Kill All the Lawyers (22 page)

So how could you betray me, Bobby? How could you sneak off to see that woman who loved crack more than she loved you?

"Because she's still my mom."

That was Bobby's defense. The night Steve clobbered Myron Goldberg, Steve took Bobby home and made him a smoothie. They talked until dawn, Bobby crying and saying he was sorry he hadn't been honest. A few weeks before, when Janice got out of prison, she had started coming around the neighborhood. At night, she'd sneak into their yard and sometimes look through Bobby's window just to catch a glimpse of him.

Sure, Steve thought. Even with her brain cells burned out by twenty years of narcotics and hallucinogens, Janice had known better than to knock on the door and give her baby brother a big hug. So she'd hung out at the park on Morningside Drive like a regular mom and one day called out to Bobby when he rode by on his bike.

"Why didn't you tell her to fuck off? In five languages."

"Because she's still my mom."

Steve couldn't understand it. And knew he couldn't fight it, either. If he forbade Bobby to see his mother, he'd be the villain. The two of them would sneak around behind his back, make a game of it. He was in a lose-lose situation.

The light blinked yellow, and Steve honked at the Beemer in front of him to
turn the hell left so we don't sit here another fifteen minutes.
The light was red when Steve followed onto Augusto Street, pulling up to the entrance of Ponce de León Middle School. A sea of urchins in shorts, T-shirts, and backpacks was surging toward the front door.

Steve reached over and squeezed Bobby's shoulder. He wouldn't kiss the boy, not when his pals might be watching.

Bobby made no move to open the door. "I don't want to go to school."

"Why not?"

"First period is P.E. Second is Study Hall. Third is Civics, and I've got permission for independent study off-campus."

"Independent study? You getting your master's degree?"

"I can go to court with you today if you want me to."

"You have anything in writing to back up this story?"

"Jeez, Uncle Steve. Don't you trust me?"

"About as far as I can throw Shaquille O'Neal. Now, what's going on?"

"You've got to go in front of some judge, right?"

"Yeah. The Honorable Alvin Elias Schwartz. So what?"

"Grandpop says a defendant should always look as sympathetic as possible. That's why serial killers bring their mothers to court."

"Yeah?"

"I can make you look more sympathetic. I'm Exhibit A in your trial stratagem."

"What kind of word is that for a twelve-year-old? 'Stratagem'?"

"Don't you always say, 'If the law doesn't work, work the law?' "

"Not like this. I won't use you as a prop."

"C'mon, Uncle Steve. If the law doesn't work, work your nephew."

* * *

Victoria paced in the corridor outside Judge Schwartz's courtroom. Morning calendar, the place overflowing with defendants, their wives, girlfriends, and mothers. Bored cops and sleazy bail bondsmen, overworked probation officers and perjurious witnesses—all the jetsam and flotsam of the criminal justice system. It was a familiar place to Victoria, but still she felt ill at ease. This was the venue of her greatest professional embarrassment. Ray Pincher, the State Attorney, had fired her in Judge Gridley's courtroom, not twenty yards away. She could remember her face reddening, the tears welling, and opposing counsel—Steve-the-Shyster Solomon—hitting on her. An inauspicious beginning to their tumultuous relationship. Now, hustling down the corridor were two judges— Stanford Blake and Amy Steele Donner—robes flying, chatting away. She nodded to them in the way lawyers do, being polite, but not too familiar. His Honor and Her Honor smiled back. What were they saying? She could only imagine.

"There's Victoria Lord. She got suckered into a mistrial by Steve Solomon, ended up sleeping with him."

Riding the escalator moments before, Victoria had encountered the head of the state's Major Crimes Division. They exchanged hellos. The man asked what brought her across the bay. Expecting a murder trial, maybe. White-collar crime. Something to ring the cash register at Solomon & Lord, Attorneys-at-Law.

Not . . . "Defending my partner in his second assault and battery case in a month."

No wonder she was embarrassed. The humiliation didn't stop with Ray Pincher sacking her. Her partner and lover could be counted on for continuing acts of mortification.

Down the corridor, the elevator door opened and out walked Steve.

With Bobby!

She watched as Steve cruised toward her, slapping pals on the back, howdying prosecutors and defense lawyers alike. Smiling and laughing, a glide to his stride. He could be strolling along a sun-dappled country path on his way to pick strawberries, instead of heading to his own arraignment. He paused a moment to buttonhole Ed Shohat and Bob Josefsberg, two of the top defense lawyers in town. Just Steve's way of letting them know he wasn't in jail, and if they had any cases or clients beneath their dignity, he could use the work.

"Yo, Vic," he called out.

"Yo, yourself. Bobby, why aren't you in school?"

"This is my class project," he replied.

"Bobby's my stratagem," Steve said.

She gave him her
don't bullshit me
look.

"It's true. Bobby's going to stand by my side."

"Just let me do the talking," she said. "All you have to say is—"

"Not guilty. I know, I know."

"Not guilty,
Your Honor.
"

"Okay. You're the boss." He turned to Bobby.

"Look, kiddo, you'll sit next to me and get up when I stand to enter my plea."

"That's your stratagem?" Victoria asked.

"And our theme for the case. I was protecting Bobby that night when I inadvertently struck Myron Goldberg. I stand with Bobby, and he stands with me. We're sending a message."

"With Judge Schwartz's eyesight, I doubt he'll see either one of you."

"He can see okay. It's his hearing that's off." Steve turned to Bobby. "And if His Honor cuts loose a fifty-decibel fart, try not to laugh."

Bobby giggled. "He does that?"

"The old goat passes wind and blames it on the court reporter. So be cool." Steve turned back to Victoria. "Let's go do it. And trust me. 'Not guilty, Your Honor.' Not a word more."

* * *

Judge Schwartz, irascible, aged, and flatulent, was running through his morning calendar of motions, bail hearings, status reports, arraignments, and other procedural gimcracks of the criminal justice system.

Steve, Victoria, and Bobby took seats in the front row of the gallery. Steve spotted Ray Pincher sitting across the aisle. Next to the State Attorney sat Myron Goldberg. The periodontist was sporting a fat lip the color of an eggplant and wearing a soft neck collar for no reason Steve could figure except possible civil litigation.

"Oh, my aching neck."

Goldberg wasn't needed at the arraignment. No testimony would be taken. Why the hell was he even here?

The clerk, a young woman with dreadlocks and no apparent facial expression, called out: "State of Florida versus Stephen Solomon."

The judge peered over the tops of his trifocals as everyone made their way past the bar. "You again?"

"Guilty, Your Honor," Steve called out. "Of being Steve Solomon.
Not
guilty of the charge."

"Didn't ask for your plea."

"I know, Judge, but I promised my lawyer that's all I'd say." Steve and Bobby took their seats, leaving Victoria standing to do the real work.

"What now?" the judge demanded.

"New case, Your Honor," Pincher said. He wore a burgundy three-piece suit. Pincher's trademark miniature handcuffs clinked as he gestured, bowing slightly as if he were a mâitre d' welcoming diners to his overpriced restaurant. "Mr. Solomon has again committed assault and battery."

"Allegedly," Victoria broke in. "Victoria Lord for the defense, Your Honor."

"Say, aren't you that lady lawyer who got shat on by a bird down in Gridley's courtroom?"

Victoria reddened. "A talking toucan, Your Honor. Mr. Solomon fed it prune Danish."

"Used to eat poppyseed myself, but the damn seeds stick to my dentures."

"Your Honor, Mr. Solomon will enter a plea of not guilty."

"Already did," the judge said.

"In that case," Victoria continued, "the defense waives reading the information and requests trial by jury."

"Fine and dandy. The clerk will set a trial date not to conflict with the Florida Derby. You like the ponies, missy?"

"Not particularly, Your Honor. We also move to withdraw Mr. Solomon's nolo plea in the earlier case."

"On what grounds?"

"My client was not represented by counsel when he entered the plea."

"Motion denied. Your client's a lawyer. Who'd he hit this time, Pincher?"

"Dr. Myron Goldberg, a neighbor," the State Attorney said. On cue, Goldberg rose stiffly, a pained look on his face. "Dr. Goldberg caught Mr. Solomon's nephew peeping in his daughter's window. In the ensuing confrontation, Mr. Solomon assaulted Dr. Goldberg."

"Not true, Judge." Steve leapt to his feet, and so did Bobby. "I was defending my nephew and my sister."

"Sit down!" Victoria hissed.

"I wasn't peeping!" Bobby insisted.

"First a peeper," the judge said sternly. "Then a flasher. Next thing you know, you're pulling down girls' panties and having your way with them. You know what they did to rapists in ancient Rome?"

"Crushed their balls between two rocks," Bobby said.

"The little perv knows his history, I'll grant him that."

"I'm not a perv!"

"Pipe down, son. You'll have a chance to prove that."

"The boy's not on trial," Pincher reminded the judge.

"Maybe he should be," Judge Schwartz shot back. "He's really starting to torque my tail."

At that, an unmistakable
pop-pop-pop
came from the bench, a Gatling gun of rapid-fire flatulence.

Bobby giggled and said, "Who blew the butt trumpet?"

"That's enough, you little rascal."

"Because it sounded like a bench burner," Bobby continued.

Steve put a hand on Bobby's shoulder, trying to quiet him.

"Are you trifling with me, boy? Do you know who I am?"

"Alvin Elias Schwartz," Bobby replied, scrunching his face in concentration.

"No, Bobby!" Steve ordered. "No anagrams."

"Alvin Elias Schwartz," Bobby repeated. "WAS A SNIVEL ZILCH RAT."

The judge hacked up some phlegm. "I ought to send both of you straight to clink."

"Your Honor," Victoria spoke up. "Mr. Solomon has yet to be tried, and there are no charges against his nephew."

The judge whirled around in his high-backed swivel chair. One revolution. Two revolutions. Three revolutions. The judge disappearing from sight, then reappearing, white fringes of hair above his ears blowing in the breeze. When the chair slowed to a stop, he said: "I question Solomon's mental competence. Where's that shrink's report from the other case?"

Pincher answered, "Not filed yet, Your Honor. Mr. Solomon missed his last appointment."

"If that happens again, he's going straight to jail. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred shekels."

"Judge, don't send me back to that quack," Steve pleaded.

"Get thee to a shrinkery!" Judge Schwartz ordered. "What's the name of that head doctor?"

"William Kreeger," Pincher said.

"That's the one. Go see him. Both Solomon and the kid. I want to know if Solomon's a menace and the little rapscallion's a sicko."

"Your Honor doesn't have jurisdiction over the minor child," Victoria said.

"He's in my courtroom, missy. My fiefdom. It's in the Magna Carta. You can look it up."

"But Your Honor," Victoria pleaded. "Due process precludes—"

The judge rapped his gavel.
Bang!
"That's it, Ms. Lord. Both of your clients go see the shrink." Another
bang
! "Ten-minute recess. My bladder ain't what it used to be."

SOLOMON'S LAWS

10. You won't find it in Darwin, Deuteronomy, or Doonesbury, but it's an essential truth of human nature: We'll all kill to protect those we love.

Twenty-Nine

THE CON ARTIST BLUES

Carl Drake's suite at the Four Seasons was pretty much what Steve expected. Beige sofas with thick pillows in the living room, gray marble in the bath, a curved desk of blond wood in the tidy office. The windows looked across Biscayne Bay, glistening turquoise in the midday sun. Key Biscayne was a green atoll in the distance, a dozen sailboats visible on the far side of the causeway. Just what you would demand for twelve hundred bucks a night.

But who was paying for it? Before he even settled into the sofa, Steve was struck with the notion that The Queen would never get a shilling out of Carl Drake. No matter how much money Drake stole, he seemed to be the kind of guy who enjoyed spending every last cent.

Steve had filed the usual dilatory motions to slow down the mortgage foreclosure, but that could buy The Queen only so much time. Today, he intended to shake some money out of Drake. It was the first of two unpleasant tasks on his calendar, the second being a court-ordered appointment with William Kreeger, M.D.

"What'll it be, Steve?" Drake asked pleasantly, standing at the gleaming marble-topped bar. "Champagne? Cristal."

"No thanks, Carl."

"Wait. I'm good at this. I know from dinner that you drink tequila after dark. Now, as for the daytime . . ." Drake fingered a bottle of single-malt Scotch, then eyed a bottle of Maker's Mark. "I'm betting you're a bourbon man."

"Hemlock, if you have it. Drano on the rocks if you don't."

"Been a rough week, has it?" Laying on a bit of a British accent. Stopping just short of saying "old chap."