SS 18: Shark Skin Suite: A Novel (14 page)

“Intestinal parasites?”

“I just remembered another Florida legal movie,” said Serge. “This one focused on punishment. It’s where we’re heading now.”

“To watch a movie?”

“No, where it happened. Or rather where the real events happened. But they went and filmed it again in Hollywood. Don’t get me started on that.”

“Which movie?”

“Okay, here’s the best part!” Serge took his hands off the wheel and cracked knuckles. “It’s the all-time 1967 American rebellion classic
Cool Hand Luke,
starring Paul Newman.”

“You mean the chain-gang movie?” said Coleman. “But I thought that was Mississippi or Georgia.”

“And that’s what everyone thinks,” said Serge. “It drives me crazy, yet another example of other states stealing our props. But it really happened in Florida. And not just North Florida, where everyone scoffs and says, ‘Well, that’s really Georgia anyway.’ This was way down in the middle of the state right around here. I just need to drive a little farther and turn south at Tavares.”

“You mean the band that sang ‘Heaven Must Be Missing an Angel’? That really would be punishment.”

“No, you idiot, the city.” Serge cut the wheel and made a right onto U.S. 19. They had already been driving through rural outskirts, and now they left even that behind. “I got connections at the library and told them I needed some historical research, and they said they’d get right on it.” He uncrumpled a ball of paper on the steering wheel. “Received rough directions to put me in the ballpark, but said they weren’t sure what I’d find.”

“So we’re going to hang out in the middle of another field again?”

“Something wrong with that?”

“It’s boring.”

“Don’t poop on my moment.”

“But we’re always standing in weeds and sticker patches while you tell me to ‘dig it.’ ”

“You should be thanking me. Even if everything’s gone, just standing in the spot of such momentous cultural significance and intrinsically soaking it in is more than one could ask for.” Serge pointed up at two circles of light coming through the car’s roof. “And don’t think we’re not going to discuss those holes.”

The Cobra cruised a few more miles before pulling onto the dirt near an easily missed sign that said C
AMP
R
OAD
. Serge kept it under five miles an hour as he craned his neck left and right. They passed a tiny church, then some trailers and a woman walking barefoot with a vegetable basket. The Cobra disappeared into the woods.

Ten minutes later, Coleman looked ahead at the ever-narrowing road, branches scraping both sides of the car as the sun went down. “Where are we?”

“Probably missed the place. Better go back.”

“But we can’t turn around.”

Serge threw his arm over the back of the seat and faced out the rear window. “Time once again to practice backing up several miles.”

“Hey,” said Coleman. “There’s that barefoot woman we passed earlier. She’s looking at us weird.”

“Probably just nerve damage to her face. I’m sure she see Cobras backing through the woods at forty all the time.”

“She’s waving like she wants to tell us something.”

Serge eased to a stop and rolled down the window. The woman set her basket on the ground and stared inside the car with puzzlement. “Can I help you fellas find something?”

“Yes!” said Serge. “Donn Pearce wrote the novel
Cool Hand Luke
after serving a stint at Road Prison Number Fifty-eight, but the suits changed the number to thirty-six and moved it to Hollywood.”

“You’re trying to find the old chain-gang place?” She pointed over the top of the car. “Used to be right there on the other side of all that brush. Just keep backing up until you get to the fork and take the other spur.”

“The foliage in California looked different,” said Serge. “So they stole a bunch of our Spanish moss and mailed it to the left coast to hang it on the trees. True story, look it up.” The Cobra departed with backward spinning wheels.

Serge whipped around at the fork and zoomed up to a locked fence with a K
EEP
O
UT
sign from the state of Florida. Which meant bolt cutters. The Cobra bounded across an empty expanse of earth. “Coleman! Dig it!”

“Whoopie, another field.”

The muscle car continued across the grassy flat. Along the south side ran a row of crooked old wooden posts and barbed wire covered with vines. Nature has its own way of foreclosing. Decades of creep from reeds, palmettos, overgrown underbrush and weed-covered dunes from some kind of soil upheaval. In the distance, a rare sign of man’s former endeavor.

“Check out the corroded three-sided metal shed over there, or what’s left of it.” Serge got out his camera and turned on the flash. “Maybe, just maybe, it stored tools that the chain gangs used to work on nearby roads. One can only hope. Don’t get me wrong—I’m perfectly content to be in this field.”

“Hooray.”

Serge suddenly hit the brakes, pitching Coleman forward into the dash. “What’d you do that for?”

“Those oaks with a bunch of scrub that’s taken root.” Serge grabbed his heart. “I think I see something, but it’s way too dark from over here.”

The Cobra circled west for a better view. The car stopped. Serge got out and fell to his knees.

“God loves me.”

Chapter
NINETEEN

MEANWHILE

A
clear tube of red light gradually phased to green and blue. The tube stretched for miles, if you didn’t count breaks in the whitewashed balustrade running between the beach and Highway A1A. Traffic practically didn’t exist since it was after three
A.M.
on a weeknight, or make that morning.

Back toward the city, Fort Lauderdale’s skyline stood mostly dark except for some widely spaced office lights scattered across the faces of the high-rises. Most of them were cleaning crews. Except one office on a thirtieth floor.

“I can see the red tubes from the beach,” said Brook. “Now it’s green.”

“It’s a beautiful state,” said Shelby, standing next to her at the floor-to-ceiling windows. “I actually grew up right down there near the river.”

“Where?”

“It’s now a martini bar.”

The conference room’s table was again covered with files and cold take-out food. Mexican, this time.

Brook yawned and stretched.

Shelby walked back to the table. “I think you should handle Ruthy on direct.”

Brook spun in alarm. “What?”

“Our jury consultant thinks so, too.”

“You want me to question a witness at the beginning of my very first trial?”

“Got to start sometime, so best to get it out of the way.” Shelby idly moved refried beans around a plate. “Besides, you and her are a much more sympathetic fit than if I do it.”

“But I get . . .”

“Get what?”

“When I’m super nervous, like just before speaking to a large group—”

“You throw up? That’s normal.”

“No, diarrhea.”

Shelby stared.

“But that’s not the bad part,” said Brook. “It’s lead-up panic: Can I run out of the room and make it in time?”

“We’ve definitely been putting in too many late hours together.” Shelby grabbed a Q&A script. “Let’s go over direct again. I’ll play Ruthy this time . . .”

An hour later, the sound of vacuum cleaners outside the conference room. Brook yawned again as she strolled in a circle around the table, reviewing documents interspersed with notecards of legal strategy. “I think we’ve covered it all.”

“You can go,” said Shelby. “I just want to look back over a couple more things.”

“But you need your sleep, too.” Brook tossed half a burrito in the trash. “Opening arguments are in two days, and we need to get our body clocks back among the living.”

“I said you could go.”

She pulled out a chair. “Then I’m staying.”

Shelby held a manila folder with an adhesive tab.
Grand-Bourg Holding Group.

“What’s that?” asked Brook.

“I don’t know.” Shelby flipped through papers. “These are the discovery documents that don’t fit any other category. They don’t fit anything, almost as if they’re from another case that accidentally got mixed up down in the mail room.”

“Looks like financial spreads and random international corporate recordings.”

“Ownership issues, but it’s gibberish.” He reached one of the last pages and stopped. Then he flipped back to the front of the file and pulled out a page. He held them side by side.

Brook leaned over his shoulder. “Notice something?”

“Not sure.” One was printed on rice paper and the other had an official-looking stamp from Aruba. “Why would that money . . . ? And then over here . . . ?”

“The mortgages?”

“No, Consolidated itself.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I.” He picked up the phone.

“Who are you calling at this hour?”

“Just leaving a voice mail with our firm’s private investigators.” A finger pressed touch-tone numbers. “I won’t be getting up till at least noon, and I’d like them to start looking into this first thing.”

“What do you think they’ll find?”

“Who knows? The point is, I don’t want any surprises in the courtroom.” He inexplicably hung up.

“Why’d you do that?” asked Brook. “You didn’t leave a message.”

“If it’s something we could use, then our investigator poking around might tip them off.” Shelby slapped his cheeks to restore alertness. “I’m half-loopy from lack of sleep. It’s probably nothing.” He began dialing again . . .

SOUTH OF TAVARES

Serge slowly rose from his knees in religious awe.

“It’s just a building,” said Coleman. “Like a little house.”

“Get a grip,” Serge told himself. “I need a positive ID before I let myself become effectively excited.” He grabbed a piece of glossy paper from over the sun visor.

“What’s that?” asked Coleman.

“Screen grab I printed out from
Cool Hand Luke
.” Serge walked to the front of the building and raised the picture for comparison. “The film crew took meticulous sets of photos out here before constructing an exact replica of the prison camp out in Stockton.”

Coleman leaned over. “Your picture looks the same as the building. What’s it mean?”

“Time to get excited!” He chugged a travel mug and slipped on mirrored sunglasses.

Coleman sluggishly followed Serge to where he repeatedly ran up and down four blue steps to a porch.

“Okay, this field also has a house,” said Coleman. “I’ve dug it. Can we go to a bar now?”

“Not just any house! It’s where the warden lived.” Serge turned at the top of the steps and ran back. “Can’t believe it’s still standing. Strother Martin paced right here on this porch, except in California.”

“I’m still bored.”

“Coleman, we’re working.”

“Running up and down steps?”

“I’m in training to be a lawyer.” Serge panted as he completed another short lap. “Everyone else just goes to law school. That’s why I’ll have the edge. That’s enough running.”

The air was still, nurturing the kind of humidity that made people taste their own salt. Serge stood with hands on hips and stared silently across the dark field from behind mirrored sunglasses.

“Can you see anything with those things on at night?” asked Coleman.

“No.” Serge maintained his gaze with a stone face. “These were worn by Morgan Woodward, who had one of the greatest nonspeaking roles in film history as Boss Godfrey, who shot Luke in the climactic scene.”

“That’s nice,” said Coleman. “But what’s any of this have to do with being a lawyer?”

“This is what.” Serge popped the trunk and grabbed a shirt collar. “Out you go!”

A bound and gagged man flopped to the ground. “Since I don’t have a law degree, I can’t practice in court. But I found a giant loophole that says I can be a fixer.” Serge dragged the man up the steps and handcuffed him to a railing.

“What’s a fixer?” asked Coleman.

“Every gigantic law firm has one.” Serge retrieved a cooler from the backseat. “It’s a lawyer who’s a breed apart: somebody with a law school education and the balls of a bounty hunter. So they pull them out of the courtroom to work in the field.”

“What do they do?”

“A fixer is a one-man rapid-response team that gets his arms around a crisis before it blows out of proportion, like if someone’s being blackmailed or throws a punch at a formal gala, or if a political rival mails a box of his own doo-doo to the mayor before realizing the idea isn’t as sparkling as it first seemed. They deal with the chaos of reality as opposed to the artificial order of the courtroom.”

“You’re going to be a fixer?”

“I finally realized it’s what I was destined for my entire life.” Serge stared down through his sunglasses at the hostage. “I know the law and the street. As long as I stay out of the courthouse and only practice in the field, I’m not committing any crime.” He kicked the whining captive in the ribs. “Well, you know what I mean.”

“Who is that guy, anyway?”

“A particularly ugly case.”
Kick, slap.
“Did you know that lawyers have created a legal form of blackmail? It’s true. What you do is sue someone over an insignificant pretext—like a limited-partnership glitch or intellectual-property theft—but there’s an overt hint that certain embarrassing evidence will inevitably surface. That’s the real issue. Those revelations won’t prove anything illegal but will be absolutely catastrophic in terms of reputation and income, like all those Christmas-party cell-phone videos floating around the Internet involving candy-cane dildos.”

“I’m collecting those.”

“Then the suing party offers to settle and includes a confidentiality clause, which is really a de facto bribe to keep silent, and it’s all legally bulletproof.”

“This is really going on?”

“More than you’d think,” said Serge. “There was actually one case in the news where these lawyers forgot the confidentiality clause and simply faxed a monetary request to keep quiet. Naturally they were arrested for extortion, and the TV legal pundits had a chuckle-fest: ‘Ho-ho-ho, they didn’t understand how to work our tricky little bribe scheme.’ And the rest of us are watching at home with disgusted looks: ‘This is what flies for okay in your culture?’ . . . Coleman, get my stopwatch from the glove compartment.”

Coleman wiped his brow as a bird of prey circled overhead. He returned from the car. “Here you go, Serge . . . How’d you land this case, anyway?”

“Mahoney. The big firms have in-house fixers, but the smaller ones outsource on an as-needed basis. He was skeptical when I suggested the fixer gig, but business is starting to trickle in.” He bent down and glared into the captive’s eyes from a range of three inches. “I’m going to remove the duct tape now and I expect you not to scream.”

Rip
.

“I’ll fucking kill you!”

Serge bashed him with a wicked uppercut, then applied fresh tape. He climbed the porch steps and stared out at nothing particular. “ ‘
What we have here is failure to communicate
.’ . . . I’ve always wanted to say that.”

“What did this dude do?” asked Coleman.

“Fooled around on his wife and got divorced. Then he wouldn’t pay child support, so she almost went broke and started a home-based business. Apparently she had a knack for it because it took off and money came pouring in. Something to do with party planning.”

Coleman’s ears perked. “People actually pay you for that?”

“Not like you think. Anyway, the ex-husband gets wind and wants a cut and threatens to show some private bedroom photos they had taken during better times, which wouldn’t go over big with the soccer moms at little Tommy’s birthday. Enter the confidentiality clause.”

“So this is the ex-husband?”

“No, that would be witness-tampering, which is wrong.”
Kick, kick.
“This is the lawyer.” Serge crouched again in front of his guest. “Will you keep quiet this time if I take off the tape?”

The attorney had had enough. He nodded weakly with blood streaming from both nostrils.

“Great! Because we’re coming to my favorite part of the movie!” Serge hopped with joy as he placed his cooler on the porch between them.

Rip
.

A brief cry. Serge opened the thirty-six-gallon insulated box and removed a tray. The captive’s eyebrows twisted in confusion. “Please don’t hit me, but I have no idea what’s going on. Who are you?”

“I’m a fixer, and we’re going re-create the Paul Newman scene where he takes a bet to eat fifty hard-boiled eggs.” Serge pulled the first egg out of the tray. “I know it’s not how fixers usually operate, but there’s a new breed of cat in town . . . Oh, and I couldn’t lay my hands on that many hard-boiled eggs in a pinch, so I went to the deli at Publix and bought deviled eggs . . . Coleman, ready?”

Coleman nodded and clicked the stopwatch.

“Open wide!” Serge crammed the first egg into the attorney’s mouth. He grabbed a second egg and popped it in his own mouth, licking his fingers. “Actually that’s pretty tasty . . . Open up again . . .” Serge detected another question on the attorney’s face. “What? You didn’t think I was going to let you have all the fun? See, this is what’s happening here. We’re forming a bond. And I’m hoping you’re a movie buff, because I can get pretty hung up on my favorite flicks. If you are a buff, we’ve got hours of fun ahead. Well, maybe not hours. Forget I said that. Did you know some of
Cool Hand
was actually shot in Florida? The bloodhound chase through the woods used a body double for Newman up at the Callahan Road Prison just north of Jacksonville. Open wide!” Serge continued feeding the captive as he chewed his own eggs. “We’re doing it together, ‘Kumbaya’-style, and if you reach Luke’s record with me, I’ll let you go. That’s my bonus round. More on that later . . .”

The captive swallowed hard. “That’s it?”

“Well, there is one little catch.” Serge jammed another egg in his face. “Drop the lawsuit with the confidentiality clause. And persuade your client not to file with anyone else.”

“How am I supposed to do that—” He was cut short with another egg.

“Come up with some kind of lie. You’re a lawyer.” Serge chomped and swallowed. “But if you don’t, we’ll keep coming out here until you either see the light or start liking eggs with paprika . . . Coleman?”

“What? Oh.” He looked down at a sweep second hand. “Twenty minutes . . .”

Twenty minutes later:

Coleman giggled at Serge, laid out on the warden’s porch. “You look pregnant.”