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One
CELL MATES
The man in the holding cell loosened his tie, tossed his rumpled suit coat into a corner, and stretched out on the hard plastic bench. The woman in the facing cell slipped out of her glen plaid jacket, folded it carefully across an arm, and began pacing.
"Relax, Vickie. We're gonna be here a while," the man said.
"Victoria," the woman corrected. Her angry footsteps echoed off the bare concrete floor.
"Wild guess. You've never been held in contempt before."
"You treat it like a badge of honor."
"A lawyer who's afraid of jail is like a surgeon who's afraid of blood," Steve Solomon said.
"From what I hear, you spend more time behind bars than your clients," Victoria Lord said.
"Hey, thanks. Great tag line for my radio spots. 'You do the crime, Steve does the time.' "
"You're the most unethical lawyer I know."
"You're new at this. Give it time."
"Sleazy son-of-a-bitch," she muttered, turning away.
"I heard that," he said.
Nice profile, he thought. Attractive in that polished, cool-as-a-daiquiri way. Long legs, small bust, sculpted jaw, an angular, athletic look. Green eyes spiked with gray and a tousled, honey-blond bird's nest of hair. Ballsy and sexy, too. He'd never heard "sleazy son-of-a-bitch" sound so seductive.
"If you weren't so arrogant," he said, "I could teach you a few courtroom tricks."
"Save your breath for your inflatable doll."
"Cheap shot. That was a trial exhibit."
"Really? People have seen the doll in your car. Fully inflated."
"It rides shotgun so I can use the car-pool lane."
She walked toward the cell door. Shadows of the bars pin-striped her face. "I know your record, Solomon. I know all about you."
"If you've been stalking me, I'm gonna get a restraining order."
"You make a mockery of the law."
"I make up my own. Solomon's Laws. Rule Number One: 'When the law doesn't work, work the law.' "
"They should lock you up."
"Actually, they already have."
"You're a disgrace to the profession."
"Aw, c'mon. Where's your heart, Vickie?"
"Victoria! And I don't have one. I'm a prosecutor."
"I'll bet you think Jean Valjean belonged in prison."
"He stole the bread, didn't he?"
"You'd burn witches at the stake."
"Not until they exhausted all their appeals." She laughed, a sparkle of electricity.
Damn, she's good at this.
Fending off his mishegoss, trumping his insults with her own. Something else appealed to him, too. No wedding band and no engagement ring. Ms. Victoria Lord, rookie prosecutor, seemed to be unattached as well as argumentative. Maybe twenty-eight. Seven years younger than him.
"If you need any help around the courthouse," he said, "I'd be willing to mentor you."
"Is that what they're calling it these days?"
Touche. But she'd said it with a smile. Maybe this wasn't so much combat as foreplay. Another parry, another thrust, who knows? The more he thought about it, the more confident he became.
She likes me. She really likes me.
I hate him.
I really hate him, Victoria decided.
Dammit, she'd been warned about Solomon. He always tested new prosecutors, baited them into losing their cool, lured them into mistrials. And she wasn't totally "new." She'd handled arraignments and preliminary hearings for eight months. And hadn't she won her first two felony trials? Of course, neither one had involved Steve Slash-and-Burn Solomon.
"You gotta know, the contempt citation is all your fault," he said from the facing cell.
She wouldn't give him the pleasure of saying, Why?
Or, How?
Or, Go screw yourself.
"You should never call opposing counsel a 'total fucking shark' in open court," he continued. "Save it for recess."
"You called me a 'persecutor.' "
"A slip of the tongue."
"You're incorrigible."
"Lose the big words. You'll confuse the jurors. Judges, too."
Victoria stopped pacing. It was stifling in the cell, and her feet were killing her. She wanted to pry off her ankle-strapped Prada pumps, but if she stood on this disgustingly sticky floor, she'd have to burn her panty hose. The plaid pencil skirt was uncomfortable, a tad too tight. Now she wished she'd taken the time to let it out before coming to court. Especially after catching Solomon, the pig, staring at her ass.
She saw him now, sprawled on the bench, hands behind his head, like a beach bum in a hammock. He had a dark shock of unruly hair, eyes filled with mischief, and a self-satisfied grin, like he'd just pinned a "Kick Me" note on her fanny. God, he was infuriating.
She couldn't wait to get back into the courtroom and convict his lowlife client. But just now, she felt exhausted. The adrenaline rush was ebbing, the lack of sleep was fogging her mind. All those hours practicing in front of the mirror.
"Ladies and gentlemen, you will hear the testimony of Customs and Wildlife Officers . . ."
Maybe she was going about this the wrong way. How many times had she had researched the legal issues, prepped her witnesses, rehearsed her opening statement?
". . . who will testify that the defendant, Amancio Pedrosa, did unlawfully smuggle contraband, to wit, four parakeets, three parrots, two cockatoos . . ."
And a partridge in a pear tree.
Maybe she'd burned herself out. Maybe that's why she'd cracked today. Had she looked ridiculous pushing a grocery cart overflowing with boxes to the prosecution table? There was Solomon, holding a single yellow pad, and there she was, weighted down with books, research folders, and color-coded index cards bristling with notes.
Even though she despised Solomon, she did envy his brash confidence. The way he glided across the courtroom, skating to the clerk's table, flashing an easy smile at the jurors. He was lean and wiry and graceful, comfortable in his own skin. When she rose to speak, she felt stiff and mechanical. All those eyes staring at her, judging her. Would she ever have his self-assurance?
An hour earlier, she hadn't even realized she was being held in contempt. Judge Gridley never used the word. He just formed a T with his hands and drawled, "Time-out, y'all. This ain't gonna look good on the instant replay." It was only then that she remembered that the judge was a part-time college football official.
"Mr. Solomon, you oughta know better," Judge Gridley continued. "Miss Lord, you're gonna have to learn. When I say that's enough bickering, that's by-God enough. No hitting after the whistle in my courtroom. Bailiff, show these two squabblers to our finest accommodations."
How humiliating. What would she say to her boss? She remembered Ray Pincher's "two strikes" orientation lecture: "If you're held in contempt, you'll feel blue. If it happens again, you'll be through."
But she wouldn't let it happen again. When they got back into the courtroom, she'd . . .
Shit!
Something was stuck on the velvet toe of her pump.
A sheet of toilet paper!
Grimacing, she scraped it off with the bottom of her other shoe. What else could go wrong?
"Hey, Lord, we're gonna be in here a while." That aggravating voice from the other cell. "So here are the ground rules. When one person has to pee, the other turns around."
She shot a look at the seatless, metal toilet bowl.
Right. As if I'd squat over that fondue pot of festering bacteria.
When she didn't respond, he said: "You still there or you bust out?" Somewhere, deep inside the walls, the plumbing groaned and water gurgled. "Suit yourself, but I gotta take a leak."
What a jerk.
Solomon was one of those men you run into in bars and gyms, she thought, so clueless as to believe they're both witty and charming.
"No peeking," he said.
There was a plague of these men, with a sizable percentage becoming lawyers.
"Unzipping now . . ."
Dear God, scrunch his scrotum, zipper his balls.
"Ahhh," he sighed, the tinkle-tinkle sounding like hailstones on a tin roof. "Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall," he sang out. "Ninety-nine bottles of beer . . ."
"I didn't realize they still made men like you," Victoria Lord said.
I'm getting through to her, Steve thought. Sure, she was still playing that old I am strong, I am invincible, I am wo-man shtick, but he sensed a shift in her mood.
There seemed to be something different about the feisty Ms. Lord. Nothing like the court stenographers he usually dated. Quiet, rather submissive women who transcribed whatever they heard. And nothing like the SoBe models, whose brains must have been fried by exposure to so many strobe lights.
He remembered looking around the courtroom when Victoria rose to address the judge. All the players--from his shifty client to the sleepy bailiff--had been riveted. Jurors, witnesses, cops, probation officers, jailers, clerks, public defenders. Hell, everybody watched her, even when he was talking. Yeah, she was a natural, with the kind of pizzazz they can't teach in law school.
Maybe the best rookie I've ever seen.
Of course, she had a rigid prosecutorial mentality, but he could work on that, once she forgave him for suckering her into contempt. Not that he minded the downtime. To him, this eight-by-eight cell was a cozy second home, a pied-ˆ-terre with a view of the Miami River from the barred window. Hell, they ought to put his name on the door, like a luxury suite at Pro Player Stadium. Failing that, he scribbled on the cell wall:
Stephen Solomon, Esq.
"Beating the state's butt for nine years"
Call UBE-FREE, 822-3733
Steve preferred to defend the truly innocent, but where would he find them? If people didn't lie, cheat, and steal, he figured he'd be starving, instead of clearing about the same as a longshoreman at the Port of Miami who worked overtime and stole an occasional crate of whiskey. Steve usually settled for what he called "honest criminals," felons who ran afoul of technicalities that would not be illegal in a live-and-let-live society. Bookies, hookers, or entrepreneurs like today's client, Amancio Pedrosa, who imported exotic animals with a blithe disregard of the law.
Steve glanced into Victoria's cell. She had resumed pacing, a tigress in a cage. Her tailored plaid jacket was draped over an arm. An expensive outfit, he was sure, but wrong for the jury. The high neck accentuated her--well, stiff-neckedness. She should ditch that Puritan look, get something open at the collar, a bright blouse underneath. The matching skirt was fine, a little tighter than he'd expect on the prim prosecutor. A nice ass for someone so flat on top.
"What do you say, after we get out, we hit Bayside, dive into a pitcher of margaritas?" he said.
"I'd rather drink from the toilet bowl."
Keeping her distance for now, he thought. Made sense as long as they were in trial. "Okay, let's wait till we get a verdict. Win or lose, I'll treat you to tapas."
"I'd die of starvation first."
"You might not be aware, but over the years, I've tutored several young women prosecutors."
"I'm aware you've bedded down a few. And rifled their briefcases in the middle of the night."
"Don't believe everything you hear in the cafeteria."
"You're one of those toxic bachelors, a serial seducer. The only thing that shocks me is that some women find you attractive."
Have I missed a signal? Shouldn't she be warming up by now?
"I'll bet any relationship you've had, the woman always ended it," she said.
"My nephew lives with me and scares most women off," Steve said.
"He scares them off?"
"He's kind of a reverse chick magnet."
"That sort of thing genetic?" she asked.
An hour later, her feet still ached and the toilet still gurgled, but at least Solomon had shut up. Victoria hoped he understood that she had no interest in him. You hit some men with a frying pan, they think you're going to make them an omelette.
But as annoying as she found him, the sparring did help pass the time. And if nothing else, jousting with Solomon might sharpen her courtroom tactics. The trick was not to let him provoke her once they were back in front of judge and jury. She made a vow. Even if he led a herd of elephants into the courtroom, she would maintain a Zen-like tranquillity.
If I get back into the courtroom.
She wondered if word had reached Ray Pincher that she'd been sent to the slammer. A shudder went through her, and suddenly she felt both alone and afraid.
Awfully quiet over there, Steve thought, trying to see her through the shadows.
What was she thinking right now? Uptown girl inhaling the stale sweat and toxic cleansers of her own private Alcatraz. Probably planning what she'd tell her boss, that pious phony Ray Pincher. Scared he'd demote her to Traffic Court.
Had he gone too far, Steve wondered, baiting her into those outbursts? Judge Gridley's contempt citations were sort of like calling unsportsmanlike conduct on both teams. But would Pincher understand? Did he even recognize Lord's potential?
Dammit, Steve thought, beginning to feel regretful. He hadn't wanted to hurt her. He was just trying to have some fun while defending his client.
Another worry, too. His nephew, Bobby, barely eleven, was home alone. If Steve was late, who knows what might happen? One day last week, when he rushed through the door just after seven, the kid announced he'd already made dinner. Sure enough, Bobby had found a dead sparrow on the street, covered it with tomato sauce, zonked it in the microwave for an hour, and called it "roasted quail marinara." It had been easier to throw out the microwave than to clean it.
If he ever dated Victoria, he'd introduce her to Bobby, his relationship litmus test. If she responded to the boy's sweetness and warmth--if she saw past his disability--she might be a contender. But if she was repulsed by Bobby's semi-autistic behavior, Steve would toss her out with his empty bottles of tequila.
Now what the hell was going on? Did he just hear a sniffle?
I will not cry, Victoria told herself.
She didn't know what had come over her. A feeling of being totally inadequate. A loser and a failure and a fraud. Dammit, what baggage had spilled out of the closet without her even knowing it?
"You okay?" Steve Solomon called out.
Shit, what did he want now? A lone tear tracked down her face, and then another. Great. Her mascara would turn to mud.
"Hey, everything all right?" he asked.
"Just great."
"Look, I'm sorry if I--"
"Shut up, okay?"
The clatter of footsteps and the jangle of keys interrupted them. Moments later, a man's voice echoed down the dim passageway. "Ready to go back to work?"
"Go away, Woody," Steve said. "You're disturbing my nap."
Elwood Reed, the elderly bailiff, skinny as an axe blade in his baggy brown uniform, appeared in front of their cells. He hitched up his pants. "Mr. Pincher wants to see both of you, pronto."
A chill went through Victoria. Pincher could fire her in an instant.
"Tell Pincher I don't work for him," Steve said.
"Tell him yourself," Reed retorted, fishing for the right key. "He's waiting in Judge Gridley's chambers and he ain't happy."
Reed unlocked their cells, and they headed down the passageway, Steve whistling a tune, jarringly off-key, and Victoria praying she still had a job.
Two
H U M I L I A T I O N S
G R E AT A N D S M A L L
No more tears, Victoria vowed as they approached the entrance to Judge Gridley's chambers. She would rather break a nail, tear her panty hose, and shear off a heel of her Prada pumps than cry in front of Steve Solomon.
Biting her lower lip, she tried to transport herself to more pleasant venues. A clay tennis court on Grove Isle, stretching high for an overhead smash, the solid thwack of racket on ball. Handling the wheel of her father's gaff schooner --- the Hail, Victoria --- when she was ten, the wind snapping against the mainsail. Anyplace but here, where her boss lay in wait, armed with the power to destroy her career.
"Something wrong?" Steve said, walking alongside.
Instincts like a coyote, she thought. The door was six steps away. She felt her insides tighten; her heart pitched like a boat in a squall.
"I've known Pincher for years," Steve persisted. "Why not let me handle him?"
"Does he like you?" she asked.
"Actually, he hates my guts."
"Thanks, anyway."
"Then a word of advice. Don't take any shit."
She stopped short. "What are you saying? That
Pincher will respect me if I stand up to him?"
"Hell, no. He'll fire you. Then you can come over to my side."
Steve thought the chambers cannily reflected both of Judge Gridley's pursuits, misconstruing the law and bungling pass-interference calls. There were the required legal volumes, laminated gavels, and photos of the judge shaking hands with lawmakers and lobbyists. Then there were old leather football helmets and photos of the striped-shirted Gridley at work on Saturdays in various college football stadiums.
One wall was devoted to trophies and posters, evidencing the judge's fanatical devotion to his alma mater, the University of Florida. A plaque celebrated Gridley as a "Bull Gator Emeritus," and on his desk was a stuffed alligator head with its mouth open, teeth exposed, like a hungry lawyer. Only two things were missing, Steve thought: a bronzed jockstrap and Judge Gridley himself.
Standing on the orange-and-blue carpet was a scowling, trim, African-American man in his forties, wearing a three-piece burgundy suit. When he moved his arms, there was a soft clanging of metal.
Raymond Pincher's dangling silver cuff links were miniature handcuffs.
Steve thought that Pincher, the duly elected State Attorney of Miami-Dade County, would have to loosen up considerably just to be called tight-assed. Pincher billed himself as a crime fighter, and his campaign billboards pictured him bare-chested, wearing boxing gloves, a reminder of his days as a teenage middleweight in the Liberty City Police Athletic League. He'd won the championship two years running, once with a head butt, and once with a bolo punch to the groin, both overlooked by the referee, who by serendipitous coincidence was his uncle. Boxing had been excellent preparation for Florida politics, where both nepotism and hitting below the belt were prized assets. These days, when someone suggested he'd make a fine governor, Ray Pincher didn't disagree.
Pincher glared at Victoria, who was biting her lip so hard Steve thought she might draw blood. Suddenly, Steve was worried about her and wanted to save her job. But how to do it? How could he take the heat off her?
Victoria said a quick prayer. First that her voice wouldn't break when she was required to speak. Second, that Solomon would keep his big mouth shut.
"Hey, Sugar Ray," Steve called out. "Execute anyone today?" Oh, Jesus. "Good afternoon, Mr. Pincher." Victoria nodded stiffly, struggling to remain calm.
"Ms. Lord, I am disturbed by what I hear and concerned by what I see," Pincher chanted in a melodious singsong. Before attending law school, he had studied at a Baptist seminary. There, office gossips claimed, he'd been expelled for selling Bibles intended as gifts to Central American orphanages. "A prosecutor is the swift sword of justice, the mighty soldier in the war of good against evil."
"Amen," Steve said.
Victoria felt her cheeks heating up. Dammit! Don't be such a girl. "A prosecutor must never be held in contempt," Pincher said. "Contempt is for defense lawyers of the flamboyant persuasion." "Flam-boy-ant" sounding like a flaming French dessert. "Contempt is for the hired guns who sell their souls for filthy lucre."
"Or for peanuts," Steve said.
"Stay out of this, Solomon," Pincher said. "Ms.
Lord, what is the most important attribute of any trial lawyer?"
"I'm not sure, sir," she said, afraid to venture a guess.
"The ability to lie while saying hello," Solomon volunteered.
"Dignity," Pincher fired back. "Ms. Lord, do you know what happens to prosecutors who bring disrespect to the office?"
She stood rigidly, unable to speak.
"Hellfire, damnation, transfer to hooker court,"
Steve enumerated.
"Termination," Pincher said.
"C'mon," Steve said. "Give her some room. She's gonna be really good if you don't squeeze the life out of her."
Great, Victoria thought, a compliment from Solomon, as helpful as a stock tip from Martha Stewart's broker.
Steve said: "She's already better than most of your half-wits who want to plead everything out and go home at four o'clock."
"Not your business, Last Out." Last Out. What was that all about? She'd have to ask around.
"My point, Ms. Lord, is that you cannot let Mr. Solomon badger, befuddle, or bedevil you." Pincher often employed the preacher's habit of alliteration and the lawyer's habit of using three words when one will do.
"Yes, sir," Victoria said.
"I myself have tried cases against Mr. Solomon,"
Pincher said.
"You're the best, Sugar Ray," Steve said. "Nobody suborns perjury from a cop like you do."
Cuff links jangling, Pincher wagged a finger in Steve's face. "I recall you bribing a bailiff to take two six-packs of beer to the jury in a drunk-driving case."
" 'Bribery' is an ugly word," Steve said.
"What do you call club seats for the Dolphins?"
"The way they're playing, torture."
"You're Satan in Armani," Pincher said.
"Men's Wearhouse," Steve corrected.
"You have raised contumacy to a high art."
"If I knew what it was, I'd be even better at it."
"We have a dossier on you. Contempt citations, frivolous motions, ludicrous legal arguments."
"Flatterer," Steve said.
"Any more circus tricks, I'll have the Florida Bar punch your ticket." Pincher shot his cuffs and flashed a hard, cold smile. "You don't watch your step, you're gonna end up like your old man."
"Leave him out of this." Steve's tone turned serious.
"Herbert Solomon felt he was above the law, too."
"He was the best damn judge in the county."
"Before your time, Ms. Lord," Pincher said, "Solomon's father was thrown off the bench."
"He resigned!"
"Before they could indict him. Bribery scandal, wasn't it?"
"You know goddamn well what it was. A phony story from a dirty lawyer."
"I was only a deputy then, but I saw the files. Your father's the dirty one."
The room had grown tense.
"What's the penalty for slugging the State Attorney?" Steve said. His hands were clenching and unclenching.
Pincher balanced on his toes like a prizefighter. "You don't have the balls."
The two men glared at each other a long moment.
"Boys, if you're through wagging your dicks," Victoria heard herself say, "I need to know whether to go back into court or look for a new job."
After a long moment, Steve laughed, the tension draining away. Now she was trying to help him. "Aw, fuck it, Sugar Ray."
"Never saw you back down before." Pincher sounded suspicious, like Steve might sucker punch him the second he dropped his guard.
"Vickie's influence." "Victoria," she corrected icily.
Pincher appraised each of them a moment, tugged at an earlobe, then said: "Ms. Lord, because I know of Mr. Solomon's predilection for provocation, I'm not firing you today."
"Thank you, sir." She exhaled and her shoulders lost their stiffness.
"For now, consider yourself on probation."
His good deed for the week, Steve thought, helping save her job. But what a prick, that Pincher, hacking away at the newbie. Steve felt embarrassed, like he'd been eavesdropping on another family's quarrel. Victoria tried so hard to be tough, but Steve had seen the tremble of her lower lip, the flush in her cheeks. She was scared, and it touched him.
A loud rush of water interrupted his thoughts, the unmistakable sound of an ancient toilet. A moment later, the door to Judge Erwin Gridley's personal rest room opened, and the judge walked out, carrying the sports section of the Miami Herald. "What's all this caterwauling?" the judge drawled. He was in his mid fifties and fighting a paunch but could still waddle down the sidelines after a wide receiver. Suffering bouts of double vision, he wore trifocals in court, but not on Saturdays, which Steve figured might explain some of his more egregious calls, including too many men on the field when replays clearly showed only eleven.
"Mr. Solomon and I were reminiscing about old cases," Pincher told the judge.
"Mr. Pincher remembers cases the way a wolf remembers lambs," Steve said.
"I was just about to tell counsel that I'll be sitting second chair to Ms. Lord for the rest of the Pedrosa trial," Pincher said.
"You, working for a living?" Steve said.
"It would be an honor to have you in my courtroom," the judge allowed.
"It's my new hands-on plan," Pincher said. "One week every month, I'll be in court."
"Then who's gonna shake down lobbyists for campaign money?" Steve asked.
"Keep it up, I'll sue you for slander, Solomon."
"Now, don't you two git started." The judge tossed the sports section onto his desk. "Mr. Solomon and Miss Lord wore me out this morning with their grousing." He turned to the two of them, squinting through his eyeglasses. "I'm hoping a few hours in the cooler settled your nerves."
"We're fine, Your Honor," Victoria said. "Thank you."
"Cell mates today, soul mates tomorrow," Steve vowed.
"Hah," Victoria said.
The judge said: "The clock's running down, so let's talk business."
"Yes, sir," Victoria said. "State of Florida versus Amancio Pedrosa."
"University of Florida versus Florida State," the judge corrected. "Gotta lay five points to take my dog-ass, butt-dragging Gators, for crying out loud."
"You don't want to touch that, Judge," Steve advised.
"Hell, no. Gator's QB got a stinger on the turf at South Carolina last week. I oughta know. I called roughing on the play."
As the three men continued to talk about football in grave tones, Victoria took stock of her career.
Humiliations great and small. "Consider yourself on probation." She had felt her face redden as Pincher berated her. Why did he have to do it in front of Solomon? It was doubly embarrassing when Solomon spoke up for her, though for a moment, it made him seem almost human. She wondered if the florid tint had faded from her neck and cheeks. Victoria could not remember a time when she didn't blush under pressure.
She dreaded going back into the courtroom with Pincher perched on her shoulder like one of Pedrosa's illegal birds. All she wanted now was to win and prove she had the chops to be a trial lawyer.
But what if she lost? Or worse, got fired? The legal market sucked, and her student loans weighed a ton. Each month she wrote a check for the interest, but the principal just sat there --- eighty-five thousand dollars --- taunting her. The only clothing she'd bought since law school came from Second Time Around, a consignment shop in Surfside. Except for shoes. Shoes are as important as oxygen, and you don't want to breathe another person's oxygen, right? If she lost her job, she'd have to start selling the jewelry The Queen had given her. Irene Lord, called The Queen for her regal bearing and lofty dreams. Even when her money was gone, she had maintained her dignity and grace. Victoria pictured her mother, dressed in a designer gown for the Vizcayans Ball, her Judith Leiber evening bag flecked with jewels but lacking cab fare inside. She remembered, too, her mother fussing about Victoria's decision to go to law school. A dirty business, she called it. "You don't have that cutthroat personality." Maybe The Queen was right. Maybe law school had been a mistake. She struggled to be strong, to cover up her insecurities. But maybe she just didn't have what it takes. Certainly Ray Pincher seemed to doubt her abilities.
What's this bullshit about Pincher sitting second chair? Steve hated the idea. There'd be no more fun in the courtroom, that's for sure. And Pincher would put even more pressure on Victoria. Steve wondered if she could handle it.
Doing his pretrial homework, Steve had looked her up in the State Attorney's Office newsletter, the "Nolo Contendere." Princeton undergrad, summa cum laude, Yale Law School, a prize-winning article in the law journal. Nice pedigree, compared to his: baseball scholarship at the University of Miami, night division at Key West School of Law.
In addition to the ritzy academics, there was a little ditty in the newsletter: "We're hoping Victoria joins us on the Sword of Justice tennis team. She won the La Gorce Country Club girls' tennis championship three years running while in high school."
La Gorce. Old money, at least by Miami standards, where marijuana smugglers from the 1980's were considered founding fathers. The La Gorce initiation fee was more than Steve cleared in a year. Thirty years ago, no one named Solomon could have even joined.
So why was Victoria Lord slumming in the grimy Justice Building, a teeming beehive of cops and crooks, burned-out lawyers and civil service drudges, embittered jurors and senile judges? A place where an eight A.M. motion calendar --- a chorus line of miscreants on parade --- could crush her spirit before her cafÈ con leche grew cold. Steve felt a part of the place, enjoyed the interplay of cops and robbers, but Victoria Lord? Had she gotten lost on her way to one of the deep-carpet firms downtown? Stone crabs at noon, racquetball at five.
Now Steve tried to follow the conversation. Judge Gridley was spouting his views on a college football playoff --- a grand idea, there'd be more games to bet on --- when they were interrupted by a cell phone chiming the opening bars of Handel's "Hallelujah."
"Excuse me," Pincher told them, fishing out his phone. "State Attorney. What? Good heavens! When?" He listened a moment. "Call me when the autopsy's done."
Pincher clicked off and turned to the others. "Charles Barksdale is dead."
"Heart attack?" the judge asked, tapping his own chest.
"Strangled. By his wife."
"Katrina?" Victoria said. "Can't be."
"She probably had a good reason," said Steve, ever the defense lawyer.
"Claims it was an accident," Pincher said.
"How do you accidentally strangle someone?" the judge said.
"By having sex in a way God never intended," Pincher said. "They found Charles tied up in some kinky contraption."
"This is big," Steve said. "Larry King big."
"Charles was a dear friend," Pincher said, "not just a campaign contributor. To die like that . . ." He shook his head, sadly. "If the grand jury indicts, I'll prosecute it myself."
Pincher was not given to many honest emotions, Steve thought, but the old fraud seemed genuinely upset.
"Charles was a gentle man, a charitable man, a good man," Pincher continued.
Now he sounded like he was rehearsing his closing argument.
"Boy, would I love to defend," Steve said.
"Widow'll end up with Ed Shohat or Roy Black," Judge Gridley predicted.
"I'm as good a lawyer as they are."
"This ain't a Saturday night stabbing in Liberty
City," Pincher said. "This is high society."
Pincher was right, Steve knew. He'd had dozens of murder trials, but most were low pay or no pay. He never had a client with the resources of an O. J. Simpson or Klaus von Bulow. Or the looks and glamour of Katrina Barksdale. He didn't know the Barksdales, but he'd read about them. Charles had made millions building condos while collecting custom yachts and trophy wives. Katrina would have been number three or four. Wife, not yacht. Photos of the old hubby and young wifey were routinely plastered in Ocean Drive and the Miami Herald. You couldn't open a restaurant or hold a charity event without the glam couple. And when her husband stayed home, Katrina was on the arm of an artist or musician at younger, hipper parties. The lawyer who got this case was gonna be famous. Steve could picture the Justice Building surrounded by sound trucks, generators humming, a forest of satellite dishes, an army of reporters. A carnival in the parking lot, vendors hawking "Free Katrina" T-shirts, iced granizados, and grilled arepas. There'd be TV interviews, magazine profiles, analysts critiquing the defense lawyer's trial strategy and his haircut. It'd be a ton of publicity and a helluva lot of fun. And then there was the fee. Not that money juiced him. But Bobby's expenses were mounting, and he'd like to put some bucks away for the boy's care.
And wouldn't he love going mano a mano with Pincher? The bastard would try to ride that pony all the way to the governor's mansion. All the more reason Steve lusted after the case. He hated pretension and self-righteousness, but most of all, he hated bullies. And in Sugar Ray Pincher, he had all three.
"This one's out of your league, Solomon," Pincher said, hammering the nail home. Out of his league. God, how he hated that. Which prompted another disheartening thought.
Was Victoria Lord out of his league, too? MIAMI-DADE POLICE DEPARTMENT TRANSCRIPT OF EMERGENCY
FIRE AND RESCUE CALLS
Dispatch: Miami-Dade Police. One moment, please.
Caller: 911? Goddammit, are you there? 911?
Dispatch: Miami-Dade Police. Is this an emergency?
Caller: My husband! My husband's not breathing.
Dispatch: Please remain calm, ma'am. Is his airway obstructed?
Caller: I don't know. He's not breathing!
Dispatch: Was he eating?
Caller: We were having sex. Oh, Charlie, breathe!
Dispatch: What's your name and address, ma'am?
Caller: Katrina Barksdale, 480 Casuarina Concourse, Gables Estates.
Dispatch: Have you tried CPR?
Caller: My husband's Charles Barksdale. The Charles Barksdale! Jeb Bush has been here for drinks.
Dispatch: CPR, ma'am?
Caller: I'll have to untie Charlie.
Dispatch: Untie him?
Caller: I've already taken off his mask.
Three
Z I N K T H E F I N K
Pacing the corridor outside Judge Gridley's courtroom, Steve's mind drifted far from the bird smuggling trial. He wanted to land the Barksdale case before a bigger, faster shark beat him to it. The case could change his life. And, more important, Bobby's.
Just last month, Steve had consulted a doctor specializing in central nervous system maladies. No one could pin a name on his nephew's condition, which combined acute developmental disorders with astounding mental feats. The boy could spend an hour sitting cross-legged on the sofa, rocking back and forth, lost in his own world, then suddenly erupt in a fit of crying. Five minutes later, he would recite lengthy passages from The Aeneid.
In Latin.
And then Greek.
The doctor tossed around bewildering phrases like "frontotemporal dementia" and "paradoxical functional facilitation" and "arrested neuronal firing. "One phrase that Steve understood quite clearly was "five thousand dollars a month" --- the cost of a private tutor and therapist.
So the more Steve thought about the Barksdale case, the more it took on mythic proportions. Sure, the money and the publicity would be great, but the real quest was for Bobby. The Barksdale case could be his ticket to a better life.
But how to get the client?
Because he did not run with the caviar-and-canapÈ crowd, Steve knew he needed an introduction to the widow. And quickly. Figuring he had five minutes before he had to plant his ass at the defense table in the Pedrosa trial, there was time for one phone call. On the move in the dimly lit corridor, he dialed his office on a cell phone.
"Hola. Stephen Solomon and Associates," answered Cecilia Santiago, even though there were no associates.
"Cece, you know who Charles Barksdale is?"
"Dead rich white guy. It's on the news."
"Who do we know who might know his wife,
Katrina Barksdale?"
"Her maid?"
Cece wasn't the best secretary, but she worked cheap. A bodybuilder with a temper, she was grateful to Steve for keeping her out of jail a year earlier when she beat up her cheating boyfriend.
"You still go to clubs on the Beach?" Steve asked.
"Paranoia last night, Gangbang the night before."
"Katrina's supposed to be a big-time partier. You ever run into her?"
"You kidding? They don't let me in the VIP rooms."
A whiny voice came from behind him in the corridor. "Oh, Mr. Solomon . . ."
Steve turned, saw a human blob moving toward him. "Shit! Call you later."
Jack Zinkavich lumbered down the corridor. In his early forties, Zinkavich had a huge, shapeless torso and his suit coat bunched at his fleshy hips, as if covering a gun belt with two six-shooters. His skin was oyster gray, and he wore his spit-colored hair in a buzz cut that made his square head resemble a concrete block. Zinkavich worked for the Division of Family Services in Pincher's office and was, if possible, even more humorless than his boss. He ate alone in the cafeteria each day and was known as "Zink the Fink" for constantly welshing in settlement negotiations. In what Steve considered a lousy stroke of luck, Zinkavich represented the state in Bobby's guardianship case.
What Steve had thought would be a slam-dunk case --- I'm the uncle; I love Bobby; of course he belongs with me --- had turned instantly vicious. At the first hearing, Zinkavich called Steve an "untrained, unfit, undomesticated caregiver" and suggested that Bobby be made a ward of the state. Steve was baffled why a routine proceeding was becoming a balls-to-the-wall street fight.
Zinkavich huffed to a stop. "Is it true you were imprisoned again this morning?"
" 'Imprisoned' is a little strong. More like sent to the blackboard to clean erasers."
"Won't look good in the guardianship case." Zinkavich seemed happy as a hangman tying his knots.
"It's got nothing to do with Bobby."
"It reflects on your fitness as a parent. I'll have to bring it up with the judge."
"Do what you gotta do."
"I see a disturbing pattern here," Zinkavich said. "Your sister's a convicted felon, you're in and out of jail, your father's a disbarred lawyer --- "
"He wasn't disbarred. He resigned."
"Whatever. My point is, your entire family seems spectacularly unfit to care for a special-needs child."
"That's bullshit, Fink, and you know it." Steve cursed himself for his own recklessness. With the guardianship hearing coming up, getting thrown in the can today hadn't been smart.
"The state only has Robert's interests at heart," Zinkavich said.
"The state has no heart."
"You have a real attitude problem. It's something else I intend to bring up with the judge."
"If that's it, I gotta go."
"Not until we schedule a home visit. You haven't allowed Dr. Kranchick her follow-up."
"She scares Bobby. I don't want her around."
"You don't have a choice. Either you give the doctor access or I'll have a body warrant issued and we'll seize Robert."
"The fuck you will."
Steve felt a wave of heat surge through him and struggled to control his rage. First that cheap shot at his father, now the threat to grab his nephew. The bastard just violated the unwritten rule that you could ridicule your adversary for anything from the cut of his suit to the size of his dick, but Family was off-limits.
Zinkavich smirked. "Maybe a few days in Juvenile Hall will change Robert's mind and yours."
"You son-of-a-bitch." Steve's hand flew up, grabbed Zinkavich's tie, twisted it around a fist. "If your storm troopers ever lay a finger on my nephew, I will personally . . ."
Steve dug the knot into Zinkavich's flabby neck, increasing the pressure until his blowfish cheeks turned red. After a moment of staring into his bulging eyes, Steve released him.
"That's an assault!" Zinkavich squeaked. Atthault.
"Bring it up with the judge," Steve said, walking away.
That was smart, Steve thought, double-timing toward the courtroom. Real smart. Piss off the one guy who can wreck Bobby's life.
I would never lose my cool like that representing a client. But this is personal.
Halfway down the corridor, he overtook Victoria, her ear pressed to a cell phone.
"I'm so sorry, Kat," she said into a pink Nokia. "If there's anything I can do, please ask. . . ."
Kat? Holy shit. That wouldn't be short for
Katrina, would it?
Steve slowed his pace, dropped back a half step.
"Of course I believe you. I know you wouldn't . . ." Victoria said. "You and Charlie always looked so happy together. God, I feel terrible for you."
Okay, makes sense. Miss La Gorce Tennis Champion would know the Barksdales.
"Please call if you need anything. I mean it."
Victoria clicked off, and Steve came alongside. "Are you friends with the grieving widow?"
"Were you eavesdropping?"
"C'mon, we only have a minute."
"I see Kat at the club. What's it to you?"
"Get me the case and there's a referral fee in it for you."
"It's illegal to solicit a case," she chided.
"You think Alan Dershowitz waits for the phone to ring?"
She stopped at the courtroom door. "Why on earth would I recommend you to anyone?"
He struggled for an answer, but didn't have one. She entered the courtroom with a smug look. As the door closed in his face, Steve's mind raced. How could he convince Victoria he had the stuff to help her newly widowed friend? And even if she believed he was the best lawyer in town, which he wasn't, why would she hustle the case for him?
Suddenly, the answers to both questions were obvious.
He'd change his approach. No more bickering, no more insults. When they resumed the Pedrosa trial, he'd show his kinder, gentler side. But he still had to win. She wouldn't send a case to a loser.
So I have to win nice.
It sounded good, he thought. Except for one little flaw. Maybe if his cockatoo-smuggling client were innocent, he could win nice. But as even a myopic judge or sleeping juror could see, Amancio Pedrosa was as dirty as a birdcage floor.
Excerpted from SOLOMON VS. LORD © Copyright 2005 by Paul Levine. Reprinted with permission by Bantam, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved.
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