Trial & Error (3 page)

Seven

ALL STEVE, ALL THE TIME

“Let me get this straight,” Judge Frederick Barash said. “You’re suing this website where men comment on women they’ve dated.”

“Don’t Date the Bitch–dot-com,” Victoria Lord said, trying not to reveal her embarrassment. She hated cleaning up Steve’s messes, handling cases for his low-rent clients. “The website posted insulting and derogatory remarks about our client, Your Honor.”

The judge licked his thumb and riffled through the complaint. “To wit, that Ms. Lexy Larson is ‘a shallow, superficial gold digger who gives perfunctory blow jobs.’”

Judge Barash
harrumph
ed and peered over the tops of his reading glasses toward the plaintiff’s table. He had served twenty-seven years on the bench and was a few months shy of retirement. A small man with a fine crop of judicial white hair, His Honor would have dismissed every case on his docket if he could, just to play golf every day. You could almost smell the burnout.

“That’s what our complaint alleges,” Victoria said, referring to Steve’s sloppily worded written pleading. Sitting alongside was her client—actually, Steve’s client—Lexy Larson, a six-foot-tall model with spiky blond hair.

“‘Perfunctory,’” the judge mused. “Not a word usually associated with blow jobs, is it?”

“Is that a grammatical question or a personal one, Your Honor?” Victoria shot back.

Dammit, Steve. From now on, handle your own crap.

“Don’t get your undies in an uproar, Ms. Lord. Just tell me, what’s libelous here? ‘Superficial gold digger’ or ‘perfunctory blow job’?”

This is not happening to me.

“Perfunctory?” Lexy whispered, her face scrunched up. “Is that like sloppy? Because I can give head wet or dry.” She made a
slurp
ing sound.

This is so not happening to me.

Back at Yale, Victoria had envisioned herself a top trial lawyer, winning major cases, dispensing her opinions on Court TV. In her organized, methodical way, she had charted a path. Five years as a prosecutor, trying hundreds of cases, building a name. Another ten years in a private firm, making some serious money. Finally, the bench. Public service.

“Judge Lord.” It had a ring to it.

Never did she imagine she’d be debating the quality of fellatio performed by a model with a two-digit IQ.

“Sometimes, I spit on the guy’s cock,” Lexy whispered, fidgeting in her chair. “But some guys, if it’s too slippery, they claim they don’t feel a thing.”

“Shhh.” Victoria placed a hand on Lexy’s bare, artificially tanned and superbly toned arm. The model wore a leopard-print strapless cotton sundress, and her oiled skin was goose-bumpy in the meat-locker-cold courtroom. A jumbo Fendi crocodile purse sat next to her feet, which were shod in red patent leather Mizrahi mules. A great outfit for a drink at the Delano, but Victoria would have preferred something more conservative for court. Still, as Lexy usually dressed like a Victoria’s Secret model—which, in fact, she was—it could have been worse.

Lexy was one of the
moe-dels
—her pronunciation—from Les Mannequins, the second-rate agency where Solomon & Lord enjoyed free office space in return for legal counsel. When Steve had rolled in just before dawn, bruised and still wet, he’d asked Victoria to handle his morning calendar. Meaning she had to oppose the motion to dismiss the libel suit, a case as flimsy as the gold mesh bra peeking out of Lexy’s dress.

“Let’s take a look at what else is posted on the website,” the judge said, turning a page, then reading aloud, “‘Don’t date a bitch named Lexy, a SoBe model with mud for brains. She’s a vapid, vacuous airhead who drinks Cristal by the magnum, which she’ll charge to your platinum card.’”

“Creepskate,” Lexy murmured.

Meaning, Victoria figured, a guy who was both cheap
and
a creep.

“Now, Ms. Lord,” the judge continued,
“did
your client charge champagne to this man’s credit card?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Victoria admitted.

Not to mention ordering two rounds of drinks for a table of strangers, a twenty-four-ounce porterhouse steak for herself, of which she ate two bites, and a four-pound lobster “to go” for her Himalayan kitty, Veruschka.

“Then I don’t see how you can maintain an action for libel,” Judge Barash said. “All the other comments are statements of opinion, and the law says there’s no such thing as a false opinion.”

“Nine out of ten guys say I give great head,” Lexy hissed in Victoria’s ear.

“Hush,” Victoria cautioned, using one of her mother’s favorite words. She turned toward the bench. “Your Honor, by posting intimate, personal information, the website invaded Ms. Larson’s privacy.”

“I don’t believe your complaint makes that allegation,” the judge replied.

Your
complaint being Steve’s flabbily worded pleading. He’d probably dictated it without a minute of legal research. Or maybe he’d just let Cece Santiago, their assistant/secretary/personal trainer, write the damn thing. Either way, it was a mess, just like Steve’s underwear drawer.

“In that case, Your Honor, I would consent to a dismissal without prejudice in order to file an amended complaint stating a cause of action for invasion of privacy.”

“Excellent idea, Ms. Lord.” Doubtless thinking he’d be retired to Hilton Head before this lame lawsuit came to trial.

“What’s happening?” Lexy demanded. “Whadaya mean, ‘dismissal’?”

“Everything’s fine. Go to your Pilates class. I’ll rewrite the complaint for Steve.”

“Where is that cutie? He should have been here.”

Lexy said it with a little whimper that men probably found enchanting.

“Like I told you, Lexy, the cutie had a hard night.”

When he had dropped into bed, Steve mumbled something about trouble at Cetacean Park.

“What kind of trouble?”

“Later. Sleep now.”

He started snoring then, a sound vaguely reminiscent, Victoria decided, of the whistles made by Bobby’s dolphins. When she dressed for court, Steve was still snoring. She checked on Bobby, curled up in his own bed, breathing heavily. As she left the house, she saw Bobby’s bicycle sticking out of the trunk of Steve’s car.

This was the third time in a month the boy had sneaked out, and Victoria was worried. He’d been making progress, seeming to adjust so well. But then his fascination with dolphins pushed everything else aside. He was obsessed with the animals, and it didn’t seem healthy.

“Ms. Lord,” the judge said, “I wonder if you could join me in chambers a moment.”

Now what?

“Is there a problem, Your Honor?”

“Not with this pipsqueak of a case.” The judge eased out of his chair and headed for the door behind the bench, tossing over his shoulder, “A murder trial, Counselor.”

What murder trial?

The firm of Solomon & Lord didn’t have any. These days, their clients were mostly Whiplash Willies and hapless misdemeanants. Steve’s job was to hustle most of the cases. But as a rainmaker, he was more of a drizzler.

They’d also had a run of bad luck. Just last week, a jury rejected their client’s claim that he was sleepwalking when he entered the liquor store with gun in hand. When the judge sentenced him to seven years in prison, the jerk said he’d rather get eight years, because 8 was Daunte Culpepper’s jersey number, and the quarterback was his favorite Miami Dolphin, even if he was over the hill. Victoria started to protest, but Steve said he was just thankful the guy’s favorite player wasn’t Jason Taylor. It took Victoria a second to realize that Steve meant Taylor wore number 99.

Something else had been bothering her lately, too.

Can there be too much togetherness?

Working together and living together. Sharing an office and sharing a bed. All Steve, all the time. She loved Steve—but she didn’t love working with him.

She feared that their professional life was beginning to threaten their personal life, but what to do about it? She’d even toyed with the idea of opening her own shop, but when she’d raised the idea, Steve had sulked for days.

“We’re a team,” Steve told her. “Just like the cobra and the mongoose.”

“The cobra and the mongoose fight each other to the death,” she said.

“See. That’s why we’re so great together. I paint the big picture. You point out the details.”

Eight

THE RIGHT WOMAN FOR THE JOB

Judge Barash was hanging up his robe when Victoria walked in. The chambers had the requisite oak desk, heavy crimson drapes, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and handsome Persian rug. Standing at the bookshelves, a man fiddled with a brass model of the scales of justice, tilting them out of whack like a butcher with a heavy thumb.

Ray Pincher. What’s he doing here?

“Ms. Lord,” the judge said, “I’m sure you know the State Attorney.”

“I worked for Mr. Pincher,” she replied, omitting the fact that he’d fired her.

“Ms. Lord was still green then,” Pincher said. Victoria wondered if that was an apology.

The State Attorney wore a jet-black suit with a silk burgundy shirt and matching tie. Pincher’s cuff links—miniature handcuffs—rattled as he played with the scales. He had a military officer’s posture and projected both self-confidence and self-righteousness.

“I assume Solomon told you what happened out on the Key in the wee hours,” Pincher said to Victoria.

Omigod. What had Steve said? Trouble at Cetacean Park. What now?

“Is Steve in any trouble?” she asked.

“For once, no. Actually, inconceivably, he’s sort of a semi-hero.”

Pincher took several minutes explaining that the Animal Liberation Movement, the ALM, had been terrorizing zoos and tourist attractions and research labs for months. Last night, they’d hit Cetacean Park. Three guys. One got away. Steve helped nab one of the others, though Pincher made it sound more like an accident.

“Wade Grisby, the owner of the place, shot the third terrorist,” Pincher said. “Killed him. Clear case of self-defense.”

“Meaning the Grand Jury will indict the guy Solomon caught,” Judge Barash chimed in. “Thank God I don’t have to preside over that can of worms.”

“Felony murder,” Victoria said.

Pincher nodded. “You got it.”

One of the quirks in the law. If you and your buddy rob a convenience store, and the owner kills your buddy, you’re guilty of felony murder because your crime—robbery—precipitated the shooting. Makes no difference that the victim is your partner in crime and maybe deserved it.

“What’s all this have to do with me?” Victoria asked.

“Bad guy’s a dumb ass, and I gotta pass,” Pincher said.

Victoria’s look posed a question that Pincher quickly answered. “His name’s Gerald Nash, and that sucker’s my sister’s boy.”

“You’re conflicted out,” she said.

“Me and my whole office.”

“But what’s that got to do with me?” she repeated. Her eyes flicked from Pincher to the judge and back again. “You’re not saying you want
me
to prosecute?”

Pincher cracked his knuckles. “You’re the right woman for the job.”

“I’m ready to administer the oath,” Judge Barash announced. “Got the Bible right here.”

Double-teaming me. What’s going on?

Victoria looked straight at Pincher. “I don’t get it. All the lawyers in Miami, you choose me to prosecute your nephew? You don’t even like me.”

“I don’t like
Solomon.
Got no problem with you.”

“You
fired
me.”

“Had to set an example. You caused a mistrial, embarrassed my office.”

Not as much as the whole episode had embarrassed her, Victoria thought. It was her first encounter with Steve-the-Shark Solomon, defense lawyer. She was prosecuting a bird-smuggler, and Steve called a white-feathered cockatoo to testify. Victoria had lost her cool, and Steve gleefully baited her into a mistrial. Not only that, but the bird crapped on the sleeve of her Gucci jacket.

“You’ve matured since then,” Pincher continued. “And I’ve always felt a little guilty about canning you.”

“Uh-huh.” Not buying it.

“You’ll get lots of press, make a name for yourself, bring in some paying clients.” Pincher gave her a sharp smile and cracked his knuckles again. “Let someone else rep the sleepwalkers who rob liquor stores.”

“If I lose, people will say you appointed me to cut your nephew a break.”

“I despise the little bastard. A self-righteous prick just like his old man. And you won’t lose. Gerald broke into Cetacean Park. His accomplice was killed. Close the book. He’s on the hook.”

In her brief tenure as a prosecutor, Victoria had never handled a murder trial. But Pincher couldn’t be tanking the case. The political fallout would be brutal. And he was right.
State
v.
Nash
was a slam dunk. Pincher was right about something else, too. A high-profile case was just what Solomon & Lord needed. And even better, she could work on her own. Solo, without Steve hovering over her, second-guessing every tactical decision.

So, despite the uneasy feeling of not knowing precisely what was going on, Victoria turned to the judge and said, “Where’s that Bible, Your Honor?”

SOLOMON’S LAWS

2. The best way to hustle a case is to pretend you don’t want the work.

Nine

TUPIDITY IN THE FIRST DEGREE

Gerald Nash—aka Darth Vader, aka Pincher’s nephew—gave Steve a wiseass grin. “Why do you think I called you?”

“Let’s see,” Steve said. “You’re in jail. I’m a defense lawyer. I don’t know. Why?”

“So you’re not surprised?”

“I’ve been trying cases ten years. I’m only surprised when clients tell the truth.”

They were sitting in a brightly lit yet grim interview room at the Miami-Dade County jail. The scuffed walls were painted pea-soup green and the furniture—scarred wooden table, straight-backed chairs—was the stuff of one-room schoolhouses. The place smelled of metal, lubricants, and sweat. Heavy doors
clank
ed and buzzers sounded from inside the old hellhole.

“So why do you want to represent me?” Nash challenged Steve.

In the light, Nash bore some resemblance to Pincher. Lighter skinned than his uncle, but the same pugnacious jaw. A similarity in personalities, too. Just like the State Attorney, Nash projected arrogance and self-righteousness.

“Who says I want to represent you?” Steve fired back. “I like Wade Grisby, and you just screwed up his business.”

“He treats the dolphins as if he owns them.”

“He
does
own them. He caught them or bought them or bred them. Now he feeds them and trains them.”

“Sounds like a slave owner in the Old South.”

“Disabled kids swim with the dolphins for therapy, and Grisby doesn’t charge them a dime. The way I see it, he’s helping humanity, and you’re a worthless punk.”

“His park is nothing more than a chlorinated prison.”

“Bullshit. The dolphins get all-you-can-eat sushi. They have medical care. They love the people there.”

“You have no idea what dolphins feel.”

“And
you
do?”

“Have you ever run your hand over a dolphin’s belly, all wet and slippery?”

Nash said it with such a rhapsodic look, he might have been stroking Angelina Jolie’s ass.

“They’re gorgeous animals, anatomically perfect,” Nash continued. “They can swim twenty-five miles an hour and dive to a thousand feet. But you know what’s best about them?”

“They’re not sharks?”

“They live at peace in a harmonious society.”

“I wonder if the fish they eat would agree.”

“Did you know bottleneck dolphins have their own language?”

“Yeah, my nephew told me. He thinks he understands them. He also thinks you should be shot. He’s gonna be pissed if I represent you.”

“Why?”

“The dolphins you released are his pals.”

“Then he should be thrilled. Dolphins in captivity grow obese. They fill up with the junk food the stupid tourists throw them. They don’t hunt. They don’t dive. They need to be free.”

“You know what you are, Nash? A true believer. A self-appointed savior. And that makes you really dangerous.”

“This the way you get your cases, Solomon? Insult the client?”

“I don’t need the work, Nash.”

Technically, that was true, Steve thought. He could be working, pro bono, on any number of cases for Lexy and Rexy, the twin bimbo models, who spent as much time litigating as posing. For the umpteenth time, Lexy had been ticketed for parking in a handicap zone, despite Steve’s warning that bulimia did not qualify. He was also fending off lawsuits against her sister, Rexy, who had a habit of selling costume jewelry as the real thing on eBay. Rexy claimed innocence on the grounds that the cheap jewelry had been worn by a semi-famous SoBe model, her very own self, and therefore it took on additional value.

“So why are you here?” Nash asked. “Why aren’t you in the courthouse with all those clients of yours?”

A perfectly good question. Steve had awakened around eleven, pulled on jeans and a T-shirt with the slogan:
“Speak Slowly. I’m Not Fluent in Idiot.”
He took Bobby to school, figuring half a day of sixth-grade education was better than none. Cece, his secretary or assistant or office czarina, or whatever the hell she called herself this week, phoned to say that a jail inmate named Gerald Nash wanted to see him.

Despite his posturing, Steve wanted the case of
State v. Nash.
Not that he liked Nash. But that was okay. Maybe even better. If you’re fond of your clients, it’s harder on you when they’re carted off to prison.

If he got the case, Steve would have to explain some things to Bobby. He’d tell the boy that guilt isn’t black or white. The legal system is filled with shades of gray. Gerald Nash was more misguided than dangerous. Should he be put away forever based on the dumbest thing he ever did? Steve believed in the power of people to change. Okay, maybe not serial killers. But if he was spared prison, Gerald Nash
might
change his life. Maybe he’d work in animal rescue and give up the felonious stuff.

Then there’s the little matter of the felony murder rule, a hoary remnant of the English Common Law. Sure, Nash was responsible for the loss of Misty and Spunky, but he didn’t gun down his accomplice.

“Why do
you
want me?” Steve asked, turning the tables.

“I keep thinking about that crazy stunt you pulled. Chasing me. Diving into the channel. You’ve got principles and you’re tough. You’re the kind of guy I want on my side.” Nash paused a moment. From somewhere inside the bowels of the jail, a piercing wail could be heard. “Your turn, Solomon. You’ve been doing nothing but trashing me and my cause. What are
you
doing here?”

“I figured anybody who pisses off Ray Pincher can’t be all bad.”

Nash laughed. “It’s my father Uncle Ray really hates. Clifford Nash.”

He said it as if Steve should know the name.

“Dad’s a professor at FSU. Geopolitics. The global corporate conspiracy. How the military-industrial complex has taken over the country and people like Uncle Ray are just banal servants of evil, the Adolph Eichmanns of our time.”

“Family reunions must be a lot of fun.”

“Know what really torques Uncle Ray? My old man’s white. Not bad enough he’s an old lefty and a hippie pothead, but white, too. Now, here’s the weird thing. Dad
thinks
black. He hung with Huey Newton and Eldridge Cleaver. When I was a kid, one year at Thanksgiving dinner my old man says he’s more black than Uncle Ray. Man, they got in a huge fight over that. Ray called Dad an ‘ivory tower pinko’ and Dad called him a ‘house nigger.’ They started pushing and shoving and the turkey ended up on the floor. That pretty much ended the relationship.”

Nash was quiet a moment. Maybe thinking about his father and uncle tossing the gravy boat at each other. Then he began telling Steve what happened the night before. The other Jet Skier—the one who got away with the dolphins—was Nash’s girlfriend.

Oh. A woman.

Steve hadn’t realized that. In the dark, a hundred yards away, in a black wet suit, there’d been no way to tell. Her name, it turned out, was Passion Conner. Steve gave Nash some shit over that, like maybe she’d plucked the name off a daytime soap or out of a James Bond book. It had a Pussy Galore or Mary Goodnight ring to it.

“Where is she now?” Steve asked.

Nash shrugged. “I tried calling her cell phone from in here. Disconnected.”

That was fast, Steve thought. Either Ms. Passion Conner figured Nash would phone from jail, where calls are monitored, or the lady wanted to cut all ties with him. Smart, either way.

“What can you tell me about her?” Steve said.

“Master’s in Marine Biology from Rosenstiel. Last summer, when everyone else was interning at NOAA, Passion crewed on a tuna boat. Used a hidden camera to get video of dolphins being illegally netted. Hundreds at a time, dragged under and drowned. If the crew had caught her, there’s no telling what they’d have done to her. How could I not love a woman like that?”

“Was she already your girlfriend? Before last summer?”

Nash shook his head. “She looked me up when she got back to Miami. Passion heard about my work. She wanted to join ALM.”

“So the two of you got all hot and bothered about the dolphins in the sea and the hamsters in the labs and decided to do something about it as soon as you fucked each other’s brains out.”

“Don’t make it sound frivolous! It wasn’t. Passion’s more radical than I am.”

“What about the dead guy? Cops found his rental car in a lot at the marina. ID’ed him as one Charles Sanders, Colorado driver’s license.”

“We met about two months ago at a bar in Islamorada. Sanders tracked me down through mutual friends in the Animal Liberation Movement.”

“You seem to meet a lot of people that way.”

“Sanders had done his homework. He knew about me trying to sink that whaling ship. And how I’d torn down those hunting platforms in the Glades and paint-bombed that fur store in New York.”

“You’re a one-man demolition team.”

Nash seemed to take this as a compliment. “Yeah, I got some props in the brotherhood.”

The brotherhood of anarchistic fuckups, Steve figured.

Sanders had claimed credit for some missions of his own, Nash said. Burning down a canine toxicology lab on the West Coast, a place that drugged puppies for pharmaceutical research. That was a pretty big deal in the ALM. But before he’d shown up, Nash and his cronies had never heard of the guy. Smelled cop or FBI informant. Then Sanders proved his worth. They’d broken into the primate research lab in Marathon, freeing the monkeys and setting them loose in the Glades. Except for the unfortunate ones that got turned into roadkill on Overseas Highway.

“Did Passion know Sanders any better than you did?”

Nash shook his head. “We met him at the same time.”

“You mean, that’s what she told you.”

“What are you getting at? You think Passion knew Sanders and lied about it?”

“How should I know? She’s your girlfriend.”

“You’re way off, Solomon. Passion loves me.”

“And she shows that how? By disappearing?”

Nash had no answer, so Steve moved on. “What was Sanders doing when he wasn’t saving the world?”

“Insurance.”

“You’re kidding.”

“He had a card. Chief adjuster for some casualty company.”

“And you believed that?”

“I didn’t care one way or the other. But you’re right. He didn’t look like an insurance adjuster. Rugged guy. Little over six feet. Maybe two hundred pounds. Fit and ripped. A terrific swimmer, like maybe he’d competed at one time.”

“How’d you three decide to knock off Cetacean Park?”

“Not my idea. I’d been looking into this chain of pet stores. Figured we’d maybe crash a pickup through their window, take the animals. But Sanders said, ‘Let’s go bigger.’”

“And Passion agreed with him?”

“Yeah, she did. She wants to make her mark.”

Steve listened as Sanders recounted the attack on Cetacean Park. Sanders had surveilled the place. A lone security guard. Old guy who sat in a shed all night watching telenovelas on a black-and-white TV. Unarmed except for a can of Mace and a cell phone. They had their plan all worked out. Sanders was supposed to slip ashore and tie up the guard. Nash had never confronted anyone mano a mano, so he was happy to let someone else handle it. Sanders was armed, a military .45, a big-ass handgun, but it was mainly for show. But when Sanders got there, there was no old guy with a can of Mace. There was Grisby. With a shotgun.

“I don’t understand Sanders getting shot,” Nash said. “We’d already gotten the dolphins out of the channel. Passion was in the Bay. I was almost there, too, when you jumped me. I mean, the whole thing was
over.
”

“Grisby claims he had Sanders covered with a shotgun and they were just waiting for the police, when Sanders suddenly went for his gun.”

“Doesn’t make sense,” Nash said.

“Neither does Grisby shooting him twice. Sort of like bombing Nagasaki after hitting Hiroshima.”

The pieces weren’t fitting together. The key to the case was finding out what actually happened between Sanders and Grisby just before the shooting. But Nash couldn’t have seen anything from the channel. Neither could Bobby from the seawall. So far, it was Grisby’s word against a dead man’s.

“Anything else, Gerald? Anything else I need to know?”

Nash glanced around uneasily, as if someone might be eavesdropping. “There’s one thing I haven’t told you. It wasn’t just the three of us. We had a boat, a big-ass Bertram with a saltwater tank. It was anchored a half mile outside the gate. A two-man crew. They were supposed to bring the dolphins on board in canvas nets.”

Steve didn’t get it. “Once the dolphins were through the gate, why not just let them swim free in the Bay?”

“Because they might go back up the channel to the park.”

Meaning the dolphins liked it there, Steve thought. Spunky and Misty probably figured they’d been comped at the Four Seasons, and then along come these yahoos who want to force them to work for their supper. “Who the hell are the two guys? And where are they now?”

Nash shrugged. “Sanders hired them. I never knew their names.”

Nash finished his sorry story. When the cop cars came screaming from Virginia Key toward the park, the two guys panicked and took off in the Bertram. The dolphins swam God knows where. Passion must have headed to Crandon Park Marina, where she ditched her Jet Ski. And no word from her since.

Steve mulled it over.

Passion missing.

Sanders dead.

Two nameless guys from the boat running loose somewhere.

And Gerald Nash left alone, facing life in prison.

Steve didn’t know if his client was guilty of murder, but he surely could cop a plea to stupidity in the first degree.