by Paul Levine
“Cut the crap and get in, Solomon.” Cowboy Boots was trying to sound tough. He was also succeeding.
“Are you nuts? Look around. Justice Building. County Jail. Sheriff’s Department. A thousand cops within spitting distance. All I have to do is yell—”
Steve never saw the punch. A short right, square in the gut. Steve gasped. His knees buckled. He would have hit the ground, but Cowboy Boots grabbed him neatly by the collar of his suit jacket and shoved him into the backseat, piling in after him. Steve was still wheezing to catch his breath when the car pulled out. No shrieking tires, no crazy turns. Just a smooth acceleration past the Justice Building, where Steve’s presence was expected, if not entirely desired.
The driver spoke first. “Like I said, Solomon, we can help you with the Nash case.”
“No. You said, ‘I can help you.’ You never mentioned Oscar de la Hoya here.”
“But first, you gotta help us. You know who we are?”
“No, but I know where you’re going. There’s a cell with your name on it about a block away.”
“That ain’t funny.” Cowboy Boots cuffed Steve on the head with an open palm.
Which is when Steve saw it. Red scar tissue. A chunk out of the man’s arm. Just as Nash had described. But not a bullet wound. Steve had seen a nearly identical divot in another man’s arm. Captain Dan, one of the best fishing guides in Islamorada. It was a shark bite.
“You’re the two guys on the boat,” Steve said. “You were supposed to bring the dolphins aboard. But you cut and ran when the cops showed up.”
The Lincoln passed under the I-95 overpass on 20th Street. “What else did Nash tell you about us?” the driver demanded.
“Nothing. He doesn’t even know your names.”
“You sure about that?”
“He doesn’t know if you’re Mr. Blue and your pal is Mr. Pink,” Steve said.
Cowboy Boots smacked Steve on the head a second time. “What the hell’s that mean?”
“Reservoir Dogs,” the driver explained to his dimmer friend. “The guys pulling the heist in the movie all used colors for their names.”
“So why would I be Mr. Pink?”
“Never mind.” The driver turned to Steve, who felt the beginning of a headache inside one temple. “You know why we’re asking this stuff, right, Solomon?”
“Because you two worked for Sanders. And because you’re afraid Nash can lead the cops straight to you.”
Cowboy Boots snickered. It was better than getting slugged. “He thinks Sanders was our boss.”
It must have been a good joke, because both men laughed.
“Hey, Solomon,” the driver said. “If you gave Nash a penny for his thoughts, you’d get back change.”
More yuks. These two seemed to be quite happy kidnappers. And they didn’t seem terribly upset about Sanders’ death, which added to Steve’s confusion. Just then he remembered something Nash had said in the jail. The night of the break-in, Sanders had asked about the Gulf Stream, worried about the size of the waves. One of these guys had replied, “You do your job, we’ll do ours.”
A command. Not the way you speak to your boss.
These guys didn’t work for Sanders.
Sanders worked for them.
But doing what? And what were they gonna do with the dolphins?
“So what is it you want from me?” Steve asked.
“There are important people who need to know what Sanders told Nash.”
“About what?”
“Where we were planning to go that night, for one thing.”
That stopped Steve. These guys have nothing to do with ALM, he thought. And if Sanders worked for them, he had nothing to do with the movement, either. This isn’t about animal rights. Never was. So what the hell is it about?
“Even if Nash told me, I couldn’t tell you—”
Another open palm ricocheted off the back of Steve’s skull. “Sure you could,” Cowboy Boots said. “Or you’ll be Mr. Brown. As in shit-in-your-pants.”
“But Nash doesn’t know anything. You said it yourself. He needs two hands to find his dick.”
The headache dug deeper into Steve’s skull. Back in college, he’d been beaned by a Tulane pitcher who took offense at batters crowding the plate. The pitch cracked Steve’s batting helmet and left him seeing double. Now he was starting to feel as if he’d been hit by another pitch.
The car pulled to a stop in front of the Justice Building. Steve hadn’t realized it, but they’d driven in a circle.
“He’s telling the truth,” the driver told his pal, before turning to Steve. “Get out.”
The second Steve’s feet hit the pavement, the door swung closed, and the black Lincoln pulled away. Hillsborough County plates.
“S-3-J-1…”
That’s all Steve could pick up before the car turned the corner. He ran a hand through his mussed hair, tucked his shirttail in, and straightened his tie. Then he bounded up the steps two at a time, heading into the Justice Building. He was late for court.
Twenty-one
STUCK ON HIS SHTICK
“I’m sure Mr. Solomon will be here any moment, Your Honor. Traffic is so heavy today.”
Victoria often made excuses for Steve when they were cocounsel. Now, even on opposite sides of a case, she was still sticking up for him.
“Uh-huh.” Judge Gridley, berobed, was on the bench. Victoria, with perfect posture, stood behind the prosecution table.
Some judges will hold you in contempt for being tardy. Some levy a fine, five bucks a minute, the proceeds going to the Pizza Fund for Needy Bailiffs. But Judge Gridley seemed remarkably sanguine, leafing through a tabloid tout sheet called Lou’s Surefire Picks.
The door flew open and Steve barreled into the courtroom, looking as if he’d just been dragged through a car wash. Hair tousled, shirt sweat-stained, dark complexion tinged red around the ears. He slipped into his suit jacket and tightened the knot in his tie as he hurried through the swinging gate to the defense table.
“Good afternoon, Your Honor.” He nodded toward the bench, then gave Victoria a tight smile.
“What happened to you?” Victoria asked.
“Later. Let’s get this over with.”
“Ah, Mr. Solomon graces us with his presence,” Judge Gridley said mildly, without looking up.
Steve bowed slightly. “I apologize, Your Honor.”
“One preliminary matter before we take on the defense motion.” The judge closed Lou’s Surefire Picks and looked gravely at Steve. “What’s your take on Florida State at Miami this weekend?”
“I generally don’t bet against the ’Canes in the Orange Bowl,” Steve said.
“A wise policy,” the judge allowed.
“But those national championships seem like ancient history. The line’s pick ’em. I’d go with the ’Noles.”
The judge grunted his approval and jotted a note on his tout sheet. “Okay, Mr. Solomon. It’s your motion. Stoke your boilers.”
Before Steve could open his mouth, Victoria said, “The defense motion may be moot, Your Honor. I haven’t had time to discuss this with Mr. Solomon, but the state has a plea offer.”
“Excellent. Always happy to clear the calendar. You two take as much time as you need, while I check out the Big Ten games.”
The judge licked his thumb and began turning pages on his tout sheet.
Steve whispered to Victoria: “Two guys jumped me outside.”
“What! Who?”
“Later. What’s this about a plea deal?”
“Ray Pincher suggested it.”
“On his own?”
“No. The U.S. Attorney asked him to do it.”
“Because the feds are investigating the ALM? Or something else? A different investigation?”
“How did you know that?” Victoria demanded.
Steve exhaled a sigh that was almost visible. “Someone’s playing us, Vic.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The shooting’s just the tip of the iceberg. The feds are involved. Pincher, too. Plus a couple guys driving a Lincoln with Hillsborough County plates. It’s a big conspiracy.”
“A conspiracy to do what?”
“I don’t know yet, Vic. Jeez, gimme a break. I was only kidnapped a few minutes ago.”
She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously.
“It’s the truth,” he said. “It was a five-minute kidnapping, but still…”
“And I’m sure you reported this vicious crime to the police.”
“Not yet, but…”
She sighed. “I just made a plea offer. Your client’s in a holding cell. Don’t you want to discuss it with him?”
Steve turned toward the bench. “Your Honor, negotiations are over. No plea. We’re gonna try this case.”
The judge sighed and refolded his tout sheet. “You sure, Mr. Solomon? Seems to me your train’s on a shaky trestle.”
“I’m sure, Judge.”
“So be it. Let’s hear your motion.”
“Yes, sir.” Steve whispered to Victoria, “Nice outfit today.”
“Thanks.”
“Where’d you get it? The Librarians’ Boutique?”
“Steve, what are you doing?”
“Warming up. Taking a practice swing.” He winked at her and clucked his tongue. “That belted jacket makes you look very buttoned-up.”
“It’s a court outfit. How am I supposed to look?”
“Not like a Republican senator from Kansas.”
“Mr. Solomon,” the judge prodded.
“Malfeasance!” Steve boomed.
“How’s that, Counselor?”
“Or is it misfeasance? I can never keep them straight. The state must be punished for Ms. Lord’s abuse of the discovery process. We’re talking stonewalling. Cover-up. Shady deals.”
“Can you be more specific, Mr. Solomon?”
“I demanded all records related to the decedent, Charles J. Sanders, Lieutenant Commander, U.S. Navy, retired. And what did opposing counsel give me? A military personnel file completely redacted. Billet—classified. Commanding officer—classified. Missions—classified. His DD-214 retirement papers—missing.”
“Your Honor, we gave Mr. Solomon everything the Department of the Navy gave us. He can take his complaints to Washington.”
“What about the security video?” Steve demanded. “Cetacean Park has cameras on the dock. They could show exactly what happened between Grisby and Sanders. We requested the tapes and got nothing. Zippo. Zilch. Bupkes.”
“Mr. Solomon knows very well that a lightning strike knocked the system out the week before the incident. The camera wasn’t working.”
“Shades of Richard Nixon, Judge. Erased tapes. Missing records. Hiding Brady material.”
Victoria wheeled toward Steve. “Nothing’s been erased. Nothing’s been hidden. If I had anything exculpatory, I’d turn it over in an instant, and you know it. You are so infuriating—”
“Judge, would you ask Ms. Lord to address the bench and refrain from her ad hominem attacks?”
“My attacks?”
“Your face is turning purple. Careful, or you’ll pop that belt.”
“You’re the sleaziest lawyer I’ve ever—”
“Slept with?”
“Damn you, Solomon,” she hissed.
“There she goes again, Judge.”
A shrill whistling noise pierced the courtroom. Interrupted, they wheeled toward the judge. Judge Gridley released a switch that activated a replica of a steam whistle. “Hit the brakes, you two. You’re coming into the station.”
Victoria knew the drill. One bleat of the whistle meant “Pipe down.” Two meant “Not one more word.” Three blasts and you go to the pokey for contempt.
“Any more argument, Mr. Solomon? Legal argument, that is.”
“No, Your Honor. We request—nay, we demand—that the court issue its harshest sanction. Dismiss all charges on account of prosecutorial misconduct.”
Steve sat down, and Victoria turned to the judge. “Your Honor, I hardly know where to begin. I feel like a dozen rats are nibbling at my feet.”
“Your shoes are too tight,” Steve whispered.
“Mr. Solomon hurls accusations that have no basis in fact. He should be reprimanded and—”
“But they’re nice shoes,” he kept at it. “You buy them new?”
“Save your breath, Ms. Lord. Defendant’s motion for sanctions stands denied.” Judge Gridley edged out of his cushioned chair and headed for the private door behind the bench, speaking as he walked. “Now, you two kiss and make up.”
Steve moved to the prosecution table and leaned close. “I always follow a judge’s orders.”
“No you don’t.” Turning away, Victoria began shoving her folders back into her briefcase.
“C’mon, Vic. You know I was just doing my shtick.”
“And it’s always so amusing.”
“We have different styles. Maybe that’s why we get along so well.”
“That must be it.”
“I can tell you’re a little irritated.”
“And who said you were insensitive to a woman’s moods?”
“There’s just one thing I gotta ask.”
“What?”
“Is sex tonight out?”
SOLOMON’S LAWS
6. When the testimony is too damn good, when there are no contradictions and all the potholes are filled with smooth asphalt, chances are the witness is lying.
Twenty-two
THE SECOND PUZZLE
Steve wanted to talk to Victoria, but she’d hurried out of the courtroom and disappeared.
Did she look angry?
She’d seen him in court so many times, surely she knew he was just playing a role.
She’s not really pissed off, is she?
They should talk about the case, share information. Even though they were on opposite sides, weren’t they both out for the same thing?
Truth. Justice. All that stuff in the books.
Victoria always railed about how trials should be less adversarial and more concerned with fair results. The criminal justice system should seek the truth, not just convictions or acquittals. Frankly, he never agreed with her, and his goal was always to win. But now, with this shitstorm called State v. Nash, he was willing to try something new.
He wouldn’t offer to share evidence with one of Pincher’s dwarves on the other side. But this was Victoria. His partner. His lover. His best friend. He wanted to think through the case with her.
C’mon, babe. Let’s do some justice.
He figured her first reaction would be to stiff-arm him.
“It would be unethical, blah, blah, blah.”
Now, as he drove home from the Justice Building, fighting the traffic on Dixie Highway, Steve ran through the evidence.
On the face of it, Gerald Nash appeared one hundred percent guilty of felony murder. But there was just too much that didn’t make sense.
The mysterious Chuck Sanders.
Grisby in the park with a shotgun and a fuzzy story about why he shot Sanders.
Two tough guys who snatched Steve off the street and pumped him for information.
Steve remembered something his father, the cagiest trial lawyer Steve ever knew, told him years ago.
“If you come across a piece of the puzzle that just won’t fit, it means there’s a second puzzle where it’ll fit just fine.”
The first puzzle was why Grisby shot Sanders at all, much less twice. Steve had taken Grisby’s deposition a few days earlier. The owner of Cetacean Park testified that his regular security guard had quit abruptly and moved away.
Q: So instead of hiring another security guard, you decided to stay up all night and do the job yourself?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: With a Remington 870, even though you’d only armed your guard with a can of Mace and a cell phone?
A: I knew about those fools attacking that monk
ey lab down in the Keys. Not only that, the State Attorney had warned me I might be next. And don’t forget, I’d been hit before when I owned a dolphin park in California. Undersea World. That’s where the damned Animal Libbers got started.
Not just one reason for Grisby to be there, his shotgun at the ready. Three reasons. Each one good enough, all by itself. Add them all together and what do you get? Too much sugar in the mojito.
True stories are full of holes. Life isn’t a smooth freeway across a fruited plain. Life is a winding, potholed road, slick with oil, and studded with broken glass. It was one of Steve’s laws. If a witness’ testimony is too damn good, if there are no loose ends or contradictions, chances are his story is as phony as Donald Trump’s hair.
In his deposition, Grisby testified that he’d been spooked by a noise. Then he spotted Bobby on the floating platform. Telling the boy to stay put, he had walked along a path to the security shed to call Steve.
So far, all true. Bobby confirmed his end, and Steve had a clear recollection of Grisby waking him up with the phone call. But then the story got murky.
Grisby claimed he walked out of the security shed and stumbled on Sanders on the path behind the ficus hedge. Sanders had silently paddled an inflatable to the dock, his face blackened, like the Navy SEAL he’d once been. He carried tape, a coil of nautical line, and a Colt .45 automatic Grisby recognized instantly from his own time in the military. Sanders had apparently expected to find an unarmed and sleeping security guard. Instead, shotgun ready, Grisby popped out of the bushes and bellowed at Sanders to freeze.
Sanders stayed cool, told Grisby he didn’t want trouble, he just wanted the dolphins to be free. Then hell broke loose.
Two Jet Skis roared up the channel, herding up the dolphins.
Grisby trained his shotgun on Sanders and ordered him to surrender his handgun and move toward the dock. Grisby wanted to take a shot at the Jet Skiers, at least scare them off. Sanders refused to move, refused to give up his gun. Just stayed put, giving his accomplices time to chase the dolphins down the channel. Grisby yelled and threatened, but the guy challenged him.
“You’re not a killer, Grisby.”
“Don’t try me.”
