Trial & Error

by Paul Levine

  Better, Steve thought, the old buzzard was getting interested. “Not yet.”

  “Those ink-stained wretches been calling you?”

  “Herald, Sun-Sentinel left messages yesterday. Palm Beach Post this morning. Lisa Petrillo from Channel 10’s been camped out at my office.”

  “Thought she did entertainment news.”

  “Since you left the bench, Dad, that’s what murder trials have become.”

  “Well, before you say anything, make sure you get your theory of the case and your theme. Then keep pounding ’em. And stay on message.”

  Herbert Solomon might no longer be a lawyer—he’d resigned the bench and the Bar rather than face a bribery investigation—but his mind was still sharp. As a lawyer and a judge, he was usually the smartest person in the courtroom, and well aware of it.

  “Not that it’s gonna be easy,” Herbert continued. “From what Ah hear, your case is a loser. An open-and-shut conviction.”

  Steve dropped his voice into a gravelly imitation of his father. “Ain’t no case open and shut till the jurors open that door and the foreman shuts his mouth.”

  “At least you been listening. But you gotta have something to go on. A crack in the brick wall.”

  Another of his old man’s expressions. Before he’d been Chief Judge of the Circuit, Herbert T. Solomon, Esq., had been a terrific trial lawyer. He used to say that the prosecution’s job was to build a brick wall. Strong and sturdy, brick after brick, smoothing the mortar, making it all neat and tidy. The defense didn’t have to build a wall of its own. It just had to scratch away at the state’s wall, searching for weak spots. Rotten bricks or weak mortar, that’s what the defense is after.

  Make an iddy-biddy crack in that wall, just enough for a handhold, and you can tear the whole damn thing down.

  Right. But sometimes you were lucky just to spray paint some graffiti on that old wall.

  “So what do you have?” Herbert asked.

  “The state’s time line is fuzzy. Sanders was there three or four minutes before Grisby shot him. What the hell was going on all that time? Why would Sanders go for his gun when Grisby held a shotgun on him? And why’d Grisby shoot him twice?”

  “Why was Grisby there at all?”

  “He says he expected trouble after Pincher warned him about the ALM. But why be alone? Why not hire a new security guard? Or two or three?”

  “You suggesting Grisby didn’t want witnesses?”

  “Just asking questions, Dad, the way you taught me.”

  “The guard that supposedly quit. He back up Grisby’s story?”

  “Can’t find him. Moved without notifying his landlord. I can’t find my client’s girlfriend, either. She was also his accomplice. Moved out of her apartment and hasn’t called Nash. Then there’s the victim. Charles Sanders, last known address, Denver.”

  “For your sake, Ah’m hoping he’s got a long rap sheet.”

  Steve knew what his father was thinking. When defending a murder charge, it’s always helpful if the victim was a lowlife who wouldn’t be missed by law-abiding, God-fearing citizens like the dozen good folks in the jury box.

  “No priors,” Steve said. “Military. Retired Navy. Lieutenant Commander in the SEALs.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Next you’re gonna tell me he’s a war hero.”

  “Bronze Star for defusing mines in the Persian Gulf during the first Gulf War.”

  “Holy shit. And since then?”

  Steve shrugged. “All I know is he was stationed in San Diego when his retirement papers came through.”

  “What were his duties?”

  “The Navy’s classified everything after Desert Storm.”

  Herbert polished off his drink. “Don’t fit. A decorated naval officer hanging out with these animal weirdos.” He reached for the Jack Daniel’s bottle. “That brick wall ain’t crumbling yet, but the mortar’s a little sloppy around the edges.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “Jesus, Ah like a good puzzle.”

  Deep into it now. Steve watched his father, his crinkled eyes seemingly focused on a distant horizon.

  “So what do you think, Dad?”

  “Tough cases are more fun, and this one’s a doozy. If only you could stay in the damn thing.”

  “Keep going.”

  “Can you get your client to waive the conflict?”

  “Absolutely. He wants me.”

  “Can you keep things peaceful with Victoria?”

  “I can try.”

  “Then go for it. But keep focused, son. It’s State versus Nash. Don’t make it Solomon versus Lord.”

  Fourteen

  WHAT’S A MOTHER FOR?

  Victoria wanted her mother’s advice.

  How can I beat Steve in the Nash case and still preserve our relationship?

  But, as usual, Irene Lord, aka The Queen, was wrapped up in her own melodrama. “I’ve never been so humiliated,” she huffed. “My daughter’s paramour suing me.”

  “Mother, no one’s had a paramour since Barbara Stanwyck was making movies.”

  “Your live-in lover, then.” Irene sniffed, as if she found the notion of cohabitation distasteful.

  The air was tinged with rosemary, eucalyptus…and malice. Mother and daughter were settled into comfy chairs at the Bal Harbour Spa for their monthly pedicures. Irene wore a purple Hervé Leroux bandage dress with a matching boomerang clutch. Her shoes—until she’d ditched them for her pedicure—were rainbow-colored Cavalli slingbacks with a heel just shy of four inches. Her hair—the color of champagne—was swept up, revealing her graceful and still taut neck. Over the years, many men had told Irene that she looked like Princess Grace of Monaco, and she never disagreed.

  “Suing me is just so tacky,” she said as Ileana, the spa attendant, patted her feet dry.

  “Steve didn’t sue you, Mother. He sued your country club. You just happened to be chairperson of the membership committee, so you were named in your representative capacity.”

  Irene dismissed that notion with a wave of her freshly painted fingernails. “My name’s on the papers.”

  “A technicality.”

  “Tell that to Gloria Tuttle and Helen Flagler.”

  Gloria and Helen. Her mother’s best friends. The royal bitches of the Biscayne Royale Country Club. Steve had sued the club on behalf of a client who’d been expelled after his conviction for mail fraud. Something about violating the high-moral-character clause of the membership agreement. Steve’s lawsuit claimed that his client was being unfairly singled out, given that a sizeable percentage of his fellow Royale members were philanderers, tax cheats, and alcoholics. He threatened to question every member, under oath, in open court.

  “Ouch! Jesus, Ileana.”

  “Disculpe, señora.” Ileana dropped her orangewood stick. “Lo siento.”

  “You know how sensitive my cuticles are.”

  Victoria had come today not only for the pedicure but to seek her mother’s counsel. The problem, as always, was to get The Queen to focus on someone other than herself. If self-absorption were an Olympic sport, Irene Lord would win the gold.

  Ileana was rounding the corners of Irene’s little toe with a grit board when Victoria finally pleaded, “Mother, I need your full attention, and I really need your help.”

  Irene raised her plucked eyebrows—dyed to match her hair—and smiled tolerantly. “Of course. What’s a mother for?”

  It took Victoria fifteen minutes to describe the conflicts of interest, both professional and personal, plaguing her. Then, as Ileana finished up with a delicious calf massage, The Queen weighed in. “You’re in a lose-lose situation. If you win the case, you’ll lose Steve.”

  “Why?”

  “Men are fragile creatures with tender egos, dear. Let’s say you’re having dinner. If you mention that your man is losing his hair, he’ll never get it up that night.”

  “Steve’s not losing his hair. Or his erection.”


  “Not yet. But if you beat him in court, what then?”

  “Steve’s ego is fine. He never hogs the spotlight when we try cases together. He always gives me credit when we win.”

  “Sure, when you’re on the same side.”

  “What about when I beat him in tennis? He just laughs it off.”

  “Because tennis is your game. You were the college player. He’s just a hacker. But the courtroom belongs to him. It’s his identity. It’s where he keeps his cojones.”

  Victoria thought about it while Ileana massaged her mother’s toes, pulling each one as if milking a cow. It wasn’t fair. Prosecuting a high-profile murder case was a huge opportunity. And just why was her mother so concerned about Steve, anyway?

  “Why are you worried about my losing Steve when you dislike him so much?” she asked.

  “My feelings for Stephen are quite irrelevant. You love him. And he adores you.”

  “So you’re actually thinking of me?”

  “What’s so unusual about that?”

  That’s when Victoria decided. It was simple, really. Her mother was dishing out advice from a prior generation. Maybe the generation before that. The Queen was stuck in a time warp of her own mother’s making. Women nowadays didn’t have to defer to their mates. They no longer had to be subservient. Or worry about hurting delicate feelings.

  “Mother, I am not going to back off.”

  Irene exhaled a breath that stopped just short of a sigh. “As long as you know the risk.”

  “There might be another way.”

  “How?”

  Victoria slipped a foot into a terry cloth sandal. “I have to get back to the office, Mother.”

  “What’s your hurry?”

  “I have a motion and a brief to write. Something that will catch Steve by total surprise.”

  “Tell me, dear. I love surprises.”

  “I’m not going to beat Steve at trial. I’m going to beat him now, before we ever get to the courtroom.”

  Fifteen

  FOOTBALL AND MURDER

  Victoria was having second thoughts about her outfit. Usually, she went for a subdued and professional look. Classy and conservative.

  Not St. John Conservative. More like Calvin Klein Conservative. Something in muted tweed, a one-button jacket over a knee-length skirt.

  But today was different. Today she was up against the craftiest opponent she would ever face—her lover and partner.

  Victoria had filed a motion to disqualify Steve as defense counsel. He was, after all, a witness to the crime. Further, it was unseemly, if not downright unethical, that the prosecutor and defense lawyer were law partners and lovers.

  Stapled to Victoria’s motion was a twenty-two-page well-reasoned brief, citing several dozen cases as precedent. There was no question, no gray area, no room for debate. Steve would have to step aside.

  As usual, Steve the Shark filed no written response to the motion. He would rely on his verbal skills, his ability to tap-dance around land mines.

  In ten minutes, they would argue the motion before Judge Gridley, and Victoria was confident that before the morning was over, Steve would be tossed from the courtroom like an obnoxious drunk from a tavern.

  At the moment, her only worries were sartorial.

  She walked into Judge Gridley’s chambers wearing a fiery orange tank top covered by a blue Ellen Tracy shirt jacket. The Armani skirt matched the top, and her Hermès portfolio bag matched the jacket.

  Radiant orange and brilliant blue. University of Florida colors. All because State v. Nash had fallen into the division of Judge Erwin Gridley, Bull Gator Emeritus, one of the biggest and baddest reptiles in the state.

  She had resorted to the cheap ploy only after watching Steve get dressed earlier that morning. Blue blazer, orange shirt, and that stupid tie crawling with alligators. Shameless. So she had no choice. After he’d left the house for an early hearing, she’d carefully chosen her own outfit.

  As she entered chambers, Judge Gridley was nowhere to be seen. The walls displayed the usual plaques and photos; the credenza held an assortment of footballs, helmets, jerseys, and the latest national championship replica trophy. A stuffed alligator head, showing a toothy smile, sat on His Honor’s desk.

  Steve was already seated at the conference table, displaying his own snarky grin. “You look like a highway barricade,” he said in greeting.

  “And you’re a complete phony. A Miami grad wearing Gator colors.”

  Judge Gridley rumbled in, shed his black robe, revealing orange-and-blue suspenders. Bulky, bald, and trifocaled, he plopped into his high-back chair.

  Steve immediately began humming “We Are the Boys from Old Florida.”

  “What the heck are you two lovebirds doing on opposite sides of the table?” the judge asked in his Panhandle accent.

  “Motion to disqualify Mr. Solomon as defense counsel,” Victoria said. She told the judge about her appointment as special prosecutor, her relationship with Steve, and his presence at the crime scene. She cited three appellate court cases in support of her position, and spoke with the confidence of a lawyer who is both factually prepared and legally correct.

  As she laid out her argument, the judge fiddled with a flatbed railroad car. Not a real one, a Lionel model. Gridley’s obsession with his alma mater was nearly matched by his love of model trains. A three-inch O-gauge track ran from the desk, around the conference table, and back to his desk again. Lawyers took care not to place their pleadings on the tracks in order to avoid derailments.

  Victoria finished her argument, and leaned back in her chair. Judge Gridley turned to Steve. “Ms. Lord’s got more horsepower than the Sunset Limited. I’m inclined to toss you off the train unless you can get me to switch tracks, Counselor.”

  “A defendant is entitled to counsel of his choice,” Steve began. “I’ve been retained by Gerald Nash. Obviously, this situation is delicate because the prosecutor is both my law partner and…”

  He paused, apparently searching for a word.

  And what, smooth talker?

  “Playmate,” he concluded.

  Victoria bristled. “I’m no one’s playmate, Your Honor. Mr. Solomon and I live together. Currently.”

  “If y’all are shacked up, Mr. Solomon, how you gonna try a case against each other?”

  “Precisely, Your Honor,” Victoria said. “The only question is, whom shall Your Honor require to withdraw?”

  “Yes, whom?” Steve echoed in his smart-aleck tone.

  “Mr. Solomon must withdraw. He was present at the crime scene and apprehended Gerald Nash,” Victoria said. “He’s a witness.”

  Steve loosened the knot on his alligator tie. “A witness to an uncontradicted fact. My nephew saw Mr. Nash. So did Wade Grisby. So did the cops.”

  “Irrelevant, Your Honor. Mr. Solomon can’t be both a witness and defense counsel.”

  “Bogus argument, Judge. We’ll stipulate to my client’s presence at the scene.”

  “Don’t call my arguments bogus,” Victoria snapped.

  “Bogus, bogus. Hocus-pocus.”

  You can’t taunt me into losing my cool. Not anymore.

  “Your Honor,” Victoria said, calmly, “the case of State versus Linsenmeyer settled this issue. I’ve prepared a brief on the point.”

  “Lemme see it.” Gridley grabbed his long-billed engineer’s hat and yelled, “All a-b-b-b-board!” He hit a switch on a console, and a model train started chugging from his desk to the conference table. A classic engine, the Florida East Coast Railway Warbonnet, a scale model of the diesel that a half century ago transported the Gator football team to Jacksonville for the annual game against Georgia.

  The train pulled to a stop in front of Victoria, who placed her memorandum on a flatbed car. The whistle tooted, white smoke billowed from a tiny stack, and the train clickety-clacked to the end of the table, where it passed through a tunnel.

  “You got a countermemo?” the judge asked Steve as the train
emerged from the tunnel and made a slow turn in his direction.

  “No, sir. I rely on common sense, the Common Law, and Your Honor’s own uncommon wisdom.” Now he was humming the fight song, “The Orange and the Blue.”

  The Warbonnet sped past Steve, tooting twice, spewing a trickle of smoke.

  When the train pulled to a stop, the judge grabbed the document, scanned it, and said, “Ms. Lord is right on the law. I’m sorry, Mr. Solomon, but without some contrary precedent, the conductor’s gonna have to toss you off the train somewhere around Ocala.”

  “Judge, just because I didn’t brief the point doesn’t mean I don’t have precedent. I’d cite the case of Florida State versus Clemson.”

  What case? What damn case is that?

  “Also Florida State versus Auburn.”

  What the hell is Steve talking about?

  The judge cocked his head and murmured a soft “Hmmm.” He picked up a miniature brush and dusted off a freight car. “Bobby and Tommy and Terry. Hadn’t thought of that.”

  Bobby and Tommy and Terry?

  “When those sumbitches play,” the judge continued, “you got father against sons. You get it, Ms. Lord?”

  “Not exactly, Your Honor.”

  “Bobby Bowden coaches those dog-ass Seminoles, known in these parts as the Criminoles. His son Tommy coaches Clemson and son Terry used to coach Auburn. If a father and son can coach against each other, why the heck can’t you two oppose each other in court?” Judicial wisdom glittered in His Honor’s eye.

  “But a football game isn’t a murder trial,” Victoria protested.

  “Damn right. Football’s bigger. This courthouse sees hundreds of murder trials a year. But something like Florida State versus Clemson…well, that only happens once a year.”

  Victoria was floundering. She didn’t know how to respond. There didn’t seem to be case law to refute the notion that college football is more important than felony murder. On the other side of the table, Steve kept quiet, not even trying to suppress that infuriating grin.

  “But let me ask you this,” the judge mused. “You two aren’t gonna be playing footsie under the table, are you?”

  “Certainly not,” Victoria said.