble was running around not with Myrtle but with Myrtle’s husband, Floyd. The situation didn’t come into focus for a couple of weeks. Eventually I caught the two lovebirds shacked up at a hotel in Akron when they were supposed to be fishing on Lake Erie. A few weeks later, after a modest payoff to Ambassador’s night watchman, I sneaked into Bramble’s office and found a desk drawer filled with cards and letters Floyd had sent to “Sweet Baby Gene.”

  “These so-called men,” Mrs. Bramble said bitterly as she reviewed the dossier I’d assembled.

  “At least it wasn’t your sister,” I said.

  “I’ve kissed those same lips. I’ve… It makes me want to vomit.”

  “I’d try not to think about it that way.”

  “That man won’t set foot in my house ever again. He goes off and does what he’s been doing, then comes home and climbs into our bed.”

  “I’d really try not to think about it that way,” I said.

  “He’s the one who won’t want to think about it, when I get through with him.”

  I used some of the Bramble fee to buy a train ticket to Atlantic City. I planned seven days of rest and relaxation, but when it came time to board, I pulled my bag from the porter and left the platform. The prospect of going solo turned my anticipated vacation into an ordeal. I knew I’d find willing companions in the bars and on the beach, maybe get invited to a poker game or two. Inevitably, though, I’d end up back in my hotel room, alone, immersed in morose introspection over the personality flaws that left me without a traveling companion.

  So I junked the junket. My vacation consisted of a visit to the aquarium, a fifth of scotch, and an afternoon sleeping it off on my living room sofa.

  Judith Sorin came to see me Friday morning at the end of that week. I had no appointments scheduled for the day, which I intended to spend catching up on paperwork. I rode the bus downtown from my apartment in Cleveland Heights and walked from Public Square to my office in the Hippodrome Building. After only half a block, I peeled off my coat. A smoldering heat wave had gripped the city for the better part of a week. Three days in a row, the temperature topped out at over a hundred degrees. The newspapers predicted the streak would continue.

  Sweat was dripping from my forehead as I entered the Hippodrome lobby. Jonathan, the dwarfish concierge, smirked as I passed his desk on my way to the bank of elevators. The building’s management considered me to be an undesirable tenant, given the dubious nature of my clientele, and Jonathan fully committed himself to conveying that message.

  “You’re sweating up a storm, aren’t you, Mr. Gold,” Jonathan commented sarcastically as I wiped my brow with a handkerchief. “I’ll have to have the maintenance crew out here with a bucket and a mop.”

  I loved Jonathan as much as he loved me. “You know, Pee Wee,” I responded, “if you were just a little taller you’d be a bona fide midget.”

  I rode the elevator to the seventh floor and walked to my office at the end of the west corridor. My secretary, Mrs. Skokow, stood in front of her desk talking on the telephone. “Good morning,” I said, to no effect.

  I headed toward the door of my private office. “Just a minute,” Mrs. Skokow said before putting her hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone. “You have a walk-in, Boss.”

  I looked at the empty sofa facing Mrs. Skokow’s desk. “Where is he?” I asked.

  “It’s not a ‘he’; it’s a ‘she’. And she’s waiting inside.”

  “Who is she?”

  “I didn’t catch her name.”

  “What does she want?”

  “Not sure.”

  “She might not be a ‘walk-in’ at all,” I said. “Maybe she’s selling encyclopedias. Why’s she in my office and not out here?”

  “I’m talking to my sister-in-law about a personal matter. I needed some privacy.”

  “Makes perfect sense,” I said as I proceeded inside.

  Judith Sorin stood in front of my desk, looking idly out the window facing Euclid Avenue. I immediately recognized her from the pictures in the newspapers after her old man’s murder. She apparently hadn’t heard the office door open and jumped a little when it clicked shut.

  “Mr. Gold,” she said. “I’m awfully sorry for showing up without an appointment.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “Today’s a slow day anyway. Very sorry about your father.”

  “You know who I am?”

  I nodded.

  “Thank you.”

  “Why don’t you have a seat?”

  I gave her the once-over as she put her purse on the floor and situated herself on the chair in front of my desk. She was tall and thin, with long legs, an ample chest, and thick black hair, which she wore down. Her face was pretty but somewhat severe, angling tautly down from her high cheekbones. Her fair complexion accentuated the shock of her red lipstick.

  “I knew your father a little,” I said after I sat down. “He hired me to do a couple of jobs when I first got into this business.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “I worked as an attorney before the War. Your dad was the best.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  Maury Sorin had been the best. He was Cleveland’s answer to Clarence Darrow, the underdog’s champion who turned hopeless cases into stunning victories. He dominated the courtroom, mesmerizing jurors and judges with his eloquence and confounding opposing counsel with an unparalleled command of the law.

  “The Rock,” I said to Judith. She smiled sadly and repeated my words.

  “The Rock” became Maury Sorin’s nickname among his brethren in the Cleveland bar after his cross-examination of the prosecution’s key witness in a trumped-up bribery case brought against a Negro city councilman. For a full day, Sorin demolished the witness’s testimony, exposing exaggeration after distortion after out-and-out lie. Upon finishing the rout, he stepped away from the podium and headed toward the counsel’s table. But then he abruptly pivoted toward the witness:

  SORIN:

  One last question, sir.

  WITNESS:

  All right.

  SORIN:

  Where’s the rock?

  WITNESS:

  Pardon?

  SORIN:

  Where’s the rock, sir?

  WITNESS:

  I don’t understand.

  SORIN:

  Where’s the rock you crawled out from under to come testify here today?

  Sorin’s flourish got an ovation from the onlookers in the gallery. A few jurors stood and applauded, too, bringing an immediate motion for mistrial from the prosecution. The judge denied it, disgusted as he apparently was with the witness’s testimony. The next day, the State dismissed its case, and the city councilman walked out of the courthouse a free man.

  After a few moments of chit-chat, I got around to asking Judith why she’d come to see me. She said she needed help on her father’s case.

  “Your father’s case?” I repeated. “I don’t practice law anymore, Miss Sorin. If you like, I can recommend a couple of probate lawyers I know.”

  “This isn’t about his will. It’s about his murder.”

  “I thought the matter was closed,” I said. “The guy who shot him was killed at the scene.”

  “He was killed, and they did close the case, but they didn’t solve it. Make no mistake, Mr. Gold. My father was assassinated.”

  “Assassinated?”

  “You may find it hard to believe, but it’s true. He was about to blow the whistle on some very powerful people, so they had him killed.”

  “Do the police know about this?”

  “The police!” she snorted. “They’re in it up to their eyeballs.”

  I’d had crackpots come see me before. A plumber from Parma needed help in proving he was the bastard son of John D. Rockefeller. A lady thought the manager of her apartment building was fluoridating her water. Then there was the guy who believed his wife was conspiring with a dead neighbor to knock him off.

  Judith brought a
new float to this parade. Her father’s murder had been a simple case — brutal and tragic, but completely lacking in conspiratorial intrigue. Sorin was walking to his office in the Standard Building on the first Friday in January. It was 6:45 in the morning, the usual time he got to work. A hophead named Warren Grubb was pacing in front of the building and blocked Sorin as he tried to enter. Grubb then pulled a .45 and demanded Sorin’s cash. Sorin had no intention of resisting and went for his wallet, but apparently not fast enough for Grubb, who put the gun against Sorin’s left temple and pulled the trigger.

  An old lady on her way to the train station happened by just as the murder took place. Grubb panicked when he spotted her and turned the .45 in her direction. Luckily, an off-duty cop was also on the scene. He shot and killed Grubb before Grubb could rub out the old lady.

  The Cleveland police investigated Grubb’s motive for the murder. They thought he might’ve been a disgruntled former client of Sorin’s or an adversary from one of his cases. He wasn’t. They tried to find some other score he had to settle with the attorney, either personally or on behalf of some relative, friend, or associate. That was a dry hole, too.

  The killing was exactly what it appeared to be. Grubb was a junkie in need of a fix he couldn’t afford, and Maury Sorin had been his unfortunate victim. I could appreciate Judith’s hard time in coming to terms with her father’s murder. But what she needed was a headshrinker, not a shamus.

  “This isn’t the sort of thing I usually handle,” I told her. “I know a couple of private detectives who used to work homicide. If you’d like, I could arrange for you to see one of them.”

  “You’re uniquely qualified to handle my case, Mr. Gold,” she said.

  “You’re being kind, but… ”

  “I mean it. I most definitely do.”

  “What makes me so special?”

  “The masterminds behind the assassination,” she said gravely.

  Masterminds, I thought. She’d really gone off the deep end.

  “And who is that?”

  “Your in-laws.”

  “I’m not married,” I said.

  “Your ex-in-laws, then. The Forsythes. Elite Motors.”

  “The Forsythes killed your father?”

  “Exactly,” she confirmed. “And I have proof. Let me tell you… ”

  “Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” I got up and walked over to open a window. “Why would the Forsythes want to kill your father?”

  “Because he was handling a case that could’ve made them look very, very bad.”

  “What do you mean by that?” I asked as I sat back down.

  “I can’t be more specific.”

  “Have you spoken to your father’s client about this?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know for sure who the client is,” said Judith. “It’s someone who works for Elite, or used to.”

  “What’d the guy hire your father to do?”

  “File criminal charges against the Forsythes, I think. Possibly a civil suit.”

  “Was there anyone else involved?”

  “I couldn’t tell you.”

  “When did all this take place?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Probably right before the murder.”

  Judith was a paranoiac, but not an especially imaginative one. Her assassination plot was nothing more than an amalgam of could-be’s and maybe-so’s.

  Still, she had my stomach doing cartwheels. My ex-in-laws personified everything I hated in the world. They’d made life a living hell during my stint as the Forsythe son-in-law. Even after all these years, the mere mention of their names triggered flashbacks of the misery and recriminations.

  “How’d you find out about what you know about the Forsythes?” I asked.

  “My father’s secretary.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She didn’t want me to use her name,” said Judith. “She’s afraid they’ll come after her next.”

  Now there were two paranoiacs.

  “Sooner or later you’re going to have to tell me who she is, if you want me to help you,” I said as I shifted sideways in my chair.

  “Nancy Debevec is her name.”

  “What specifically did she tell you?”

  “She said my father had an Elite employee as a client who wanted to blow the whistle on the Forsythes.”

  “Did she tell you anything more?”

  “All my father said to her was that serious crimes were committed.”

  I pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes from my top desk drawer and lit one up.

  “All of this is so up in the air,” I said. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin an investigation, if I were going to accept the case, other than to interview this Nancy Debevec.”

  “I don’t think that would be possible,” said Judith.

  “Why not?”

  “Nancy left town in March, and she’s not coming back.”

  “Where’d she go?”

  “She didn’t say. I told you she was scared. She wanted to vanish, and that’s what she did.”

  I wanted Judith to vanish, too. I started to give her the brushoff, but she interrupted.

  “I told you I had proof, Mr. Gold.”

  Judith opened her handbag and pulled out a rumpled sheet from a legal pad. As she unfolded it on the desk, I saw scraggly handwriting in bright blue ink.

  “These are my father’s notes,” she said. “He took these when he was interviewing his client.”

  “Where’d you get this?”

  “I found it among his papers at home, and Nancy explained what it was. I know it’s my father’s handwriting.”

  “What happened to the rest of the client file?”

  “There wasn’t one,” Judith said. “That’s what Nancy told me.”

  “How could there be no file?”

  Judith shrugged.

  “F.G.Z.” I read from the top line of the page. “What’s that?

  “I think it’s the client’s initials.”

  “Any idea why your father didn’t write out the full name?”

  “No. None at all.”

  Judith deciphered the rest of the scrawl. Nothing specifically identified “F.G.Z.,” but Maury Sorin had written down my former brother-in-law’s name (“C. Forsythe, Jr.”) and the name of the family business (“Elite M.C.”). The rest of the page comprised short phrases, with no explanation: “unintended consequences”; “paid to keep quiet”; “didn’t know what he was getting into”; “government contract”; “wife threatening to leave”; “expiate his sins”; “U.S. attorney”; “Cty. Prosecutor”; “willing to do time.”

  “Did you show these notes to the police?” I asked Judith as I ground my cigarette butt into the ashtray on my desk.

  “I didn’t. I told you they’re complicit in this.”

  “Why are you so sure of that?”

  “An off-duty policeman just happens to be on the scene when my father is shot, and kills the killer before anyone can question him? At that time in the morning? It’s just too coincidental.”

  “You know he was protecting an old woman when he shot the gunman,” I said.

  “Please, Mr. Gold,” Judith answered. “That was a convenient excuse. And by the way, what was that woman doing there, anyway?”

  I didn’t buy everything she was peddling. But her father’s notes cast a new light on things. Their meaning wasn’t completely clear, but their import was definitely sordid. “F.G.Z.” had come to Maury Sorin with a guilty conscience. He’d done some insidious thing for the Forsythes — something that turned out to have “unintended consequences”. “F.G.Z.” hadn’t realized “what he was getting into”. The Forsythes were paying him “to keep quiet”, but he wanted to “expiate his sins” by coming clean to the U.S. Attorney or the County Prosecutor, even if he had “to do time” as a result.

  It was rational to assume “F.G.Z.” was asking Sorin for help in making this happen. Doing so would’ve been a delicate proposition. The Forsythes weren’t people to cross. Step on their toes, and they’d slit your throat. Do worse, and you’d wish they’d slit your throat by the time they got through with you.