Free Bearing Witness by Michael A. Kahn Page A

toward him. “If there really is a conspiracy, we ought to be able to see a pattern from the winners. First of all, there ought to be a fairly small group, but large enough to divide up all those jobs—I’d guess somewhere between five and ten. More than ten, I don’t see how they could run a conspiracy—too many players, too many variables. So, the first hurdle is the number of winners.”
    â€œAnd then what?” Benny asked.
    â€œA comparison of the winning bids to the cost estimates.”
    â€œWhat cost estimates?” Benny asked.
    I showed how each bid invitation in the CBD included an estimated cost range for the project—$3 to $6 million for one, $5 to $8 million for another. Since the central goal of a bid-rigging conspiracy is to allow each conspirator to “win” one contract with a higher-than-competitive bid, the bad guys have to decide in advance what the winning bid will be so that the rest of them can be sure to submit higher bids. How did they decide how high to go with the winning bid? On government projects, Uncle Sam is kind enough to provide that answer with its cost estimates.
    â€œYou see?” I said. “If the government’s cost estimate for a particular project is four to seven million, and if there really is a bid-rigging conspiracy, which end of the cost estimate would you expect the so-called low bid to be closer to?”
    He looked at me and nodded. “Good thinking.”
    â€œWe’ll see if that happened here.” I leaned back in my chair. “If so, we still have a case.”
    â€œKeep your fingers crossed,” Benny said.
    â€œI guess so.” I stared up at the ceiling and sighed. “If we still have a case, that means I’ve got at least two miserable months of trial preparation ahead of me.” I shook my head glumly. “Sometimes I wish someone would drive a stake through the heart of this lawsuit.”

Chapter Six
    For more than thirty years, the good burghers of South St. Louis have made the Reavis Banquet Center the place of choice to celebrate their weddings, confirmations, high school graduations, and other special occasions. As such, it’s normally a place for merrymaking—drinks flow, buffet tables groan, and big bands play top tunes from decades ago.
    But not this Sunday morning.
    Today, the main hall of the Reavis Banquet Center felt more like a chapel. Gone were the steam trays and portable bars and banquet tables. In their place were about fifteen rows of folding chairs, sixteen chairs per row, all facing the elevated stage at the head of the room where the big bands normally set up. The stage was empty except for a podium in the center, a flagpole in the right corner, and a large white cross on a stand in the other corner. Taped organ music played softly over the speakers. Every chair was taken.
    Jonathan and I were in the back row. I gazed around the room, trying to gauge the audience. It was a white, working-class crowd—mostly blue collar, with a few shopkeepers and bank tellers scattered in the mix. The men looked uncomfortable in their sports jackets. I saw a few adjust their ties or run a finger around the inside of their buttoned collars. The older women looked dowdy; the younger ones favored bleached hair and chewing gum. At first glance there was a Norman Rockwell feel to it, but after a few minutes you sensed the slightly harder edge to this crowd. Any doubts, of course, were dispelled by the presence of all those uniformed cops. I counted a dozen St. Louis police officers positioned along the walls around the room. There was a similar number of state troopers outside, spread around the perimeter of the building, their walkie-talkies crackling. Several had nodded at Jonathan as we walked in.
    On our drive down, I had jokingly told Jonathan that we’d probably be the first Jews in the building since it opened in 1957. The irony seemed amusing then. It sure