“Who’s Mrs. Oppenheimer’s sister,” I say.
“Ah. I see you are aware of my predicament. I do, of course, have several friends at temple who are lawyers, highly respected members of the bar. I myself work with Steven Robins, a senior partner at Bernhardt, Hutchens, and Catherman. However, as I stated, I can’t really assist Christine without incurring the justified wrath of my son’s wife, Judith.”
“We’re thinking about hiring Harvey Nussbaum,” says Ceepak.
Dr. Rosen nods. “An excellent if prohibitively expensive idea.”
“My mother has offered to pay Ms. Lemonopolous’s legal bills.”
“Really? That’s extremely generous. But if I may, why would she be willing to do such a thing?”
I almost say “Because of this antique needlepoint thing her dead aunt gave her,” but I don’t.
“Because,” says Ceepak, “what Mrs. Oppenheimer is attempting to do offends my mother’s innate sense of justice. Mrs. Oppenheimer has to know that if this restraining order sticks, if Christine cannot have it expunged from her record, it will be impossible for her to ever return to her former job at Mainland Medical.”
“You are correct,” says Dr. Rosen. “If Christine loses this fight, her career and, quite possibly, her life will be ruined. It is a mitzvah, what your mother is doing.”
According to my friend, Joe Getzler, a mitzvah is a good deed done from religious duty. And according to Joe, it doesn’t matter which religion, either.
The front door opens.
Christine, smiling brightly, comes into the dining room.
“Ah, Christine!” says Dr. Rosen. “Good news. It seems, my dear, that you have found your guardian angel!”
Turns out that the law offices of Harvey Nussbaum and Associates are open Saturdays for “your convenience.”
In the afternoon, Monae Dunn and her sister Revae, who dropped by for a visit, agree to keep an eye on Dr. Rosen so Christine can go with Ceepak and me to meet her lawyer.
Harvey Nussbaum’s offices are on the second floor of a strip mall on Sea Breeze Drive. The place is sleek and modern, except for the big stuffed bulldog that’s propped on top of the receptionist’s counter. It’s decked out in a black barrister gown and curly white wig.
The walls are decorated with framed newspaper clippings trumpeting Nussbaum’s victories. A former prosecutor, he handled the defense of a New Jersey mayor accused of extorting bribes from a milk broker to help that broker win a school district contract. The mayor got off. The milk broker went to jail. The milk broker did not hire Harvey Nussbaum.
On the other hand, Nussbaum also helped free a prisoner serving a life sentence in the New Jersey State Prison, who had been wrongly convicted of murder based on the evidence of a jailhouse snitch. Nussbaum used new DNA technology, not available at the time of the original trial, and set him free.
Like his slogan says, Harvey Nussbaum takes Wrongs and tries to turn them into Rights. Provided, of course, somebody pays him the right amount of money.
“So, which one of you two gentlemen is Ceepak?”
A short, wiry guy in funky designer glasses flits into the reception area like a hummingbird flapping a sheet of paper. With curly hair, a very high forehead (okay, he’s practically bald), Harvey Nussbaum looks to be about sixty-something. He’s wearing a tweed sport coat, a checked dress shirt, a red silk tie, creased blue jeans, and snazzy black shoes that probably cost more than all the shoes I have ever owned combined.
“I’m Ceepak.”