Solomon vs. Lord, Page 3

  Pincher was not given to many honest emotions, Steve thought, but the old fraud seemed genuinely upset.

  “Charles was a gentle man, a charitable man, a good man,” Pincher continued.

  Now he sounded like he was rehearsing his closing argument.

  “Boy, would I love to defend,” Steve said.

  “Widow'll end up with Ed Shohat or Roy Black,” Judge Gridley predicted.

  “I'm as good a lawyer as they are.”

  “This ain't a Saturday night stabbing in Liberty City,” Pincher said. “This is high society.”

  Pincher was right, Steve knew. He'd had dozens of murder trials, but most were low pay or no pay. He never had a client with the resources of an O. J. Simpson or Klaus von Bulow. Or the looks and glamour of Katrina Barksdale. He didn't know the Barksdales, but he'd read about them. Charles had made millions building condos while collecting custom yachts and trophy wives. Katrina would have been number three or four. Wife, not yacht. Photos of the old hubby and young wifey were routinely plastered in Ocean Drive and the Miami Herald. You couldn't open a restaurant or hold a charity event without the glam couple. And when her husband stayed home, Katrina was on the arm of an artist or musician at younger, hipper parties.

  The lawyer who got this case was gonna be famous.

  Steve could picture the Justice Building surrounded by sound trucks, generators humming, a forest of satellite dishes, an army of reporters. A carnival in the parking lot, vendors hawking “Free Katrina” T-shirts, iced granizados, and grilled arepas. There'd be TV interviews, magazine profiles, analysts critiquing the defense lawyer's trial strategy and his haircut. It'd be a ton of publicity and a helluva lot of fun. And then there was the fee. Not that money juiced him. But Bobby's expenses were mounting, and he'd like to put some bucks away for the boy's care.

  And wouldn't he love going mano a mano with Pincher? The bastard would try to ride that pony all the way to the governor's mansion. All the more reason Steve lusted after the case. He hated pretension and self-righteousness, but most of all, he hated bullies. And in Sugar Ray Pincher, he had all three.

  “This one's out of your league, Solomon,” Pincher said, hammering the nail home.

  Out of his league.

  God, how he hated that. Which prompted another disheartening thought.

  Was Victoria Lord out of his league, too?

  MIAMI-DADE POLICE DEPARTMENT

  TRANSCRIPT OF EMERGENCY

  FIRE AND RESCUE CALLS

  Dispatch:

  Miami-Dade Police. One moment, please.

  Caller:

  911? Goddammit, are you there? 911?

  Dispatch:

  Miami-Dade Police. Is this an emergency?

  Caller:

  My husband! My husband's not breathing.

  Dispatch:

  Please remain calm, ma'am. Is his airway obstructed?

  Caller:

  I don't know. He's not breathing!

  Dispatch:

  Was he eating?

  Caller:

  We were having sex. Oh, Charlie, breathe!

  Dispatch:

  What's your name and address, ma'am?

  Caller:

  Katrina Barksdale, 480 Casuarina Concourse, Gables Estates.

  Dispatch:

  Have you tried CPR?

  Caller:

  My husband's Charles Barksdale. The Charles Barksdale! Jeb Bush has been here for drinks.

  Dispatch:

  CPR, ma'am?

  Caller:

  I'll have to untie Charlie.

  Dispatch:

  Untie him?

  Caller:

  I've already taken off his mask.

  Three

  ZINK THE FINK

  Pacing the corridor outside Judge Gridley's courtroom, Steve's mind drifted far from the bird-smuggling trial. He wanted to land the Barksdale case before a bigger, faster shark beat him to it. The case could change his life. And, more important, Bobby's.

  Just last month, Steve had consulted a doctor specializing in central nervous system maladies. No one could pin a name on his nephew's condition, which combined acute developmental disorders with astounding mental feats. The boy could spend an hour sitting cross-legged on the sofa, rocking back and forth, lost in his own world, then suddenly erupt in a fit of crying. Five minutes later, he would recite lengthy passages from The Aeneid.

  In Latin.

  And then Greek.

  The doctor tossed around bewildering phrases like “frontotemporal dementia” and “paradoxical functional facilitation” and “arrested neuronal firing.” One phrase that Steve understood quite clearly was “five thousand dollars a month”—the cost of a private tutor and therapist.

  So the more Steve thought about the Barksdale case, the more it took on mythic proportions. Sure, the money and the publicity would be great, but the real quest was for Bobby. The Barksdale case could be his ticket to a better life.

  But how to get the client?

  Because he did not run with the caviar-and-canapé crowd, Steve knew he needed an introduction to the widow. And quickly. Figuring he had five minutes before he had to plant his ass at the defense table in the Pedrosa trial, there was time for one phone call. On the move in the dimly lit corridor, he dialed his office on a cell phone.

  “Hola. Stephen Solomon and Associates,” answered Cecilia Santiago, even though there were no associates.

  “Cece, you know who Charles Barksdale is?”

  “Dead rich white guy. It's on the news.”

  “Who do we know who might know his wife, Katrina Barksdale?”

  “Her maid?”

  Cece wasn't the best secretary, but she worked cheap. A bodybuilder with a temper, she was grateful to Steve for keeping her out of jail a year earlier when she beat up her cheating boyfriend.

  “You still go to clubs on the Beach?” Steve asked.

  “Paranoia last night, Gangbang the night before.”

  “Katrina's supposed to be a big-time partier. You ever run into her?”

  “You kidding? They don't let me in the VIP rooms.”

  A whiny voice came from behind him in the corridor. “Oh, Mr. Solomon . . .”

  Steve turned, saw a human blob moving toward him. “Shit! Call you later.”

  Jack Zinkavich lumbered down the corridor. In his early forties, Zinkavich had a huge, shapeless torso and his suit coat bunched at his fleshy hips, as if covering a gun belt with two six-shooters. His skin was oyster gray, and he wore his spit-colored hair in a buzz cut that made his square head resemble a concrete block. Zinkavich worked for the Division of Family Services in Pincher's office and was, if possible, even more humorless than his boss. He ate alone in the cafeteria each day and was known as “Zink the Fink” for constantly welshing in settlement negotiations. In what Steve considered a lousy stroke of luck, Zinkavich represented the state in Bobby's guardianship case.

  What Steve had thought would be a slam-dunk case—I'm the uncle; I love Bobby; of course he belongs with me—had turned instantly vicious. At the first hearing, Zinkavich called Steve an “untrained, unfit, undomesticated caregiver” and suggested that Bobby be made a ward of the state. Steve was baffled why a routine proceeding was becoming a balls-to-the-wall street fight.

  Zinkavich huffed to a stop. “Is it true you were imprisoned again this morning?”

  “‘Imprisoned' is a little strong. More like sent to the blackboard to clean erasers.”

  “Won't look good in the guardianship case.” Zinkavich seemed happy as a hangman tying his knots.

  “It's got nothing to do with Bobby.”

  “It reflects on your fitness as a parent. I'll have to bring it up with the judge.”

  “Do what you gotta do.”

  “I see a disturbing pattern here,” Zinkavich said. “Your sister's a convicted felon, you're in and out of jail, your father's a disbarred lawyer—”

  “He wasn't disbarred. He resigned.”

  “Whatever. My po
int is, your entire family seems spectacularly unfit to care for a special-needs child.”

  “That's bullshit, Fink, and you know it.” Steve cursed himself for his own recklessness. With the guardianship hearing coming up, getting thrown in the can today hadn't been smart.

  “The state only has Robert's interests at heart,” Zinkavich said.

  “The state has no heart.”

  “You have a real attitude problem. It's something else I intend to bring up with the judge.”

  “If that's it, I gotta go.”

  “Not until we schedule a home visit. You haven't allowed Dr. Kranchick her follow-up.”

  “She scares Bobby. I don't want her around.”

  “You don't have a choice. Either you give the doctor access or I'll have a body warrant issued and we'll seize Robert.”

  “The fuck you will.”

  Steve felt a wave of heat surge through him and struggled to control his rage. First that cheap shot at his father, now the threat to grab his nephew. The bastard just violated the unwritten rule that you could ridicule your adversary for anything from the cut of his suit to the size of his dick, but Family was off-limits.

  Zinkavich smirked. “Maybe a few days in Juvenile Hall will change Robert's mind and yours.”

  “You son-of-a-bitch.” Steve's hand flew up, grabbed Zinkavich's tie, twisted it around a fist. “If your storm troopers ever lay a finger on my nephew, I will personally . . .”

  Steve dug the knot into Zinkavich's flabby neck, increasing the pressure until his blowfish cheeks turned red. After a moment of staring into his bulging eyes, Steve released him.

  “That's an assault!” Zinkavich squeaked. Atthault.

  “Bring it up with the judge,” Steve said, walking away.

  That was smart, Steve thought, double-timing toward the courtroom. Real smart. Piss off the one guy who can wreck Bobby's life.

  I would never lose my cool like that representing a client. But this is personal.

  Halfway down the corridor, he overtook Victoria, her ear pressed to a cell phone.

  “I'm so sorry, Kat,” she said into a pink Nokia. “If there's anything I can do, please ask. . . .”

  Kat? Holy shit. That wouldn't be short for Katrina, would it?

  Steve slowed his pace, dropped back a half step.

  “Of course I believe you. I know you wouldn't . . .” Victoria said. “You and Charlie always looked so happy together. God, I feel terrible for you.”

  Okay, makes sense. Miss La Gorce Tennis Champion would know the Barksdales.

  “Please call if you need anything. I mean it.”

  Victoria clicked off, and Steve came alongside. “Are you friends with the grieving widow?”

  “Were you eavesdropping?”

  “C'mon, we only have a minute.”

  “I see Kat at the club. What's it to you?”

  “Get me the case and there's a referral fee in it for you.”

  “It's illegal to solicit a case,” she chided.

  “You think Alan Dershowitz waits for the phone to ring?”

  She stopped at the courtroom door. “Why on earth would I recommend you to anyone?”

  He struggled for an answer, but didn't have one. She entered the courtroom with a smug look. As the door closed in his face, Steve's mind raced. How could he convince Victoria he had the stuff to help her newly widowed friend? And even if she believed he was the best lawyer in town, which he wasn't, why would she hustle the case for him?

  Suddenly, the answers to both questions were obvious.

  He'd change his approach. No more bickering, no more insults. When they resumed the Pedrosa trial, he'd show his kinder, gentler side. But he still had to win. She wouldn't send a case to a loser.

  So I have to win nice.

  It sounded good, he thought. Except for one little flaw. Maybe if his cockatoo-smuggling client were innocent, he could win nice. But as even a myopic judge or sleeping juror could see, Amancio Pedrosa was as dirty as a birdcage floor.

  Four

  AN ANGELFISH NAMED STEVE

  The next morning was gray and cold, at least by Miami standards. Clouds the color of old nickels pushed down from the north, winds kicked up, palm fronds ripped loose from trees. Yesterday, the bird-smuggling trial had slogged along. Victoria had put on her case, Steve had minded his manners. He had even kept half his promise. He was playing nice; he just wasn't winning. Trial would resume at ten A.M. He should be spending the time preparing for court, but there were domestic duties to attend to first.

  In his drafty bungalow on Kumquat Avenue in Coconut Grove, with Jimmy Buffet singing “License to Chill” on a CD, Steve grilled ham and cheese sandwiches and whipped up papaya smoothies. An unusual breakfast, but his nephew, Bobby, chose the menu. That was their deal; the kid would eat everything on the plate as long as he got to pick the food.

  No matter the weather, Bobby wore baggy shorts and a Florida Marlins T-shirt. He was skinny, with pipe-stem arms and legs and sandy hair that stood straight up, as if he'd just stuck a finger in an electrical outlet. Rounding out the picture as the class über-nerd—if he actually went to Carver instead of homeschooling—was a double track of shiny braces and thick black glasses that were always smudged and cockeyed.

  Bobby could not find his way home from the park three blocks away, but he could repeat everything he heard or read. Verbatim. As a result, Steve could never win an argument about current events, baseball statistics, or whether he had promised a trip to Disney World exactly seventy-eight days, fourteen hours, and twelve minutes ago. The doctors called it echolalia, the flip side of the boy's disability.

  Recently, Bobby had found an Italian cooking site on the Internet and had become obsessed with grilled sandwiches. To accommodate his nephew, Steve bought a panini grill, which he used for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

  Now, as Steve constructed Bobby's sandwich with the care of Michelangelo sculpting a statue, the boy stood alongside, making sure he didn't take any shortcuts. If the cheese melted over the edge of the bread or if the ridged grill marks were uneven, Bobby would scream, bang his head against the counter, and wrist-flick the sandwich across the kitchen like a Frisbee.

  “The ciabatta fresh?” Bobby asked.

  “You bet.”

  “The ham Black Forest?”

  “Nothing but.”

  “The cheese ricotta?”

  “Sheep's milk. Just like you told me, kiddo.”

  From the intensity of Bobby's look, Steve might have been separating plutonium from uranium. Only when the sandwiches emerged from the press—ham and cheese blended into a luxurious melt, bread crusty with symmetrical grill marks—would the boy relax. While this was going on, with Jimmy Buffet advocating living for the weekend and jumping off the deep end, the phone rang. Fairly certain it wasn't the Key West troubadour inviting him fishing, Steve let the machine pick up:

  “This is Herbert T. Solomon. Recovering lawyer.” Re-koven loy-yuh.

  Steve's father had been born in Savannah, and though Herbert Solomon had not lived in the Deep South for half a century, he still spoke in a mellifluous, musical drawl. The accent, Steve believed, was purposeful and exaggerated, Herbert's calling card. In his father's scrapbook was a faded newspaper clipping describing one of his closing arguments as a “melodic hymn to the angels, folksy as a farm, sweeter than molasses, soulful as a prayer.” Steve's own courtroom style, should it ever be described at all, would be likened to a grenade exploding in a septic tank.

  “Mah spies tell me you've been in the cooler again,” said the voice into the machine. “Stephen, ah've taught you to win with style and grace, not shenanigans and tomfoolery. And when are you bringing mah grandson down here?”

  Down here being Sugarloaf Key, just north of Key West, Herbert's own private gulag, though considerably warmer than Siberia.

  “Somebody's gotta teach that boy to fish, and it sure as hell ain't you.”

  Granddad taking the boy fishing. Now there was a
Norman Rockwell notion, Steve thought, not without some bitterness. Herbert Solomon was one of those men who became far better grandfathers than they ever were fathers. How much time did he ever spend with Steve? How many ball games? Track meets? Camping trips?

  Steve knew he still resented his father for having placed career first, family a distant second. Herbert Solomon had become just what he wanted: a great lawyer and a great judge, before taking a great fall. Steve had other ambitions. Sure, he wanted to be successful, if he could do it his own way: no compromises, no political bullshit, no ass-kissing. So far, it hadn't exactly worked out.

  “You couldn't hit a donkey in the fanny with a bass fiddle, much less outsmart a bonefish,” Herbert continued.

  Nothing like nurturing support, Steve thought, grabbing the phone. “Hey, Dad, chill, okay?”

  “Why didn't you pick up?” his father demanded.

  “Because I didn't want to fight at seven in the morning.”

  “Don't be such a pussy. What's this ah hear about Erwin Gridley tossing you in the pokey?”

  “No big deal.”

  “The hell it's not. You're a damn embarrassment.”

  “I'm the embarrassment? I'm not the one whose picture was in the paper, cleaning out his office before he could be indicted.”

  “Your picture's never been in the paper 'cause you handle pissant cases.”

  “Gotta go now, Dad.”

  “Hang on. What are you wearing to court today?”

  “Jeez, I'm not ten years old. You don't have to—”

  “No sharkskin suits, no diamond pinky rings.”

  “Dad, nobody dresses like that anymore.” He already was in his uniform, a charcoal gray suit, straight off the rack, powder blue shirt, simple striped tie. Early on, he'd decided his actions drew enough attention without looking like a carnival barker.