Bum Rap (23 page)

-54-

Steve Solomon and O. J. Simpson

T
he
state called Detective George Barrios as its first witness. No surprise there. Always start strong. And finish strong. The rules of primacy and recency. Jurors remember best what they hear first . . . and last.

Savvy and experienced, Barrios had testified in hundreds of homicides over twenty-five years. I was used to seeing him in a pale silk guayabera, where he took on a kindly Cuban
abuelo
look. In his dark suit, white shirt, and rep tie, he looked—and sounded—utterly professional. There was little chance he would make a mistake on direct or get tripped up on cross by a pettifogger, such as my own wily self.

Pincher took his time, starting with softball questions. He went through Barrios’s background, established him as a veteran detective who’d solved some of the biggest murder cases in Florida and was currently chief of Miami Beach Homicide.

Next to me, Solomon squirmed a bit in his chair as Barrios summarized his career highlights. I could have objected. At one point, Solomon scribbled on a legal pad, “WTF?” And later, “OBJECT!” But I kept quiet. Barrios’s credentials wouldn’t convict my client.

Finally, Pincher got down to it. Barrios arrived at Club Anastasia just moments after the uniformed cops. They were responding to a 9-1-1 call placed by the defendant. The jury got to hear the call, Steve Solomon hysterically shouting, “He’s dead! I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!” Then the sound of several gunshots, and Solomon, even louder, “They’re shooting into the door! Get some cops here! I didn’t do it!”

The 9-1-1 operator calmly asked where they might find the dead man and the caller who didn’t do it.

Barrios picked up the story at the point he entered Club Anastasia. Two men, one of whom turned out to be the decedent’s brother, were armed and screaming in Russian through the locked door to Nicolai Gorev’s office. The men followed police orders to put down their handguns and lie on the floor, where they were cuffed as a precautionary measure.

Barrios called to Solomon through the door, asking if he was the person who called the police. Solomon said he was and opened the door.

“What did you observe when you entered the office?” Pincher asked.

“The defendant was standing with his hands up in front of a large wooden desk. A man we later identified as Nicolai Gorev was slumped at the desk with a single gunshot wound to the head. A nine-millimeter Glock handgun lay on the floor at Mr. Solomon’s feet.”

“Did Mr. Solomon say anything?”

“He was speaking quite rapidly. He said, ‘I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it.’ Several times.”

“Then what happened?”

“A uniformed officer retrieved the Glock from the floor and as he was doing so, Mr. Solomon said, ‘You’ll find my prints on that. And gunpowder residue on my hand, but I didn’t shoot him.’ Another officer checked on Mr. Gorev and determined rather quickly that he was dead. I frisked Mr. Solomon and found he had no weapons on his person.”

“What transpired next?”

“I told Mr. Solomon to be quiet until I could read him his rights.”

“Did he comply?”

“He did, and I read the Miranda warnings.”

“How did Mr. Solomon respond?”

“He said he didn’t need a lawyer because he was innocent.”

I tried not to grimace, so I just ground my teeth. When you’re innocent, you
really
need a lawyer because of police and prosecution foul-ups. To say nothing of the average citizen’s tendency to get scared and confused when being questioned by cops.

“What happened next?” Pincher asked.

“Everyone started arriving at once. The paramedics, crime scene techs, medical examiner personnel. I took a quick look at the office door. It was quite heavy. Solid wood several inches thick, reinforced with metal. There were two bullet holes on the inside and several on the outside. Another officer and I took Solomon out of the office and through the club where the decedent’s brother and the other Russian man had to be restrained, even though they were still cuffed. The men were shouting at Solomon in Russian, so I can’t tell you what they were saying, but they were clearly making threats. It was apparent they thought the defendant had shot Mr. Gorev.”

“Objection, Your Honor!” I needed to stretch, so I stood and feigned shock and horror. “For all his skills, Detective Barrios is not a mind reader, and the thought processes of two criminals who didn’t witness the shooting are irrelevant.”

“And I object to Mr. Lassiter’s use of the word
criminals
,” Pincher shot back. “There’s no evidence that—”

“Sustained and sustained,” Judge Duckworth ruled. “Move it along, Mr. Pincher.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Pincher and I sang out simultaneously, like a church choir.

“What did you do next, Detective?”

“We placed Mr. Solomon in the back of a marked vehicle, and I asked if he would answer some questions. He consented.”

“Did you proceed to record a conversation with the defendant?”

“Yes.”

Pincher spent a few minutes authenticating the tape recording. Yes, Barrios had a chance to listen to the tape. And, no, it wasn’t edited or altered in any way. And, yes, it was a true and accurate recording of what was said.

The jurors leaned forward in their swivel chairs, Solomon sucked in a breath, and Victoria let out a sigh. Me? I just waited to hear the preposterous story I knew was to come.

The tape started playing. Barrios asked Solomon to state his name, occupation, and address, then repeated the Miranda warnings. Solomon had the right to remain silent. Anything he said could be used against him in court. He was entitled to a lawyer, and if he was dead broke, the very generous state of Florida would provide him with counsel.

“I got nothing to hide, Detective. Ask whatever you want.”

“I’m just a dumb old cop. Why not tell me how you got locked in an office with a dead man and what appears to be the murder weapon, which you’ve already said has your fingerprints on it?”

“There were three of us. The dead guy. His name is Gorev. And my client, Nadia Delova. Should I spell that?”

“Sure.”

“D-E-L-O-V-A. It’s Russian. She’s a B-girl, and Gorev owes her back wages, plus he was holding her passport. She hired me to get the money and the passport.”

“How were you planning to do that?”

“My usual way would be to write a lawyer’s demand letter first. But she said he’d never even read it, much less respond.”

“So you arranged a meeting?”

“Not really. We just showed up.”

“Tell me about the gun.”

“Nadia brought it in her purse.”

“So it’s not your gun?”

“No, sir. I never touched it until after Gorev was shot.”

“When did you first learn Nadia was carrying a firearm?”

“Not until we walked into the front door of the club.”

“Did you object to her carrying the gun into the meeting?”

“Not in any substantial way.”

“Well, did you suggest she put it in the car or otherwise not take it with her?”

“Not really, no.”

“Did you actually see this gun?”

“She opened her purse, and yeah, I guess I peeked at it.”

“What happened once you were inside Mr. Gorev’s office?”

“I asked for Nadia’s back wages and her passport. Gorev was belligerent. He accused Nadia of wearing a wire for the government. Actually, he accused us both. Anyway, he pulled a gun out of his desk drawer.”

“Whoa now. There’s a second gun?”

“Another nine millimeter. I think it was a Beretta.”

“And where is the Beretta now?”

“I’m getting to that, Detective.”

“Okay, Mr. Solomon. Just tell the story your own way.”

“Gorev aims the gun at me. Orders me to strip to see if I’m wearing a wire. I start unbuttoning my shirt, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Nadia reaching into her purse for the Glock. Gorev sees it, too. He swings his gun toward Nadia.”

“And then . . .
 
?”

“Detective, do you know how sometimes a moment gets frozen in time, like a snapshot?”

“No, tell me.”

“I can see it now. Like a picture. Just a split second etched in my brain.”

“Okay, Mr. Solomon. Describe that etching.”

“Each one is pointing the gun at the other for a split second. Really just a nanosecond. Nadia fires. Hits Gorev in the forehead. But it’s self-defense. Or Stand Your Ground. Or defense of another. Or all three. I’m a criminal defense lawyer. I know these things.”

“That’s way above my pay grade, Mr. Solomon. Just tell me what happened after Ms. Delova shot Mr. Gorev.”

“The rest is sort of a blur.”

“No more snapshots frozen in time?”

“I mean, everything happened really fast. Gorev’s dead. Nadia pulls this picture away from the wall. There’s a safe underneath, and she must have known the combo, because she only tries once and the door pops open. There’s a bunch of foreign passports in there. She takes one plus a plastic bag.”

“What kind of plastic bag?”

“One of those zippered freezer bags. Probably the gallon size.”

“What was in it?”

“I couldn’t tell.”

“Did it appear heavy or bulky?”

“Hard to say. I wasn’t really paying attention to the bag.”

“Did it have currency in it? Her back wages?”

“No idea, and she didn’t say anything about it. Then she goes through Gorev’s desk drawer and comes out with a key. All very quickly. Like she knew where everything was. She puts the plastic bag and the passport in her purse, along with Gorev’s gun.”

“Whoa! Hold on a sec. She took the victim’s gun?”

“Yeah. That’s why you won’t find it. Then she points the Glock at me.”

“Why’d she do that?”

“Maybe because I said we had to call the police.”

“You left that part out.”

“Sorry. Anyway, she’s holding the gun on me with one hand and pulls back the drapes behind Gorev’s desk with the other. And there’s a door. She uses the key to unlock the door, tosses her gun—the Glock—to me, and leaves through the door, which locks again when she closes it, trapping me inside. That’s when the guys in the club start yelling and shooting into the other door.”

“And you shoot back.”

“Twice. To protect myself. That’s why my prints are on the gun. And probably residue on my right hand.”

“Hold your horses, Mr. Solomon. All the stuff that happened in a blur.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, you described it in pretty precise detail.”

“I’m thinking it through now for the first time. It’s not like I’m making it up.”

“Not saying you are. I’m just puzzled as to a few things. First, that whole gun switcheroo. Why’d this Russian girl do that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she was trying to frame me.”

“But you just said it was self-defense. That Nadia wasn’t guilty of anything.”

“I don’t know. I’m a little shaken up.”

“Next, the way you described Ms. Delova’s actions. The shooting. Opening the safe so easily. Finding the key. It almost seems as if she’d had it all planned.”

“Maybe. I guess.”

“You wouldn’t have been in on that, would you?”

“In on what?”

“Robbery. Murder.”

“No!”

“But you knew she had the gun?”

“At the last minute.”

“And then at the last second, she double-crosses you and leaves you there as she gets away with whatever was in the safe.”

“She couldn’t double-cross me. I wasn’t in on anything.”

“But you did go there with an armed woman to take back property and money allegedly belonging to her.”

“Yes.”

“So what went through your mind when Nadia told you she was taking a gun to the meeting?”

“How do you mean?”

“Did you wonder, ‘Why bring a firearm?’ ”

“I don’t know. I didn’t give it a lot of thought.”

“So why did she bring a weapon? Was she expecting a gunfight?”

“I couldn’t say. What are you getting at, Detective?”

“Well, it looks all the world like she was planning to take the property at gunpoint if Gorev refused to give her what she wanted. And once you saw the gun, you must have known that.”