Introduction

Daniel Jacobus, reclusive blind concert master and amateur sleuth, returns to solve a most despicable crime and to clear an innocent man.

Just after his Carnegie Hall swansong and before his imminent departure for retirement in France, beloved violinist and humanitarian Rene Allard is brutally murdered with a mysterious weapon. His young African American rival, crossover artist BTower, is spotted at the scene of the crime hovering over the contorted body of Allard with blood on his hands. In short order the aloof and arrogant BTower is convicted and sentenced to death, in part the result of the testimony of blind and curmudgeonly violin pedagogue Daniel Jacobus, like millions of others, an ardent admirer of Allard. Justice has been served?or has it? Jacobus is dragged back into the case kicking and screaming, and reluctantly follows a trail of broken violins and broken lives as it leads inexorably to the truth, and to his own mortal peril.

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Excerpt

Three

The “Two Maestros,” as the media had dubbed it, had all the buzz of the Scopes Monkey Trial. A murder trial in which either the accused or the victim was a celebrity was always enough to get the public’s juices flowing, but in the case of the murder of René Allard, with BTower, arguably the world’s most famous—as well as physically appealing, controversial, and eligible—living musician as the defendant, the public couldn’t get enough. Newspapers, which were selling as fast as they could be printed, were saturated with coverage not only of the protagonists, but with stories scouring the lives of the lawyers, the judge, the jury, the police, the witnesses—anyone remotely connected to the trial.

Nielsen ratings of the hard-hitting weekly news program, Op Ed, went through the roof when moderator Ed Fallon interviewed the attractive young prosecutor, Michelle Brown. “Pit Bull” Brown, so dubbed by Fallon for her dogged determination to seek the death penalty for BTower, aka Shelby Freeman Jr., became America’s most beloved darling since Shirley Temple. A recent summa cum laude graduate of Fordham University Law School, Brown had aspirations of ascending the political ladder, and she had already ascended the first rungs with swift tenacity. This was her first capital case, and it was as big a plum as she could ever hope for.

“Will the defense play the race card?” asked Fallon, knowing that is what America wanted to hear and also knowing the answer.

“Race has nothing to do with this case,” said Brown. “Only guilt or innocence.”

“Is it true, Michelle Brown, that you’ve been handed this case by your mentor and former professor, District Attorney Adrian Garn, because you’re having an intimate relationship with him?”

“Again, that has nothing to do with this case.”

Only two people refused interviews. One was BTower, whose attorney, Cy Rosenthal, shielded him from all publicity, which undoubtedly would have been negative. The other was Daniel Jacobus, who took his phone off the hook.

Now, on the first day of the Two Maestros trial, Jacobus was ensconced in the packed courtroom. His turn as a witness for the prosecution was some time off but he felt compelled to be there. Nathaniel and Yumi hadn’t had to haul him into the city as they did the year before to hear Allard’s last performance. He was so eager to see justice done that when Brown had interviewed him to determine whether to call him as a character witness, he had ended up coaching her on the finer points of the classical music world.

Now, as he leaned forward to listen intently, the eyes of the courtroom and the world were now focused on Brown. Conservatively dressed in an ensemble of matching gray wool jacket and mid-length skirt, and white silk blouse, all of which nevertheless managed to highlight the curves of her figure, she began in practiced understated fashion by summarizing the accomplishments of the great violinist and humanitarian, René Allard, in the unlikely event anyone might not have been aware of them.

“There is no need, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, to go into detail how, even after René Allard’s perilous Casa Blanca-like escape from France to the U.S. in 1941 he continued his heroic work on behalf of the French Underground for the liberation of France in World War II. Or how in 1961 he had been invited to the White House by John and Jacqueline Kennedy to perform the Brahms Double Concerto with Pablo Casals. Or how in 1968 he had been named the first Ambassador of World Peace by U.N. Secretary General U Thant. The list, ladies and gentlemen, goes on and on.

“One day, René Allard spotted a young man, alone and virtually penniless, on the streets of New York. That young man, Shelby Freeman Jr., now known by the whole world as BTower, was just one among thousands of poor, listless youths from Harlem, lacking direction and a future. The one thing Shelby Freeman Jr. could do differently was play the violin. Shelby Freeman Jr. had the good fortune to be busking with an open violin case lying on the sidewalk on a day that was so sunny and pleasant that René Allard decided to walk from the U.N. to Carnegie Hall. Hardly anyone passing by noticed Shelby, and even fewer tossed a coin or two into his case. But it was Allard who immediately recognized his raw talent and admitted him to be among a select number of his students. It was René Allard who gave free lessons to Shelby, and made him a part of his family. It was in fact Allard who inspired Shelby to change his name to BTower, when one day at a lesson Allard turned to his pianist, Virgil Lavender, and said, ‘It looks like we have here a young Bridgetower,’ referring to the nineteenth century black virtuoso George Augustus Polgreen Bridgetower, for whom Beethoven’s monumental Opus 47 Violin Sonata was composed.”

Brown took the comparison a step further. She likened Bridgetower, who had a permanent falling out with Beethoven (so that Beethoven ultimately dedicated the sonata to the French violin pedagogue, Rodolphe Kreutzer, who incidentally never performed the piece, thinking it too difficult), to BTower’s estrangement from René Allard.

“No one knows exactly what transpired between Bridgetower and Beethoven, but be assured, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we do know what accounted for BTower and Allard’s irreconcilable differences. Allard had demanded hours of hard work everyday; hours devoted to the practice of scales and etudes, and the study of solfège, and music theory, and composing fugues. This was the way Allard had learned when he himself was a student in the Paris Conservatory. He knew in his heart it was the only way to true greatness.

“René Allard taught everything he knew, in the only way he knew, to help insure the success of Shelby Freeman Jr., but Shelby Freeman Jr. decided he didn’t want to put in those hours of drudgery. Shelby Freeman Jr. chafed under the bit of disciplined hard work. Shelby Freeman Jr. rebelled, and ultimately—personally and professionally jealous of René Allard’s stature as a musician and humanitarian which he realized he could never achieve—Shelby Freeman Jr. repaid René Allard’s efforts with death.

“Shelby Freeman Jr. needed to do it his own way. He needed to create a new style. But even though relations with his former mentor turned icy, isn’t it ironic that when Shelby Freeman Jr. transformed his persona he remembered René Allard’s compliment and changed his name to BTower, and often performed the ‘Kreutzer’ Sonata, which he had learned under the tutelage of René Allard?

“But he did more than just play the violin, as the world knows. Strikingly handsome, a Muhammad Ali look-alike some have said, Shelby Freeman Jr., now BTower, grew his hair into dreadlocks, and dressed unconventionally in tight black jeans and tight black T-shirts for performances. He danced around the stage with a light show going on behind him, even when he performed Bach sonatas. He was the only person in history ever to be on the cover of Rolling Stone and Strad Magazine. Indeed, BTower was so popular, especially among young and African-American audiences, who had been awakened to the greatness of classical music, that he was the only performer who could command a fee close to Allard’s.

“Let me remind you that there is nothing necessarily wrong with what BTower called his concert ‘enhancements.’ I myself share with millions of people open admiration for what BTower had done on the concert stage. I readily admit that I had never enjoyed classical music until going to a BTower concert. His innovative style refreshed what was perceived by many as a stodgy, white bread art form, so please, jury, do not consider what René Allard, renowned for elegance and good taste, might have thought about BTower’s style. But I must also caution you, do not be deceived by BTower’s good looks, nor by his indisputable flamboyance and personal magnetism. Consider only that a rivalry had been created, a pernicious rivalry not only between two people, but between two worlds, and as time progressed that rivalry intensified into hatred, and into murder.”

Jacobus, content with Brown’s opening statement, leaned back in his seat, but only briefly as at this point Brown suffered her only minor setback. At the defense’s request, the judge refused to permit her to show the jury the grisly police photos of Allard’s body, declaring them too inflammatory. She was not, however, barred from reading Detective Malachi’s report. Undaunted, she feigned poor eyesight, and donning fake glasses to focus the court’s attention on the words she was about to read, Brown proceeded to recite the report’s goriest details, slowly.

Brown concluded her opening statement by summarizing how the state would prove, with eyewitnesses corroborating every step, that BTower had gone to Carnegie Hall the night of October 31 to hear René Allard perform. Afterwards he accosted Allard backstage, and then, unsatisfied with the results of their confrontation, stalked him to his apartment in the Bonderman Building where he was recognized standing above the body with blood on his hands before fleeing the scene of the murder. Jacobus was able to relax again.

Cy Rosenthal, the unlikely lead attorney on BTower’s defense team, was neither a criminal nor a trial lawyer, either by training or inclination. A long-time junior partner of firm of Palmese, Leibowitz, and O’Neil in Uniondale, Long Island, Rosenthal’s strengths were litigation and labor law, where he had garnered a well earned reputation hammering out collective bargaining agreements for unions in the beer and toy-making industries. It was only when, on the eve of the Two Maestros trial, a late-night drunk driver on the Belt Parkway put senior partner Carmine Palmese in traction from the neck down for six months, that Rosenthal was thrust into the unaccustomed role he graciously but uncomfortably accepted.

Not many other lawyers would have had Rosenthal’s courage to carry the flag under such circumstances, especially in this case. The Two Maestros appeared to be an open and shut case and public sentiment against his client was at least ninety-nine to one. Rosenthal just happened to be that one. Though the hallmark of American justice is the presumption of innocence, he knew in this trial that was exactly what he would have to prove.

Rosenthal concocted the story that BTower had rushed to the Bonderman Building to apologize to Allard after their heated exchange at Carnegie Hall, that he was rebuffed by Allard in the lobby of the building, and that he made one final effort at reconciliation by running up the stairs, knowing that Allard would be leaving permanently for France the next morning. When he arrived at the fourth floor he found Allard already on the ground. He knelt down to assist him (in the process accumulating the blood on his hands and clothes), and promptly ascertained that Allard was dead. The defendant, immediately realizing the portentous ramifications of his presence at the scene, and being unable to assist Allard in any way, panicked and fled. Mistake—yes. Murder—no.

Rosenthal, short, balding, and not nearly as kempt as Michelle Brown, using extravagant language and gestures, attempted to make the case that the absence of a weapon and the astounding fact that the medical examiner was unable to determine an specific cause of death, precluded a conviction on a first degree murder charge. All the medical examiner could conclude was that Allard’s neck had been violently crushed by some powerful external force, and that death followed “about thirty seconds later, one minute, tops.” Without even an hypothesized weapon, let alone an actual one, he contended, how could a reasonable jury convict? This was Rosenthal’s strongest card—actually his only card—but throughout the course of the trial he harped upon it so aggressively that he ended up overplaying his hand. After repeating this line of reasoning once too often, the judge admonished him, “Counsel, I think you’ve made your point. Now if you please, move on.” But there was nowhere to move. By the end of the trial the New York Daily News would tag the flustered Rosenthal “the counsel for the indefensible.”

The next day the chain of witnesses began. Sigmund Gottfried was the first called, actually as a witness for the defense. Under cross-questioning from Brown he reluctantly admitted that BTower had indeed been at Allard’s side when Allard entered the elevator that fatal Halloween night, and that, yes, BTower had seemed nervous. But Gottfried testified that he could not believe BTower would do such a terrible thing. He had seen BTower come and go to the Bonderman Building for many years and was always such a nice boy. It was impossible for him to kill anyone, especially another musician like Maestro Allard.

“Would it have been possible for an athletic young man like the defendant to run up to the fourth floor in the time it took the elevator?” Brown asked.

“It would have been very difficult,” said Gottfried.

“Is it not true, Mr. Gottfried, that the elevator in the Bonderman Building is one of the last constructed by the Otis Elevator Company before the advent of the gearless traction elevator?”

“That is true.”

“And isn’t it also true that the maximum safe speed for such a museum piece is approximately one hundred feet per minute?” asked Pit Bull Brown.

“Jah.”

“Or that modern elevators now effortlessly accelerate to twelve-hundred feet per second?”

“I wouldn’t know that.”

“Would you ever exceed a safe speed for your passengers, Mr. Gottfried, especially one as important as René Allard?”

“Not for nobody! I would never go too fast for safety.”

“So, Mr. Gottfried, I repeat my question. Would it have been possible for an athletic young man like the defendant to run up to the fourth floor in the time it took your dinosaur of an elevator?”

Gottfried stammered, “But he couldn’t have done it.”

“‘Would it have been possible’ is the question. Please answer.”

“Yes, I suppose,” whispered Gottfried.

“I’m glad to hear you say that, Mr. Gottfried, because I myself tested that hypothesis and I didn’t even break a sweat. Thank you. No further questions.”

Next was Alonzo Fuente, the building manager of the Bonderman Building, who fidgeted.

“Mr. Fuente, tell us what you saw when René Allard entered the elevator the night he was killed.”

“Well, I was taking down the Halloween decorations from the lobby—that’s why I knew it was around midnight, because that’s when I always take down the Halloween decorations—when Maestro Allard came in.”

“Was he alone?”

“Yes. He was alone. He pressed the button for the elevator and as he was waiting Mr. BTower runs into the lobby and up to Maestro as the doors opened. Maestro just kind of ignored him and he went into the elevator.”

“Then what did the defendant do?”

“When the doors closed he ran up the stairs. I thought maybe he forgot to give him something, or something. That’s all I know.”

“Thank you.”

Next called to the stand was Daniel Jacobus, a character witness. He cut an imposing if not handsome figure; sallow-cheeked and unshaven, with springy unkempt gray hair, and of course his dark glasses. He was a bit of a gamble for Brown because of his penchant to be a combative loose cannon, and his discomfort being in the public limelight, primped up in clothes other than a flannel shirt and corduroy pants, was obvious. But the jury tended to sympathize with the wizened Jacobus precisely for his unease, his disdain for protocol, and of course his blindness; and with his credentials as a respected violin teacher, appeared to believe his blunt candor. Jacobus testified he had taught BTower briefly after his defection from Allard. Though Jacobus idolized Allard’s musicianship—as much as crusty Jacobus could idolize anything—he had is own idiosyncratic methods of teaching, and so hoped he might be able provide something with the young violinist that Allard might not have tried. However, after a short time they, the new teacher and student, too had locked horns. BTower had to do it his own way.

“Mr. Jacobus, do you think the defendant, in a fit of rage, could have been capable of killing René Allard?”

“Yes,” Jacobus muttered.

“Can you repeat that a bit louder so we can all hear, Mr. Jacobus?”

“Yes,” Jacobus hollered. His distaste at being the focus of attention was exceeded only by his desire to see the murderer of René Allard behind bars.

“And why are you so certain of that Mr. Jacobus?”

“Because anyone who would play Variations on ‘I Feel Good’ at a serious concert is capable of anything.” The courtroom erupted in laughter, but Jacobus didn’t see the humor.

It was Rosenthal’s turn to question Jacobus.

“You say you and the defendant didn’t get along so well when you taught him. That he had to do things his way. Is that correct?”

“Yeah.”

“Yet he went on to become a great star.”

“What’s your point?”

“Well, Mr. Jacobus, if you, as you’ve admitted, weren’t able to teach the defendant effectively, and yet, after leaving you, he quickly became one of the most famous musicians in history, isn’t it possible you bear the defendant a serious grudge?”

“Absolutely.”

“Ah ha!”

“Because I would bear a grudge against anyone who murdered another human, especially if that human was René Allard!”

The gavel came down immediately and forcefully, again and again, until the uproar was extinguished. Jacobus was admonished by the judge from making any further incendiary remarks, and was ordered to answer the question, addressing the valid point raised by counsel, which was: Do you, Daniel Jacobus, bear a grudge against the defendant, BTower for his success after your inability to be an effective teacher?

Jacobus suddenly felt as if he were on trial, as if he had to justify his existence. Why should he have to account for a lifetime of dedication to an art and a profession in which success, however it was defined, was anything but guaranteed? That no matter how hard one worked, how much one understood or felt about music, talent in the vast majority of cases took one only so far—and not far enough— and luck often became the determining wild card? How could he say in a few short sentences what would take a lifetime to understand?

“Yes, I do bear a grudge, counselor,” he began quietly. “But not for his success in itself. I bear a grudge because of the shortcuts he took to get there. Disguising music as something else—mere entertainment—and covering up his own shortcomings as a serious musician.

“When you hear Bach, counselor, as it should be heard, there is no greater life changing experience imaginable. But when Bach is thrust into a dog and pony show, and that comes to be defined as great art by an unwitting society, that’s when I take exception. When I go to hear Bach I want to hear music. I don’t need the Flying Wallendas. So yes, I do bear a grudge against the defendant, but it’s not for his stardom. It’s for having cheapened something that is far more precious than you, or he, is aware.”

The courtroom was silent. Rosenthal had no further questions.

When Virgil Lavender, blue-eyed and ruddy-cheeked in a stylish but somewhat worn beige and white seersucker suit was called to the stand and to take the oath, he politely corrected the bailiff’s pronunciation of his last name.

“Accent’s on the end. Like in pretender,” he said with a smile as he took his seat.

“Mr. Lavender, you had been René Allard’s exclusive pianist for twenty years?” Pit Bull Brown began.

“Actually thirty.”

“Thirty years. And when we say ‘exclusive,’ what does that mean?”

“It means that during that time I was the only accompanist he played with.”

“That’s quite an honor. So did you play with him only at concerts?”

“Of course not! We had endless rehearsals—René was a slave-driver for rehearsing. And I was also his studio pianist. That means I accompanied his students—he didn’t have that many actually, he was so busy performing—at their lessons.”

“And in the thirty years that you spent all this time with René Allard did you ever see him get angry.”

“Never, he was the most amiable person I’ve ever met. I remember one time—”

“Did you ever see the defendant get angry, specifically at René Allard?”

“Holy-moly, did I? Almost every lesson he would argue. He felt his time was being wasted because he felt René was too methodical. I would just sit there and try to be invisible. I never heard anyone talk to René like that, not even—”

“And the night of the murder?”

“Ah, yes. The night of the murder BTower came backstage at Carnegie Hall after the recital. It was a madhouse. René and I had just finished ‘Danse Macabre.’ René was putting his violin back in his case and I was on the other side of the room making out a check for Miles…he was my page turner. A piano student from the Mannes school. Very talented, but somewhat—”

“Please stick to the subject, Mr. Lavender.”

“Yes. Sorry. Out of the corner of my eye I saw BTower go to up to René. They chatted. There must have been a misunderstanding. I didn’t hear specific words because everybody was talking, but BTower got very heated, and then just stormed off. René shrugged but didn’t mention anything about it. I just thought it was BTower being BTower, having a hissy fit.”

“And why would BTower have a ‘hissy fit’?”

“Envy, I suppose.”

“Tell us about the concert at Carnegie Hall. It was a special event, was it not?”

“It was the end of an era.”

“How do you mean?”

“This was his last concert. His farewell. He was leaving the next day to return to France. Forever. Ms. Brown, there are no more musicians like René Allard anymore. Music will never be the same. And to think that after thirty years of collaboration this was the last time for us.”

There was silence in the courtroom.

“Thank you, Mr. Lavender.”

No one moved.

“Thank you Mr. Lavender. That will be all.”

Next was elderly Mabel Bidwell, René Allard’s next door neighbor. For the occasion she had had her hair blued and permed, and had taken her mink stole out of mothballs.

“Mrs. Mabel Bidwell, what happened moments after twelve o’clock midnight on October 31?”

“I was in my apartment, Apartment 4C, where I’ve lived for forty-four years.”

“Thank you Mrs. Bidwell. We appreciate your endurance. Please just tell us what happened.”

“So I hear a thud from the corridor, which is very unusual for that time of night, though maybe since it’s Halloween, who knows? You know what I’m saying? So I crack open the door—I keep the chain on of course—to see what’s all the malarkey.”

“And what did you see?”

“I saw that man there”—she said dramatically as she pointed at BTower—“bending over somebody. I didn’t know who it was at the time—I mean the body, but it was him all right who was bending over it. Then he gets up. He looks around, all scared—his hands looking all bloody—and runs away down the stairs.”

The defense objected to the witness making assumptions.

“Why didn’t you call the police right away, Mrs. Bidwell?” asked Brown.

“Because that’s when Hennie came out of 4B, and when she saw who the body was, I’m telling you, I had to take care of her first, police or no police.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bidwell.”

Finally was Detective Al Malachi.

“Detective Malachi, did you find anything at the defendant’s apartment when you went to arrest him which might corroborate prior testimony?”

“Yes.”

“What did you find?”

“On the wall of his study, where he kept all his music and CD’s and things like that, was a part of a review of one of his recitals, from April 12, 1988. It was written by Martin Lilburn, music critic of the New York Times. It had been enlarged and certain passages were underlined in red and it was framed. It was clearly not an artwork.”

“Please refrain from editorial comments, detective. Do you have a copy of that review?”

“Yes.”

“Could you please read it to the court?”

Malachi cleared his throat.

“‘When BTower performed the Paganini Twenty-fourth Caprice and the Wieniawski D-Major Polonaise, one forgave him his lack of musical insight, because the sheer power of his mechanical execution combined with his obvious visual stage appeal made for a compelling show. However, when he attempted a go at the profound Bach A-Minor Sonata for Unaccompanied Violin and the ostensibly straightforward Mozart G-Major Sonata, K. 379, his lack of artistic presence became woefully evident, particularly in the insouciant charm of the second movement variations. René Allard, on his worst night, would have brought more reflective intelligence and good taste to the table. And that goes without mentioning the gaping disparity of their sounds—Allard’s with his legendary vocal and lustrous warmth, like a vintage Burgundy; and BTower’s, strong but cold and colorless as cheap beer.’”

“Thank you, Detective. Was there anything else of relevance you found on the defendant’s person?”

“Yes.”

“And what was that?”

“Blood was found on the clothing the defendant was wearing at the time of his arrest. It was also found under his fingernails. He apparently tried to wash it off his hands.”

“Was it the defendant’s own blood found under his fingernails and on his clothing, Detective?”

“No.”

“Whose blood was it?”

Malachi leaned forward in his chair as if to emphasize his response. He looked, unflinching, at the jury.

“The blood of René Allard.”

“Is there any doubt about the blood, Detective Malachi? If there any doubt it, is your obligation to tell us. We do not want to convict the wrong man based upon questionable evidence.”

“There is no doubt.”

When she addressed the jury in her closing statement, attorney Brown rubbed it in. “Now, the defense will try to have you believe that the simple absence of a murder weapon is sufficient to render a verdict of ‘not guilty.’ They will try to have you believe that between approximately midnight and the time of his arrest, a period of more than two hours, the defendant was unable to dispose of a weapon in a city of six million inhabitants. They will strain any reasonable level of credulity and have you believe that in the approximate one minute that Mr. Allard exited the elevator on the fourth floor of the Bonderman Building and the time that the defendant claims to have discovered the body while on a mission of reconciliation, that during those sixty seconds, the real killer—a phantom who no one saw, who no one can account for—magically appeared, brutally killed René Allard—a heroic and kindly eighty-six year old man, the most beloved violinist in the world—and evaporated into thin air. All in sixty seconds. And that the defendant, an athletic, headstrong young man, obsessed with the greater legacy of his elder rival; the defendant, seeing himself in the predicament of being spotted alongside the body, with the victim’s blood literally on his hands, suddenly panicked because he was worried he would be wrongly accused.

“That, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is what the defense would have you believe. The State’s case rests, confident that you will believe what you will believe.”

BTower, sitting next to Rosenthal at the defense table, said, “I know what the jury will believe they believe. I just hope they give me death and not life without parole.” After just under four hours of deliberation the jury found BTower guilty of the murder of René Allard. He was also right about the sentence. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. Daniel Jacobus is a crusty character, to say the least. What traits does he have that make him at all appealing? Would you want someone like Jacobus to be your friend?
2. Consider Rene Allard, BTower, and Sigmund Gottfried. Is there someone in your life who has surprised you by being a totally different person than you thought?
3. Does reading Danse Macabre make you curious about Grandpa's violin in your attic? Are you more interested to listen to classical music?
4. Is there a particular piece of classical music that has made an impact on you? How would popularizing its presentation dilute its power or make it more appealing?
5. Like BTower, have you ever been blamed for something for which you were innocent? How did you respond?
6. One issue in Danse Macabre is the power of forgiveness. Considering all that Sigmund Gottfried had done, do you retain any sympathy for him?

Weblinks

»	Publisher's Book Info
»	Author Gerald Elias' web site

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