Kill All the Lawyers (14 page)

Judge Schwartz was propped on two pillows, either because his hemorrhoids were flaring up or because, at five foot three, he couldn't see over the bench. Known as King of the Curmudgeons when he was younger, his disposition had gotten even worse with age. He now had the title of "senior judge," meaning he was somewhere between Medicare and the mortuary. No longer permitted to preside over trials because of lousy hearing, a weak bladder, and chronic flatulence, he nonetheless handled bail hearings, motions, and arraignments.

At the moment, Judge Schwartz was peering through his trifocals at a teenager in baggy, low-slung pants. Skinny and round-shouldered, the kid had the vacant, openmouthed look of the terminally stupid. From what Steve could gather, the kid had just pleaded guilty to possession of marijuana and was getting probation.

"You're getting a second chance, you understand that, José?" Judge Schwartz said.

"My name's Freddy, Judge," the kid said. "You know, short for Fernando."

"Hernando? Like the county? I own thirty acres up by Weeki Wachee."

"
Fer
-nando!" the kid repeated.

"I don't give a flying fandango what your name is, José. You come back here for spitting on the sidewalk, I'm sending you straight to Raiford, where some big bucks are gonna use your candy ass for a piñata. You
comprende
?"

"Viejo comemierda,"
the kid muttered.

Either the judge didn't hear him or didn't know he'd just been called a shit-eater, because he started absentmindedly thumbing through his stack of files.

Steve worked his way to the front row of the gallery and took a seat on the aisle. It took a moment to realize he was sitting next to Dr. Bill Kreeger.

"What the hell ...?"

"Good day, Steve."

"What are you doing here?"

"Surely you know that I testify on occasion. I'm considered quite an effective witness."

"Pathological liars usually are."

It couldn't be a coincidence, Steve thought. First, Kreeger popped up at Joe's. Then he started saying nice things about Steve on the air. Now he showed up in court, looking spiffy in a dark suit and burgundy tie. What was the bastard up to?

"And how's the gorgeous Ms. Lord?"

"Fine. How's your niece? Amanda, right?"

"Lovely young thing, isn't she?"

"Woman,"
Steve said. "Lovely young woman. Only psychopaths see people as things."

"It's only an expression, Solomon. I assure you that no one in the world appreciates Amanda's qualities the way I do. She has an intelligence and understanding far beyond her years."

"What did you say her last name was?"

"I didn't."

"And just how is she your niece?"

"Too many questions, Solomon. Don't you know that curiosity killed the cat burglar?"

"State of Florida versus Stephen Solomon!" the clerk sang out.

Steve popped up and headed through the swinging gate into the well of the courtroom.

"Is the state prepared to proceed?" Judge Schwartz asked.

"The People are ready and holding steady, Your Honor."

The voice came from the back of the courtroom. Bouncing on his toes, a trim African-American man in a double-breasted pin-striped suit strutted toward the bench. Silver cuff links shaped like miniature handcuffs clinked as he walked. The man was in his mid-forties and still looked like he could fight middleweight, as he did in Golden Gloves when growing up in Liberty City.

What the hell?
Pincher only showed up for cases that could get him face time on television.

Dumbfounded, Steve whispered to Pincher: "Sugar Ray, what's going on?"

"A special case that time won't erase."

"What the hell's so special about it?" Steve hissed at the prosecutor. "Are you backing out of the plea?"

"Relax, Solomon." Pincher turned his politician smile on the judge. "Your Honor, we've reached an agreement, but nothing vehement."

"You mean a plea deal?"

"Which now I'll reveal."

"Stop that damned bebop and get to the point."

Pincher gave a courteous bow to the judge, as if he'd just been complimented on the cut of his suit. "Your Honor, the state is prepared to dismiss the felony charges, and Mr. Solomon will plead nolo to simple assault with adjudication to be withheld pending completion of anger-management therapy."

Steve let out a breath. Okay, that was exactly what he'd agreed to with one of Pincher's deputies. But why was the boss here? What was so damn special about the case?

"Mr. Solomon?" The judge seemed to focus on Steve for the first time. "Aren't you that lawyer I throw in the clink every now and then?"

"I plead nolo to that, too, Your Honor."

"Okay, then. Let's put the stuffing in this turkey."

The judge started running through the plea protocol. Did Steve understand the charges against him? Did he know he had the right to a trial? Was he entering the plea freely and voluntarily?

Steve gave all the right answers, and in less than three minutes, the judge had checked off the boxes on his form and signed the order Pincher handed to him. Judge Schwartz leaned close to the document, showing the courtroom the crown of his bald head as he read: "The Court finds that the defendant is alert and intelligent and understands the consequences of his plea, which is accepted for all purposes. Adjudication of guilt is withheld pending completion of anger-management therapy under the auspices of William Kreeger, MD, board-certified psychiatrist."

What!? Did the judge say what I think he said?

"Dr. Kreeger will file a written report with the Court at the conclusion of said therapy."

Yes. He definitely said it. But that's nuts. There must be some mistake.

"At which time, charges will either be dismissed and all records expunged, or in the event of the failure to satisfactorily complete said therapy, the defendant shall be sentenced in accordance with his plea of nolo contendere."

"Hold on, Judge!" Steve shouted, loud enough for the old buzzard to hear. "Kreeger's a convicted felon."

"Not anymore," Pincher shot back. "His rights have been restored. Dr. Kreeger received commendations from the Corrections Department for his work with violent offenders, and the DPR restored his medical license. He's a model of rehabilitation."

"He's a model nutcase," Steve said.

"You heard my ruling," the judge rasped. "Now stop your bellyaching and go get your anger managed."

The judge hammered his gavel. "Clerk, call the next case."

"No fucking way," Steve said.

"What'd you say?" the judge demanded.

"No fun this way, Your Honor."

"It's not supposed to be fun. You're a criminal, aren't you?"

"No, sir. I'm a defense lawyer."

"Same difference. You're accused of assaulting one . . ." The judge licked his index finger and thumbed through the court file. "Arnold Freskin, an employee of the great State of Florida." Judge Schwartz used his feet to pedal his chair away from his desk and toward the flagpole a few feet away. He grasped the edge of the state flag and pulled it taut. "What do you see, Mr. Solomon?"

"I see the state seal, Your Honor. A Native American woman is scattering flowers on the ground."

"Damn right. These days the squaw would be raking in chips at the casino." The judge dropped the flag and rolled back to his desk. "My point, Mr. Solomon, is that you offended the dignity of the great State of Florida, and Mr. Pincher has magnanimously decided to cut you a break."

"Yes, sir, but—"

"No 'but.' I just disposed of this baked turd of a case."

"I'm being set up, Judge. By Mr. Pincher and Dr. Kreeger."

"You're talking in riddles, Mr. Solomon. I called the next case, and by God, I'm going to hear the next case."

The clerk called out: "City of Miami Beach
versus
Weingarten Delicatessen. Violation of Kosher Food Ordinance."

Pincher grabbed Steve's elbow and whispered: "Just chill. See Bill. Ain't nothing but a fire drill."

"You sold me out, Sugar Ray." Steve turned to the judge. "Your Honor, I move to withdraw my plea."

"Are you still here?" Judge Schwartz was scowling. "I'm going to charge you rent, Counselor."

Steve felt a presence beside him. Kreeger had come through the swinging gate. "Your Honor, Mr. Solomon's recalcitrance is a normal manifestation of his behavioral type. I'm sure he'll do fine with therapy."

"Like I give a rat's
tuches,
" the judge said. "Where's that butcher who's selling
trayf
as kosher?"

"Judge, there's a motion pending," Steve insisted. "I've moved to withdraw my plea. I want to go to trial."

"Motion denied. It's time to clear my calendar, Mr. Solomon, and not the one with the Playboy bunnies on it."

"Your Honor, I have an absolute right to—"

Bang!
The judge smacked the gavel so hard, Steve could feel his teeth reverberate. "I'm driving the Studebaker, Mr. Solomon, and you're the greasy speck of a horsefly on my windshield."

Steve had no intention of giving up or backing down. "Judge, I once represented Kreeger in a case. State Attorney Pincher prosecuted for the state. They've cooked this up. If Kreeger doesn't clear me, you'll sentence me to jail. Can't you see it, Judge? It's a conspiracy."

Judge Schwartz turned his bleary gaze on Kreeger, and for a moment Steve thought maybe he'd made an impression.

"Let's hear from the headshrinker," the judge said. "Doc, what do you say about these accusations?"

"Nothing to be alarmed about, Your Honor," Kreeger replied in his soothing baritone. "While I'm working on Mr. Solomon's anger, I'll check out that paranoia, too."

SOLOMON'S LAWS

6. A creative lawyer considers a judge's order a mere suggestion.

Seventeen

THE UNFINISHED BUSINESS

OF PARENTING

"What did you do to make the judge so furious?"

Victoria demanded.

"Nothing," Steve said. "Nada. Bupkes."

"You must have done something."

"Why?" Steve had come home hoping for comfort and support. Instead he was being cross-examined in his own kitchen. "Why do you automatically assume it's my fault?"

"Because you have a knack for driving people crazy."

"Judge Schwartz was crazy decades before I met him. Can you believe I'm supposed to be counseled by that psychopath Kreeger?"

"Sociopath," Bobby corrected him. "With narcissistic tendencies and omnipotent fantasies." The kid had been reading psychology texts and checking out various medical websites. At least that's what he said when asked why his computer had bookmarked nymphomaniacs.com. Now Bobby gave the adults his wiseguy look from underneath the bill of his Solomon & Lord ball cap. Steve had formed a team in the lawyers' softball league, but desperately short of players, he recruited clients to play. Purse snatchers turned out to be excellent base runners; pedestrians knocked down by taxicabs were a little slow off the bag.

Outside the windows, fronds from a sabal palm swatted the stucco walls of the house. Inside, Steve was defending himself from Victoria's torrent of criticism.

"I didn't do anything wrong," Steve insisted. "Kreeger set me up, and Pincher was in on it."

"Why? What's Pincher have to gain?"

"More like what he has to lose. Kreeger threatened to go public, tell everyone our esteemed State Attorney used tainted evidence to convict him."

"Pincher told you that?"

"I figured it out. Pincher's up for reelection next year. Who'd he rather have pissed off at him? A defense lawyer or a guy with a radio show?"

"Aw, why make a big
tsimiss
out of it?" Herbert Solomon walked into the kitchen, carrying a tumbler filled with ice. "Do the therapy and get the charges dismissed."

"Not that easy, Dad. Having Kreeger as my therapist is like having a burglar in my bedroom."

Herbert had filled his glass so high with bourbon, he needed to slurp it out. "So don't flap your gums about family secrets. Stonewall his ass."

"Then he files a report with the court saying I'm hiding my lunatic impulses."

"If the judge ordered you to go to Kreeger," Victoria said, "you have no choice."

"That's the difference between you and me, Vic," Steve said. "I consider judges' orders as mere suggestions."

"That's the difference between civilization and anarchy. And in your life, anarchy rules."

"Anarchy rules," Bobby repeated. "ANY CRUEL RASH."

"No reason to be all tore up, son," Herbert said. "Maybe the more time you spend with that shrink, the better."

"How you figure, Dad?"

"Ah couldn't find hide nor hair of that boat captain. You need a new plan."

Victoria shot Steve a look. He hadn't told his father everything, and she knew it.

"Dad, it doesn't matter if you found De la Fuente or not. I just want Kreeger to know I'm looking."

Herbert's bushy eyebrows seemed to arch higher. "So you send your old man on a wild-goose chase. Fine son you are."

"But you're right, Dad. There's an upside to spending more time with Kreeger. His girlfriend, too, if I could get her alone."

"You still think you can convince her Kreeger's a killer?" Victoria said.

"No!" He slapped his forehead to signify what an idiot he was. No one disagreed. "I've got it backwards. I think she
already
knows his past."

"And you base this on what?" Victoria asked.

"Something Kreeger said to me about how much he appreciates Amanda's qualities. That she has an intelligence and understanding beyond her years. That sort of thing."

"Yeah?"

"She's the one he feels safe with, the one who comforts him. Kreeger could have told her about Beshears and Lamm. And who knows? Maybe there's—"

"A third murder," Victoria said.

"Exactly. If Amanda knows Kreeger's secrets, and I can drive a wedge between them, maybe I can get her to help me nail him."