SS 18: Shark Skin Suite: A Novel (21 page)

Chapter
THIRTY-ONE

PALM BEACH COUNTY

S
erge glanced over from the driver’s seat. “What do you think?”

“What do I
think
?” Reevis said sarcastically. “You won’t even let me look at the legal file.”

“I told you: because it’s not time yet.” Serge aimed his camera out the window. “So what do you think? In general?”

“About what?”

“Your new job.”

“How should I know? You refuse to tell me anything about the damn thing.”

“Exactly.”
Click, click, click.
“Consider this like the movie
Training Day
with Denzel Washington, where all is slowly revealed to the new guy in due time. Except by then a bunch of bad shit hits the new guy. Hope that doesn’t happen. Forget that reference. What I’m trying to say is you first need to get into my flow, like Hilary Swank following Clint Eastwood in
Million Dollar Baby
. Except that ended even worse than
Training Day
. Cancel that thought.” Serge turned and grinned. “How do you like what I bought you?”

Reevis stared down at himself. “I never wear tropical shirts.”

“Tropical shirts are critical in your new line of work.” Serge slipped on dark sunglasses and turned south at Dixie Highway. “You can hide things in your waistband.”

“Hide—?”

“We’re here!” Serge leisurely turned the wheel again as they approached Lucerne Avenue and pulled into a parallel slot on the street. Another off-kilter grin and a slapping of palms. “Ready to start?”

“I honestly don’t know what to say.”

“That you like seven hundred dollars.” Serge handed him the thermos. “Drink that. And I’m not asking. Since I’m your boss now, it’s an order.”

Reevis twisted off the cap. “I like coffee anyway.”

“Then you’re halfway home.” Serge climbed out the driver’s side. “What a beautiful day! Dig the clear blue sky. Follow me. Forget those movies.”

Reevis stepped onto the sidewalk. “Is this Lake Worth?”

“That’s what the sign on the old city hall across the street says.”
Click, click.
“But for a brief period in 1980 it read ‘Miranda Beach.’ ”

“But Lake Worth was never called Miranda Beach.” Reevis finished off the thermos and handed it back. “It’s not even a beach; we’re on the mainland.”

“Except in the movie.”

“Movie?”

“Florida classic, easily in my top five.”

Reevis snapped his fingers. “Miranda Beach. That was in
Body Heat
. I loved
Body Heat
. It was like L.A. noir meets Hitchcock by way of
The Palm Beach Story
. Kathleen Turner in that white dress was the new Bacall. Her best line to William Hurt: ‘You’re not too bright. I like that in a man.’ Plus the arsonist was a young Miami native named Mickey Rourke, who also had a part in that Grisham film you mentioned . . .”

“Coffee kicking in?” asked Serge.

“Sorry, it’s just that I’m a movie buff and you mentioned one of my all-time favorites. Guess I was babbling a little.”

“Babbling is underrated.” Serge headed toward the side of the road. “You’re off to a flying start, grasshopper.” He reached under his shirt and handed over a large brown envelope.

Reevis peeled open the top of the sealed package and slowly flipped through the contents in confusion. “These are photos I’m supposed to investigate?”

“Not remotely.” Serge tapped the pages in the reporter’s hands. “Screen shots from
Body Heat
that I grabbed off a computer.” He stopped at the intersection and checked his camera. “Whenever a great movie is made in Florida, I’m compelled to track down filming location so I can stand on the same spots as the stars and absorb the silver-screen magic.”

Reevis held up an eight-by-ten glossy. “This one’s the Mediterranean house where Turner and Hurt had their affair.”

“The Scotia mansion in Hypoluxo on Periwinkle Drive, built by the city’s first mayor in 1922. But it burned down in 1999, so I stood on the spot and went on a hunger strike for ten minutes.”

The reporter held up another photo. “And this is the historic band shell where the couple met for the first time. I’ve been there. It’s on the boardwalk in Hollywood.”

“Possibly my easiest find to date. Take a look at the next one.”

“Hey, that’s William Hurt crossing the street toward his law office.”

“Had a devil of a time finding it.”

“It looks like this road.” Reevis glanced around. “You found Hurt’s law office?”

“Not yet.” Serge licked his mouth. “I wanted you to be with me for the climax. I studied that film frame by frame for years, making notes of any possible clue: business names, traffic lights, the way the trees are planted along the road, but no luck. The closest I got was a distant street sign behind Hurt, but it was way too small, so I went over to a friend’s house to blow it up on his sixty-two-inch flat screen. And my friend comes running down the stairs: ‘Serge, it’s three
A.M
. How’d you get in? We thought you were a burglar.’ And I say, ‘I turned the sound down to be polite,’ then I point and ask, ‘Can you read that street sign?’ And he’s like, ‘Are you shitting me?’ Then his wife comes down in a nightgown screaming like a banshee, so I guess they had been fighting just before I arrived, and I suggest marriage counseling, and they haven’t talked to me for eight years.”

Reevis had a blank look.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Serge began walking again. “Standard DVDs are insufficient resolution to read street signs. But then Blu-ray came out and the sign was in perfect focus, except it said ‘Dixie Highway,’ which is like a hundred miles long and doesn’t narrow it at all, so I went to look at microfilm in the library because Hurt walks by this restaurant called Le Cyrano, and sure enough, on page B8 of the
Palm Beach Post
from February 26, 1982, there’s a feature article about a great French restaurant on the northeast corner of Dixie and Lake Avenue.” He stuck his arm out to the left. “It’s now this gym that we’re passing, which means”—Serge dramatically pivoted ninety degrees to his right—“there’s Hurt’s place.”

Reevis glanced at the photo, then up at the building. “You’re right, it matches. That’s pretty impressive.”

“Check out those three arched windows on the second floor. The last one says ‘Law Office’ in your picture. And at the crest of the building’s roof: ‘Rowe, 1923.’ I’m guessing it’s the Rowe building.”

“But if you’re this good at research, why do you need me?”

“It’s a matter of focus.” Serge looked up and down the street. “About three minutes into poring over dry documents on a computer, all I can think about is the next location I want to find, and then I’m hovering over the state with Google Earth . . . Let’s go touch the building! You always have to touch the building!”

“Uh, okay.”

Serge checked the road again.

“The street’s clear,” said Reevis. “What are you waiting for?”

Serge shook his head. “In the movie, Hurt runs in front of a car that hits the brakes and honks at him. We have to wait for a car . . . Here comes one . . . Now!”

Serge dashed into the street. Tires squealed, a horn honked.
“What’s your fucking deal?”

Serge raised a victory salute to the driver. “Film preservation!”

Reevis waited until the coast was clear, then jogged to the other side.

Serge touched the building. “Tag! You’re it!” He spun and sprinted for his car.

Reevis was breathing hard when he climbed in the passenger seat. “I think you better take me back now.”

“Why?” said Serge. “I just got you properly warmed up for your first assignment.”

Reevis sighed. “So now you’re finally going to let me see that legal file?”

“Allllllmost . . .”
Serge threw the car in gear. “If you’re a movie buff, how many James Bond films had scenes in Florida?”

“Ummm, three. Silver Springs, and two in Miami.”

“Not bad, but four,” said Serge. “You missed the one in Key West, where Timothy Dalton is reading
The Old Man and the Sea
on the balcony of the Hemingway House . . . More coffee! . . .”

A couple hours later, a pair of vehicles took Dixie Highway south through Miami before swinging east. They cruised slowly out along a curling spit of land surrounded by water below Coral Gables. The road came to an end overlooking Biscayne Bay. One of the cars stopped. The other, a ’76 Cobra, turned around and came back in the opposite direction, pulling up so the drivers were window to window.

Serge bounded gleefully in his seat. “What do you think?”

Reevis glanced around the deserted waterfront. “I still don’t understand why you had to rent me a second car.”

“Because there were
two
cars in the movie! And I can’t get enough of this place! Matheson Hammock Park, the actual filming location where Paul Newman passed documents between cars in the Sydney Pollack 1981 tour de force
Absence of Malice
—another classic Florida legal movie,
and
a journalism movie . . .” Serge produced a brown envelope and handed it through the window to Reevis. “Then someone in the distance with a zoom lens photographed Newman making the exchange . . .”

Someone in the distance with a zoom lens photographed Serge and Reevis making the exchange.

Chapter
THIRTY-TWO

THE NEXT MORNING

F
lip-flops slapped into the courtroom. The regular gathering of local busybodies began taking their seats in the audience for their morning show.

Brook remained out in the hall, swiveling her head. “Where are all our witnesses?”

“I checked on them last night at the hotel,” said Ziggy.

“Check again.”

Ziggy pointed. “There’s two now.”

“But we’re not supposed to use those particular ones until the end. And even then, only if our case isn’t strong enough.”

“So we call them out of order.”

“Check the hotel again!”

“Okay, okay.” Ziggy got out his cell.

“I have to go to the bathroom.” Brook ran down the hall. People turned around at the clatter of her shoes. A man in a golf shirt looked up from his newspaper at the fuss, then returned to the crossword.

The jury was led in, followed by the judge. He stopped and stared down at Ziggy sitting alone. “Where’s your partner?”

“Right here!” said Brook, pulling a piece of toilet paper off her shoe and rushing to her seat. Out the side of her mouth: “Anything?”

“Nobody’s answering,” said Ziggy.

The judge pulled the shoulders of his robe out for comfort. “Call your first witness.”

“Plaintiffs call Ruth Wozniak.”

Ruth put her hand on the Bible and swore up and down to tell the truth.

Brook led her through the same line of testimony that they had rehearsed, except she had to move around the side of the stand to block the jury box when Ruthy began unconsciously petting an invisible dalmatian.

“ . . . No more questions.”

A defense attorney stood. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” said Ruthy.

“You’ve sworn under oath to tell the truth. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know the penalty if you don’t?”

“I . . . could go to jail?”

“Correct again.” He turned his back to the witness and faced the jury. “Could you tell the court where you work?”

“I retired two years ago.”

“And you got your mortgage three years ago, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Now, when you applied for your mortgage, you had to supply recent pay stubs, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

The attorney walked back to the defense table and grabbed a notebook. “Mrs. Wozniak, isn’t it a fact that you didn’t retire two years ago, but were laid off shortly before getting your loan?”

“That was a long time ago,” said Ruthy. “And I got a temp job a little later.”

The attorney handed her a sheet of paper. “Here’s a copy of the most recent stub you submitted for your loan. Can you read the date?”

“Not without my glasses.”

“November fifth.” He took the page back and waved it at the jury. “Isn’t it a fact that you had already been laid off when you lied about your income to get your loan?”

Brook jumped up. “Objection, leading.”

“Overruled. He’s allowed to lead the witness. It’s his cross.”

“But—”

“Sit down.”

The Yale attorney leaned against the railing across the front of the jury box. “I’ll repeat the question. And remember, you’re under oath. Didn’t you lie about being employed to get your loan?”

Ruthy looked down. “Yes.”

“No more questions.”

Brook wrote on her legal pad:
fuck
.

Ziggy elbowed her. “What do we do now?”

She slumped. “It means we have to rehabilitate our case with the only other witness we have today . . .”

Cooder Ratch took the oath and reclined inappropriately in the witness chair.

Brook kept her questioning uneventful, but the witness’s presentation wasn’t wearing well with the jury. She decided to cut her losses and bail out early.

“That’s all you’re going to ask me?” snapped Cooder. “After I drove all the way—”

“I said no more questions.” She took her seat and mumbled, “Can this get any worse?”

Ziggy felt something vibrate in his pocket. He checked his cell and recognized the number. “I need to go out in the hall . . .”

The Harvard attorney stood. “Your name’s Cooder, right?”

“Weren’t you listening earlier?”

“Have you ever been arrested?”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Three years is a long time?” said the lawyer. “Meth possession, wasn’t it?”

“Charges were dropped.”

“Let me get this straight: You don’t have enough money to pay your mortgage and yet you can afford methamphetamine?”

“That was way before . . . And it didn’t happen.”

“Which is it?”

“Both.”

“Why were the charges dropped?”

“I was innocent.”

The attorney read from his legal pad. “Didn’t you offer jailhouse testimony against your cell mate? So you’re a rat?”

“I’m not a rat!” said Cooder. “I was just doing the right thing.”

“Was your cell mate convicted?”

“I don’t remember.”

“I have court records here to refresh your memory. He was found not guilty. Why was that?”

“Don’t remember.”

“I have court records for that, too. You were charged with perjury for what you said in that trial. Do you always lie when you get on a witness stand?”

“I can explain—”

The attorney was already walking away. “No further questions.”

Brook underlined the word “fuck.”

Ziggy ran back in from the hall with his cell phone. “Brook—”

“Not now.”

Cooder climbed down from the witness stand.

“Brook, call him back on redirect!”

“Are you insane?” said Brook. “There’s no way I’m putting that disaster on the stand again for more questions.”

“Hurry, he’s about to leave the courtroom.”

“No way!”

Ziggy jumped up. “Your Honor, we’d like to call our witness back for redirect.”

The judge pointed, and the bailiff blocked Cooder at the back doors. “What now?”

“Ziggy!” snapped Brook. “Have you lost your mind?”

“I got this one. Trust me.”

“Ziggy!”

He ignored her and approached the witness box. “Your Honor, permission to treat this witness as hostile.”

“You called this witness, so you better lay a darn good foundation.”

“I plan to, Your Honor.” Ziggy looked at Cooder. “What do you think of me?”

Cooder looked the lawyer up and down and snickered. “You’re a fuckstick.”

Ziggy gestured toward the bench with a pair of upturned palms.

Judge Boone rolled his eyes again. “Permission to treat as hostile.”

“You don’t have a job, do you?”

“So what?”

“Where’d you get the money to buy a Jet Ski last week?”

“Investments.”

“Have you had any recent contact with those defense lawyers seated over there or any other representatives of Consolidated Financial without me or my partner’s knowledge?”

“What of it?”

The gavel banged and snapped. “All attorneys! In my chambers, now! . . . Bailiff, get the jury out!”

Good thing the jury left. The shouting could clearly be heard through the walls. The court stenographer typed furiously.

“A Jet Ski!” yelled the judge. “My court!”

“It’s not what you think,” said the Dartmouth attorney.

“It’s exactly what I think,” said the judge. “Give me a reason fast why I shouldn’t have the bailiff come in here and handcuff you all for witness tampering!”

“Because it was a loan.”

“Your client made a Jet Ski loan to someone they’d already foreclosed on?”

“It was a different department. They didn’t know.”

“Don’t insult me!” yelled the judge. “It’s still a bribe. I’m getting the bailiff.”

“Wait, no, it’s not,” said the attorney. “He was a late addition to their witness list, and the loan was made before. See the dates?” He held out two pages.

“You just
happened
to have the loan documents on you today?”

“We always research opposing counsels’ witnesses, and when we found this . . . well, we decided to be prepared because it might look bad.”

“Might look bad? It’s a flaming abortion! And what about the other witness? Don’t tell me the same thing!”

The lawyer opened his mouth but was cut off.

“Your Honor,” said Brook. “I request special jury instructions, and for the transcript of everything said in here to be read in open court, and a public censure—”

“Hold your horses,” said the judge. “I am going to read special instructions, but everything in chambers is sealed for now. That’s an official gag order.”

“But, Your Honor—” said Brook.

“Take half your loaf and be happy.” Then he aimed an iron glint at the defense. “And you’ll be hearing from the ethics committee . . . Back in court! . . .”

Judge Boone resumed the bench and waited until the jury finished seating. “Legal matters have arisen that you need not be concerned about. But I am instructing you to disregard in their entirety the testimony of the last two witnesses and to hold nothing that either of them said against the plaintiffs . . . Court is in recess.” He reached for his gavel but forgot it was broken—“Shit”—and stormed back into chambers.

Ziggy began packing his briefcase. “At least we got the judge on our side now.”

“More like neutral,” said Brook. “How on earth did you know about that testimony?”

“I always vet witnesses with a private investigator I know,” said Ziggy. “Except I forgot to make the call then got busy with other things and one thing led to another.”

Brook filled her own briefcase. “You mean one joint led to another.”

“It happens. Anyway, I just got the callback while he was being cross-examined.”

“Better late than never,” said Brook. “What I don’t understand is how they gave them those additional loans before we even knew they were going to be our witnesses.”

“This
is
your first trial.”

“What do you mean?”

“We were set up from the beginning,” said Ziggy. “They somehow managed to plant those new plaintiffs with your firm, knowing they had baggage and would self-destruct under cross. All of our other legitimate witnesses probably got phone calls this morning saying the trial was postponed and they were offered a free sailboat trip out to the reef . . . If I’m late tomorrow, start without me.”

“Why, what are you—?”

“Have to drive back to Miami and check into this further.”

“Can’t it be handled over the phone?”

“Not something like this.”

Brook gathered up papers from the table. “Hope the rest goes a little better than today.”

“I know. I could kick myself for not listening to my gut about Cooder. He just wasn’t right.” Ziggy clasped his briefcase shut. “Old lady Ruthy, on the other hand, I never would have suspected in a million years.”

“What did
she
buy?”

“A Jet Ski.”

T
hat night, a finger pressed buttons on a cell phone.

“It’s me, Moss . . . I know we’re still getting our asses handed to us . . . Will you stop yelling? . . . Yes, I realize it was supposed to be fixed by those two bogus witnesses. Who could have thought that stupid girl and Ziggy would find out about the bribes? . . . What? Miami? Last I heard, our man photographed them passing the files between two cars near Biscayne Bay . . . How should I know who they are? Our guy just followed them for two days after the first one left the office of some private eye. And let me tell you, he had one hell of a time following them: They drove all over the place like they knew they were being tailed . . . No, I can’t deal with that! I’ve got my hands full right here in Key West. You handle whatever’s going on in Miami . . . As a matter of fact, I do have an idea. Remember our ace in the hole in case something like this happened? . . .”