Solomon vs. Lord (31 page)

Forty-seven

POETIC JUSTICE

In the corridor, on the way to Judge Thornberry's chambers, Steve whispered: “You keep quiet. I'll take it from here.”

“Why?” Her feelings were bruised.

“You were great just now. But this is for the big mojito, so just cheer me on.”

“Go, team,” she said, peeved.

“C'mon. You know the first rule of arguing to judges?”

“Try to stay out of jail?”

“Know your audience. Play to their interests, fulfill their expectations.”

“That's called ‘pandering.'”

“Actually, it's called ‘lawyering.'”

They settled into leather-upholstered chairs, Pincher scowling at them.

Judge Thornberry said: “The defense has made a serious allegation of prosecutorial misconduct.”

“To which I express my outrage,” Pincher said.

“And which we'll prove,” Steve said.

“Okay, let's get to the bottom of this quick,” the judge said. “I want the jury back before they're at one another's throats like in
Twelve Angry Men.”

“If Your Honor orders the original autopsy tape to be produced,” Steve continued, “you'll see how the state altered evidence.”

“Keep up the character assassination, I'll sue your ass,” Pincher roared.

Troubled, the judge stood and paced in front of a bookshelf, scanning his volumes. Victoria looked, too. Where were the legal books? Just shelves of novels written by lawyers: Turow, Grisham, Scottoline, Martini, Meltzer, Grippando, Latt, Mortimer, Margolin. Dozens more. Victoria wondered if the judge read any law that wasn't fictional.

He reached to a high shelf, fingered a book by Louis Auchincloss, another by Barry Reed, one by Barbara Parker, then pulled down
Kennedy for the Defense
by George V. Higgins. “Are you saying the State Attorney framed Katrina Barksdale?”

“Not intentionally,” Steve said. “Mr. Pincher believes my client is guilty.”

“You're damn right I do,” Pincher said.

“It's Charles Barksdale who framed Katrina Barksdale,” Steve said. “The State Attorney only added basil to the bruschetta.”

The judge sat down in his high-backed chair. “How'd a dead man frame his wife?”

The judge sounded confused, Victoria thought. Could Steve pull this off?

“Charles Barksdale tells us how,” Steve said. “He speaks to us from the grave.”

The judge's eyes lit up. “Like Poe.”

“Sir?” Steve asked.

“Edgar Allan Poe.
The Tell-Tale Heart.”

“More like Agatha Christie.”

The judge eagerly grabbed a legal pad. “Does it have a double twist? Like
Witness for the Prosecution
?”

“A double twist with a full somersault,” Steve assured him.

“Where does the story start?” the judge asked. Eager as a puppy.

“A beautiful young woman marries a rich, older man,” Steve said.

“And kills him,” Pincher said.

“This is my story, Sugar Ray, not yours. The couple—call them Charlie and Kat—have a very active, very kinky sex life.”

“A little sex always spices up the story,” the judge said.

“And Charlie really loved her, which is why the next plot point is so painful. He discovers Kat is having an affair with their boat captain.”

“Highly cinematic,” the judge said, “if they did it on the boat.”

Pincher said: “I've got the pictures if you'd like to see them.”

“Now comes the conundrum,” Steve said, ignoring Pincher.

“Like the missing beer glass in
Presumed Innocent
?” the judge said. “That Turow's a clever fiend.”

“Charlie had his lawyer prepare a divorce petition but he never signed it and he never said why. All we have to go on is a three-line poem Charlie wrote on the petition:

‘Hide a few contretemps.

Defer a competent wish.

Cement a spit-fed shore.'”

“Odd poem,” the judge said.

“It's really an anagram with a message.”

“Word games. Arthur Conan Doyle would have loved this.”

Now the judge was deep into it, Victoria thought. Okay, so maybe Steve knew his audience. But could he deliver the payoff?

“Unscrambled, the anagram says, ‘The woman is perfected,'” Steve continued. “It's from a poem by Sylvia Plath. She committed suicide just a few days after writing it. Then, the day before he dies, Charlie sends a card to Kat. Of all the things he could write—I love you; I hate you; Have a nice day—he steals a line from Virginia Woolf's suicide note.”

“I get you,” the judge said eagerly, “but just why would Barksdale commit suicide?”

“He was dying of cancer, and there was no time to divorce Katrina and cut her off from his money.”

“But suicide doesn't help,” the judge said. “The widow would still get her share of the estate.”

“Unless—”

“Unless she's convicted of killing him! Outstanding. Perry Mason never came up with anything like this. Not even in
The Case of the Daring Divorcee.
”

“Barksdale wanted Katrina to be charged with his murder. That's why he didn't just take an overdose or drive off a bridge.”

“Mr. Solomon has a vivid imagination,” Pincher said. “But where's the proof?”

“The anagram,” Steve said. “It tells us everything.”

Here it comes, Victoria thought. Wrapping it all up in a pretty package. But would the judge buy it?

“When Charles scrambled the line of the Plath poem, he had thousands of choices,” Steve said, “but he picked phrases that revealed how he felt about his wife, and what he planned to do. ‘Hide a few contretemps.' That's Katrina, keeping her affair secret. ‘Defer a competent wish.' That's Charles, wanting revenge, but not being able to live to see it. And ‘Cement a spit-fed whore.' That's the biggie. That's Charles sending her to a prison cell, or a tomb, take your pick. That's him framing her for his murder, a murder that never happened.”

“Excellent story. The film rights will be worth a bundle. But what's all this got to do with Mr. Pincher and the autopsy report?”

“When Sugar Ray sees the first draft of the autopsy report, he gets a real jolt,” Steve answered. “Charles was dying of stomach cancer. No way that's gonna make it into the final draft.”

Pincher fixed Steve with a toxic glare.

“Why delete it?” the judge said. “She's still guilty of murder if she strangled him, no matter how sick he was.”

“Because—”

“Wait. I figured out
Murder on the Orient Express.
I can get this.” The judge took off his glasses, wiped them on his robe, and put them back on. “Give me a clue. Did Charles ever tell Katrina he had cancer?”

“Nope,” Steve said. “He died without her knowing.”

“Then I've got it! The autopsy would give Katrina a defense. She'd come into court and say she knew Charles was dying all along. Why bump him off if all she had to do was wait a bit and collect her inheritance?”

“Exactly,” Steve said. “Sugar Ray assumed she'd lie, and he'd have no way to disprove it.”

“I've heard enough,” the judge said. “The state will furnish the defense with the original tape recording of the autopsy dictation. I warn you, Mr. Pincher, if Mr. Solomon is correct, I'll make a full report to the Ethics Commission. And the Attorney General's Office.”

“This is outrageous!” Pincher said. “We'll appeal.”

Victoria cleared her throat and said: “It may not be necessary to produce the tape.”

Steve gave her a sharp look but said nothing. She was confident he wouldn't stop her. He'd told her several times about his Sonny Corleone rule:
Never contradict your partner in front of the opposition.

“Now you don't want the tape?” the judge asked. “Why, Ms. Lord?”

“Because Mr. Pincher is an honorable man. He will do the honorable thing.”

“How's that?” the judge asked, bewildered.

“Yeah, this I gotta hear,” Steve said.

“Mr. Pincher never would have tampered with the evidence had he believed Katrina Barksdale was innocent,” Victoria said. “He thought he was just . . .”

“Adding basil to the bruschetta,” the judge said.

“Exactly. Now that Mr. Pincher knows the truth, he can dismiss the case, and there'll be no need for anyone to hear the tape.”

Pincher scratched at his chin. “Intriguing suggestion, Counselor.”

He's doing the cost-benefit analysis of dumping the case, she thought. And Steve was giving her a sideways glance. He wouldn't do this, she knew. A total advocate, a total warrior, he'd go for the win in front of the jury. She thought there was a safer way to get the same result.

“Wait a second,” the judge said. “You can't end a legal thriller by settling a case!”

“It would be best, Your Honor,” Victoria said.

“There goes the movie sale,” the judge said, sadly.

“I'll need an explanation for the press,” Pincher said.

“We have no objection to your taking credit for clearing an innocent woman,” Victoria told him.

“Hang on,” Steve said. “We should get the credit.”

“Steve, the client comes first.”

“Since when?”

“Mr. Pincher, give it any spin you want,” Victoria said, ignoring Steve, “as long as you dismiss the case against Katrina Barksdale.”

“Who made you senior partner?” Steve said. Violating his Sonny Corleone rule.

“I could say that my office has uncovered new evidence,” Pincher mused. “Evidence missed by overworked detectives and overlooked by defense counsel.”

“Screw that,” Steve said. “I didn't overlook anything.”

“Quiet, Steve,” Victoria said. “Doing justice is credit enough.”

“They teach that in the Ivy League?”

“I diligently pursued every lead until justice was done,” Pincher continued, rehearsing his statement to the press.

“Make up your minds, then,” the judge said. “Are we going back to trial or not?”

Pincher proclaimed formally: “Judge Thornberry, let's call in the court reporter. The state has an announcement to make.”

Forty-eight

MOJITO MAKER

“Go, go, go,” Victoria said. “We have an hour to get to Juvie Court.”

“I want to talk to the press.”

“No way. We'll be late.”

She dragged Steve down the corridor. They sidestepped Ray Pincher, who was telling the reporters of his sage and courageous decision to dismiss all charges against Katrina Barksdale.

“Just one little sound bite,” Steve pleaded.

“No time.”

They shoved their way through the wolf pack of reporters and photographers and hustled to the parking lot.

“You were great today,” she said, as they got into his car.

“You, too. Getting Pincher to dismiss. I wouldn't have thought of it.”

“And I wouldn't have thought of turning the case into a Perry Mason novel. I've learned a lot from you.”

“Ditto.” He smiled, forgiving her, she supposed, for taking over at the end.

Twenty minutes later, they were in the bungalow on Kumquat Avenue, where Steve tossed Bobby into the shower, then hastily dressed him in a navy sport coat, gray wool slacks, a white shirt, and a striped tie.

By the time they all piled into the old Caddy, the little preppie's shirttail was out, his glasses were smudged, and his hair was mussed. He sat in the backseat, knees pulled up under his chin, rocking back and forth, looking like the class weirdo genius being carted off to jail for blowing up the science lab.

Steve tuned the radio to the all-news station but punched another button when he heard Pincher saluting himself for uncovering the truth about the death of Charles Barksdale. On the reggae station, Desmond Dekker & the Aces were singing “Israelites,” promising a calm after the storm.

Victoria glanced at Bobby and started to worry. He lay on his back, his feet pressed against a window, as if trying to break out of the car. “Maybe we should rethink our strategy for tonight,” she said, cryptically.

Translation: I'm scared to death to put Bobby on the witness stand.

“Not your call, cupcake.”

“Tell me you didn't just call me ‘cupcake.'”

“Don't make some feminist thing out of it. I'm starving, and I'm thinking about the Fink's Krispy Kremes.”

She wondered why he couldn't see the danger of having Bobby testify. He knew Bobby always spoke the unvarnished truth. And surely Solomon, of all people, knew that the truth sometimes needs a fresh coat of paint.

“What we're planning could backfire,” she said.

“You distract Zinkavich, and I'll go after a couple of glazed crullers.”

He's reverted to Irritating Habit Number 396: Ignoring what I say when he doesn't want to deal with it.

She searched for a way to say it was too risky to call Bobby without the boy picking up on it. “Maybe we should reorder our witnesses.”

From the backseat, Bobby said: “I'm not scared to talk to the judge.”

So much for subterfuge.

“Of course you're not, kiddo,” Steve said. “You'll do great.” He turned to Victoria. “Bobby testifies. Subject closed.”

“You've been telling me to go with my gut, and my gut tells me—”

“Closed.”

“Petitioner calls Robert Solomon,” Victoria said.

“Objection,” Zinkavich said. “The testimony will be tainted by the boy's affinity with his uncle. Not to mention his history of hallucinations.”

“We think Your Honor should be the judge of Bobby's competence, not Mr. Zinkavich,” Victoria said.

“Does the kid even understand the oath?” Zinkavich asked.

“Do
you,
Fink?” Steve growled, under his breath.

“I heard that, Mr. Solomon,” said Judge Althea Rolle, wagging a finger. The judge wore fuchsia robes, a frilly lace rabat at the neck. Her dark eyes were blazing at Steve. “Do you know what we do in Juvie Court when someone acts up?”

“No, ma'am.”

“We give them a time-out and they go sit in the corner.”

“I apologize to the Court, ma'am.”

Meaning, Victoria understood, that he didn't apologize to Zinkavich.

“Now, as for the child's testimony, Ms. Lord, do you really want to do that?”

When a judge asks a leading question, you best head the direction you're being led, Victoria knew. And she agreed with the judge. You never knew when Bobby was going to slip into a screaming fit or burst out that “President Clinton of the USA” can be rearranged to spell, “TO COPULATE HE FINDS INTERNS.”

“We believe there can be no better witness than the one most directly affected by this proceeding,” Victoria answered. She didn't believe it, but sometimes you do what your client wants, especially when your client is a know-it-all lawyer.

“Here's how it's gonna be,” Judge Rolle said. “I'll talk to the boy alone in my chambers. Counsel will sit in the anteroom and listen on the speakers. No coaching from Mr. Solomon and no cross-exam from Mr. Zinkavich. Now, skedaddle, all of you.”

Steve paced in front of a set of bookshelves, claustrophobic in the small anteroom. Victoria sat rigidly at a worktable, fingers clutching a pen, poised to take notes. Zinkavich slumped in a cushioned chair, his love handles overflowing the armrests.

“Would you like something to drink?”
Judge Rolle asked, her voice tinny over the speaker.

“Nope. Uncle Steve made me a papaya smoothie for the ride over.”
Bobby's voice was high and nervous.

“Sounds healthy.”

“Makes me poop,”
Bobby said.

“Uh-huh.”

“Sometimes we get the papayas from the fruit stand on Red Road.”

“They have wonderful produce,”
the judge said.

“Sometimes Uncle Steve just steals them from a neighbor's trees.”

“I see.”

Yikes. Steve stopped pacing. If he were a smoker, he would light up about now.

“Do you do spend a lot of time with your uncle?”
the judge asked.

“Like 24/7,”
Bobby said.
“Except when he, you know . . .”

“When he goes out on dates?”

“Uncle Steve doesn't go on dates. He just has chicks come over, hang out in his bedroom, then split.”

“Oh, shit,” Steve groaned.

“Do any women ever spend the night?”

“If they've had too many mojitos,”
Bobby said.

“So I guess your uncle makes more than papaya smoothies,”
the judge said, a note of sarcasm in her voice.

“I
make the mojitos.
” Bobby said it proudly.
“The secret's squeezing fresh
guarapo.
Sugarcane juice. But not too much, because the rum is already sweet. And the mint leaves gotta be fresh.”

Zinkavich said: “We reap what we sow, Solomon.”

“Aw, shut up,” Steve said.

Over the speaker, the judge said:
“Does it bother you when women sleep over?”

“No way,”
Bobby said.
“Sometimes I get to see bare boobs in the morning.”

Steve's throat felt constricted. He doubted he could swallow, wondered if he could even take a breath. He was pretty sure he heard the judge's pen scratching across a notepad.

“And Sofia makes
huevos rancheros,” the boy continued.
“But Lexy and Rexy don't really cook. They're models, and they eat like a slice of grapefruit and a thimble of yogurt.”

“Models,”
the judge said, disapproval in her voice.
“Does your uncle see either Lexy or Rexy now?”

“Not anymore,”
Bobby said.

Steve felt relieved enough to exhale.

“Used to be, he'd do them both at once.”

“Oh, shi-i-i-i-i-t!” Steve wailed.

“They're twins,”
Bobby explained, helpfully.

Steve whimpered and Zinkavich barked a laugh.

“Quiet, both of you!” Victoria flashed an angry look.

Steve said: “That stuff's ancient history, Vic. Six months ago, at least.”

“Please. I'm trying to listen,” she said.

Bobby was saying something, and they'd missed part of it.

“. . . been a while since Uncle Steve got any trim.”

“Trim?”

“You know. Some play. Booty in the bone shack.”

“So, no more booty?”

“Lexy, Rexy, Sofia, Gina. They haven't come over since Uncle Steve fell totally in love with Victoria.”

“Ms. Lord? His ex-fiancée?”

“Oh, that wasn't real.”

“Excuse me?”
the judge said, puzzled.

“Being engaged. That was just pretending.”

“Whatever for?”

“Uncle Steve didn't want to lose me, and he thought Victoria made him seem more mature.”

“I see.”

“Not that he wouldn't like to marry her for real.”

In the anteroom, Zinkavich laughed so hard, spittle dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

“So now only Ms. Lord comes to the house?”
Judge Rolle asked.

“Just to work, not to do Uncle Steve. She's gonna marry this other guy, and Uncle Steve is totally bummed.”

God, this was humiliating, Steve thought. Why had no one ever invented a pill that could make you invisible?

“This isn't a court case, it's a soap opera,” Zinkavich said.

The judge said:
“Tell me about your homeschooling.”

Yes, tell her, Steve thought. They'd rehearsed this.

“I'm reading the
Aeneid
in Latin. Virgil's pretty cool.”

Perfect. Way to go, kiddo.

“And
The Iliad
in Greek. The battle scenes are totally awesome. Better than that stupid movie
Troy.”

“That's very impressive,”
the judge said.
“Did your uncle give you those books?”

“Yep, plus the fiftieth anniversary edition of
Playboy.”

Aargh.
One step forward, two steps back, Steve thought.

“I thought Stella Stevens was really hot. But she didn't show any cooch.”

In the anteroom, Steve banged his head against the bookshelves, knocking a dusty volume of
Corpus Juris Secundum
to the floor. Over the speaker, Judge Rolle seemed to sigh, then said:
“Tell me what you do for fun, Bobby.”

“I play Little League, but I suck bad. Uncle Steve says it doesn't matter, but some kids are mean to me. Once I dropped a fly ball, and one of the dads yells, ‘Get that spaz out of there.'”

“That must have hurt your feelings.”

“Then I let a ball roll between my legs, and the same guy yells I should be in the Special Olympics.”

“Oh, my,”
the judge said.

“Uncle Steve told the guy to quit talking smack, but he wouldn't. He was, like, humongous, with a fat head, and Uncle Steve yells at him: ‘Hey, big mouth, what position did you play, backstop?' And everybody starts laughing, so the guy comes after my uncle, who starts running backwards, and the guy can't catch him. Uncle Steve's saying, ‘You're so ugly your first name should be Damn,' and the guy keeps chasing and Uncle Steve keeps backpedaling and says, “If your ass had eyes, you still couldn't see shit.' And the game's stopped because they're on the field and the big guy's swinging at Uncle Steve but missing, and finally the guy stops, out of breath, all red-faced, and bends over and hurls chunks. Right on first base.”

“Must have been quite an experience,”
the judge breathed.

“Later, Uncle Steve told me some people say nasty things because they're stupid and some because they're mean, and not to let it bother me, because I'm special in a good way.”

“I think your uncle's right,”
the judge said.

“And he said if you're really mad at somebody, beat them with your brains, not your fists.”

“You really like your uncle Steve, don't you, Bobby?”

“He's awesome,”
the boy said.

“How about Victoria?”

“I wish she was my mom.”

There was a long pause. Steve wished he could see the judge's face, wanted to know what she was thinking. He glanced at Victoria. She blinked several times, her eyelashes flicking away tears like silver drops of dew.