Tellingly, Rav Alter thought, the nephew didn’t immediately demand “What kind of complaints?” Instead, all he asked was, “Who?” His voice was as cold as ice.

“I have given her and her parents my sacred word never to discuss it. But I have the name written down.”

“They came to you?”

Was there a sudden touch of fear in the nephew’s tone? A slight lessening of the arrogance? “No, I actually went to them.”

“For what reason?”

“Because someone saw the girl leaving your brother-in-law’s office in a terrible state and came to me for help. And because she is only thirteen years old.”

There was complete silence. Rav Alter took advantage of it. “Listen, it’s a mazal you’re family. You can help him. Please advise your relative that it might be better for him to take only male patients from now on. As it is written: For lack of wood a fire goes out. And did you hear—Nechemya Weberman, nebbech, had his sentence reduced by half, and he’ll still be sitting there another fifty years! As for the psak of the Vaad Harabbonim, it is final and will be printed and put up all over Brooklyn in another two hours. Do the Bobelger really want to be the only group left out of a psak protecting the tznius of our women and girls?”

An hour later, the Bobelger Rebbe’s signature on the proclamation arrived at Rav Alter’s desk. Along with it, was another envelope addressed to Yaakov Lehman. He opened it. It was filled with cash.

After the posters had gone up all over the religious communities of Brooklyn and Manhattan, Rav Alter took the envelope out of his desk drawer and put it in his pocket. Brushing off the luxurious felt of his best Shabbos hat and donning the long black coat he wore to the synagogue on festive occasions, he walked through the streets of Boro Park. His progress was slow, as every two minutes (or so it seemed to him in his eagerness to reach his destination), another member of his large congregation stopped to bless him and shake his hand. One even waylaid him with great excitement to discuss the new psak going up around town, whose ink had barely dried, filled with curiosity and hoping to uncover the treasure of a juicy nugget of exclusive information from a famous rabbi to be shared as proof of one’s exalted status.

Rav Alter was polite, but distant, looking down at the ground while these people whispered eagerly into his ear. In reply, he said absolutely nothing, until finally even the densest got the picture and backed off, raining down pious clichés like a brief summer shower that leaves everything annoyingly damp rather than nourishingly watered.

He rang the buzzer. Fruma Esther took a while to answer. “Yes?”

“It’s me. Shimon Levi. Can I come up?”