Kill All the Lawyers

by Paul Levine

  Seven years earlier, when he prosecuted Kreeger, Ray Pincher was just another deputy in the major crimes unit. Now the ex–amateur boxer, ex–seminary student, ex–rap musician was the duly elected State Attorney of Miami-Dade County. "Too bad the dude got out the clink. That crook, that bum, that shady shrink."

  "I didn't listen to the show," Steve said. Figuring he was the only one in town who hadn't heard Dr. Bill torch him.

  "Said you were more crooked than a corkscrew. Lower than a rattlesnake's belly. As rotten as week-old snapper. And those were the compliments."

  "So what? The man's a convicted felon. He's got zero credibility."

  "You figure he knows what came down?"

  Steve felt a chill. Why the hell bring that up? And on the phone yet? "You taping this call, Sugar Ray?"

  "Now, that gives me pause."

  "And probable cause?" Steve completed his rhyme.

  Pincher laughed. "Golly, Solly. You must have a guilty conscience."

  On Biscayne Boulevard now, Steve passed Freedom Tower, the Mediterranean Revival building some called Miami's Ellis Island. Hundreds of thousands of Cuban refugees were processed there in the 1960s. Now a developer planned to envelop it with a skyscraper.

  "As I recall, Sugar Ray, your hands aren't exactly clean."

  Pincher exhaled a breath that whistled through Steve's earpiece. "My job was to prosecute the dude. Yours was to defend him. I did my job, Solomon."

  The conversation had taken a nasty turn. Was Pincher threatening him? "Why you calling me, Sugar Ray?"

  "To say I can't protect you. If I'm subpoenaed, I'm gonna tell the truth. Only way I can get screwed is by covering for you. Malfeasance. Obstruction. Perjury."

  "Hell, you do that before breakfast."

  "Ain't gonna be funny, dude after your money."

  "I don't have any, and Kreeger'd know that."

  "Then he'll get excited to see you indicted."

  Steve stayed silent. The conversation was sailing in rough waters. Approaching the Brickell Avenue Bridge, he beeped the horn at a lane-changer, a PT Cruiser with rental plates. Damn tourists. Why don't they all stay at Disney World and let us clog our own streets?

  Running late, he could picture Victoria impatiently tapping the toe of her hand-stitched pump on the marble floor of the high-rise condo. Steve's mood had dipped. His desire to buy overpriced real estate was waning by the minute.

  "I never asked you to do anything wrong," Pincher continued. "You remember that, don't you, Solomon?"

  Sure, he's recording this. Making exculpatory statements and trying to get my corroboration.

  "Only thing I remember," Steve said, "when your wife was out of town, you asked me to fix you up with the Les Mannequins girls."

  "You prick, Solomon."

  "And now that I think about it, I seem to recall you asking where you could score some crystal meth."

  Play that for the grand jury, Sugar Ray.

  "You're just like your old man, you know that, Solomon?"

  "Leave him out of this."

  Pincher laughed, the sound of a horse whinnying. "Both of you hold yourselves above the law. And you're both gonna end up the same way. Wouldn't that be something, father and son, both disbarred?"

  "Dad wasn't disbarred. He quit the Bar. That's one difference between him and me, Pincher. I don't quit anything."

  But the State Attorney had already hung up.

  * * *

  Victoria stood on the balcony of the high-rise condo, forty-one stories up, staring at the bay, where a dozen sailboats were rounding buoys in a triangular race. To her right was Rickenbacker Causeway, the sky bridge to Key Biscayne. The MacArthur Causeway was to the left, connecting the mainland with Watson, Palm, and Star islands on the way to Miami Beach. In the distance beyond, the greenish-blue waters of the Atlantic.

  Not bad. She pictured herself waking up each morning at sunrise, carrying a glass of orange juice onto the balcony. Peaceful. Relaxing. Quiet. Until Steve put on Sports Center to get the late scores from the West Coast.

  A breeze from the southeast kicked up, wafting perfumed scents. A gorgeous apartment, a spectacular view, a Chamber of Commerce day.

  So why am I so irritated?

  Because of Steve, of course. He was late, as usual. But that wasn't what was bothering her. When you love a man, you accept his annoying idiosyncrasies.

  Hogging the remote.

  Drinking milk straight from the carton.

  And Irritating Habit Number 97, sending me to the courthouse to take the heat in a crummy case he brought in the door but didn't want to handle.

  All of that came with the territory, the territory being the sometimes enchanting, often exasperating land of relationships. A far more important issue was on her mind today. They were shopping for a place to live—together—and that raised scary questions of its own.

  Is this the man I want to spend my life with? Can two people so different somehow make it work?

  She tried to answer logically, but could matters of the heart ever be determined by reason? Once she had thought so. Marriage was a partnership, right? She'd aced Mergers and Acquisitions as an undergrad, then gotten the book award for Partnerships and Corporations in law school. Business arrangements were based on cooperation between like-minded individuals with a common goal. So why shouldn't love be similarly logical? Why shouldn't marriage be a synergistic partnership of two people with similar interests and tastes? That calculated reasoning had led her into the arms of Bruce Bigby, real estate developer, avocado grower, Kiwanis Man of the Year. An All-American, all-around good guy. She believed their mutual interests—opera, Impressionist art, and summers on Cape Cod—represented a balanced life relatively free of stress. But once engaged to Bruce, she discovered that life was devoid of excitement and fun and . . .

  Electricity.

  Which is what she found with Steve. Perhaps too much electricity. Is that possible? She supposed it was. Electrocution, for example.

  What was it about Steve, anyway? He had dark hair a little too long and a little too messy. He tanned easily and looked great in shorts with his strong runner's legs. Then there were his eyes, a liquid brown, and his half smile, flashing with mischief.

  "You're what my mother would call Mediterranean sexy," she once told him.

  "You mean a handsome Hebe?"

  "There's just something about your whole look. Those full lips. That aquiline nose. Like a Roman emperor."

  "You sure you don't mean a kosher butcher?"

  Now, waiting for him, she wondered if moving in together was a good idea. And she was the one who had suggested it.

  She had taken a roundabout route, starting with Bobby, worried about his reaction. They had a great relationship. Still, being the girlfriend who slept over was different than being the full-time surrogate mom. A few weeks ago, she asked Bobby whether he was okay with her moving in. Bobby thought for a second, then grinned and high-fived her.

  "All of us racking together? Cool."

  Steve signed on, too, without any apparent reluctance. But she could tell he hadn't given it much thought. Maybe she should have waited for Sports Center to be over before bringing it up.

  "Good idea," he had said, during the NFL highlights. "We'll save money, cut down on driving time."

  Mr. Romance.

  Then came the housing dilemma. Steve's bungalow on Kumquat Avenue was too small. Ditto, her condo. So today, Victoria had rushed from the downtown courthouse to the high-rise canyon of Brickell Avenue to check out this three-bedroom, three-bath beauty.

  She liked it and hoped Steve would, too. Problem was, he wanted a house with a yard; she wanted an apartment with a balcony.

  He says po-tay-to, and I say po-tah-to.

  She'd been irritated with Steve at breakfast when he sidestepped her questions about Kreeger. On the drive to her hearing, she listened carefully to Dr. Bill's tirade, trying to determine if it was just a shtick or part of something deeper and more menacing.
Kreeger, after all, had been charged with murder and convicted of manslaughter.

  Underneath the wisecracks, Kreeger sounded deadly serious. Aggrieved and angry. Just what was Steve hiding from her?

  So typical of him. It was, she decided, Irritating Habit Number 98. Always thinking he could shield her from unpleasantness. Protecting the little woman, as if that were his job. Not understanding that she could handle anything he could.

  I'm a trial lawyer. I can stare murderers in the eye and never blink.

  "So where's the bad boy, Tori?" Jacqueline Tuttle walked onto the apartment balcony, the curtains trailing behind her in the breeze. "If he's not here soon, you won't have time to try out the bed."

  "Or the inclination," Victoria said.

  Jackie Tuttle, real estate broker, was Victoria's best girlfriend. A tall, buxom bachelorette with a curly mane of dyed red hair and a penchant for Spicy Nude lipstick, she drove a Mercedes convertible and worked the king-of-the-jungle market, high-rise condos where she hoped to find a wealthy, single man just dying to marry a tennis-playing, water-skiing party gal. Unlike Victoria, Jackie was uninhibited, with a loud laugh and a bawdy sense of humor.

  There didn't seem to be a filtering device between Jackie's brain and her mouth. No subject was off-limits. Orgasms: number and intensity. Penises: shapes, sizes, and proficiency. Credit ratings: guys lacking a seven-figure net worth should not bother calling. She cataloged potential mates on a sliding scale she called "Minimum Husband Standards." Two extra points for the man who puts the toilet seat down. Two-point penalty for the guy who keeps his Rogaine next to the skim milk in the refrigerator.

  Sometimes she would recite the names and attributes of her former beaus by creating a song to the tune of "Do-Re-Mi."

  "Jack, a jerk, a cheapskate jerk. Dick, a drop of worthless scum . . ."

  When she could no longer remember the names of all the men she'd slept with by counting on her fingers, Jackie peeled off her Jimmy Choos and computed on her toes. When she'd run out of toes, she created a spreadsheet on her computer.

  "Do you think Steve will like the place?" Jackie asked, fingering a button on her silk and cashmere cardigan, which was purposely one size too small.

  "Doubt it. He hates elevators."

  "So why are we here?"

  "It's a partnership." Victoria looked to the north where the drawbridge began to open on the Venetian Causeway, a sailboat with a tall mast waiting to pass through. "He doesn't get to choose where we live."

  "Ooh. Assertiveness raises its well-coifed head."

  "I mean, why should Steve call all the shots?"

  "You go, girl."

  "If we're going to move in together, shouldn't I have equal say?"

  "If?"

  "What?"

  "Vic-a-licious. You just said 'if' you move in together. I think you have cold feet and sweaty palms."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You're a commitment phobe."

  "That's absurd. I'm committed to Steve."

  "How many men have you lived with?"

  "You know the answer. None."

  Jackie belted out a laugh that made her breasts jiggle underneath the Calvin Klein cardigan. "I've lived with three in one year."

  "You call that commitment?"

  "I call it courage. Tori, you're a scaredy-cat."

  "Am not."

  "Are too. You love Steve. You have from the day you met him."

  "I hated him the day I met him."

  "Same difference."

  "Sometimes, Jackie, you're as exasperating as Steve is."

  "Really? Well, if you ever dump that bad boy into the recycling bin, have him page me."

  Jackie laughed again, Victoria joining in. A moment later, Steve came through the open door and onto the balcony. "What's so funny?"

  "Men," the women said simultaneously.

  Jackie looped an arm around Steve's elbow. "Have you seen the master bath? The Jacuzzi? The marble floors?"

  "All I've seen are the damn elevators. You have to take one from the parking garage and another from the lobby."

  "But did you check out the pool?" Victoria chimed in. "Bobby will love it. You know how swimming soothes him."

  "Swimming with dolphins soothes him. I didn't see any in the shallow end."

  "C'mon, handsome," Jackie said. "Keep an open mind."

  "There's no land. No grass." Steve gestured toward the ground, forty-one floors below. "It's all concrete down there. Where am I going to play catch with Bobby? And what's with that sign on the seawall? No Fishing?"

  "You hate fishing," Victoria said.

  "I hate rules. I love fishing. I come from a long line of anglers."

  "You come from a long line of liars."

  "Shows what you know. My zayde Abe Solomon caught a record herring off Savannah."

  "There are no herring off Savannah."

  "Grandpop Abe must have caught them all."

  "Don't be difficult," Jackie intervened. She put both hands on her hips in a motion that pushed her breasts higher. "Steve, you have a few things going for you in the husband sweepstakes. You're single, straight, and self-supporting. But frankly, I've pulled your credit report, and you're not exactly Donald Trump."

  "I'll dye my hair orange if that'll help."

  "You drive a ratty old car, you dress like a Jimmy Buffet roadie, and except for what I've been told are your talents in the bedroom—"

  "Jackie!" Victoria blushed.

  "You're not all that great a prize," Jackie continued, "and my best bud deserves the best. So why not just chill and let Tori choose a place to live?"

  "Hey, I get a vote here, Jack-o," Steve said.

  She dismissed the notion with a wave of her fingernails, painted the pinkish color called "Italian Love Affair." "I've seen your house, Steve. You obviously have no sense of design or style."

  "You mean I have no pretensions like those trust-fund boys you run around with."

  "Stop it, you two," Victoria ordered. "Steve, don't be mean to Jackie."

  "Me? She's the one who wishes you'd married Bigby."

  "True," Jackie admitted. "But I told her to keep you on the side." She gestured toward the interior of the apartment. "Now, why don't we look at the master suite?"

  "I hate this place," Steve said.

  Sounding like a child, Victoria thought. A petulant child.

  "I'm wasting my time here," Jackie said. "Toodles." She waved and headed back through the balcony door.

  Victoria gave Steve one of her piercing looks.

  "What? What'd I do, besides tell the truth?" he asked.

  "You walked in throwing hand grenades. Why didn't you just call and say there's no way you'd live here?"

  "I wasn't sure until the concierge spoke French to me."

  "I'm serious, Steve. It's unfair to Jackie. She's doing us a favor."

  "Not unless she kicks back half her commission." Steve took a deep breath. "Look, Vic. We need to talk."

  "I know. You want a house with a yard and crabgrass."

  "It's not that." He cast a long look toward the sailboats, as if he wanted to be on one. "I need to tell you about Kreeger."

  "You do?" She didn't even try to hide her surprise.

  "This morning, I wasn't entirely truthful with you. Now I want to tell you everything."

  "You do?" Sounding as skeptical as she felt.

  "I've been too closed off. I'm going to share more of myself."

  She studied him a moment. "Are you gaming me?"

  "Jeez, when did you get so cynical?"

  "When you taught me that everybody lies under oath."

  "Look, I'm not saying I'm gonna become Mr. Sensitive. I'm as scared as the next guy to show weakness, but what I did this morning wasn't fair. I answered your questions about Kreeger like I was before the Grand Jury. So I'm gonna tell you what happened with him and maybe use that to open up on other stuff, too."

  She threw both arms around his neck and drew him close. "You're
a wonderful man, Steve Solomon, you know that?"

  "Before you make that final, you might want to hear me out."

  SOLOMON'S LAWS

  2. Thou shalt not screw thy own client . . . unless thou hast a damn good reason.

  Five

  SURVIVAL OF THE HOMICIDAL

  A pelican sat on a coral boulder, scratching its feathery belly with its beak. Steve and Victoria walked along Bayfront Drive, a wall of condos on one side, the flat, green water of Biscayne Bay on the other. Her sunglasses were perched on top her head and her long stride tugged her Sunny Choi pencil skirt tight at the hips. Steve didn't know Sunny Choi from chicken chow mein, but he'd started picking up slivers of fashion information by listening to Victoria's end of phone conversations with Jackie.

  They headed in and out of shadows cast by the high-rises, the sun slanting toward the Everglades. In the light, Victoria's hair glowed with butterscotch highlights. In the shadows, her green eyes gave off their own light. She seemed happy, already forgiving Steve for being late, for being obstreperous, for being . . . Steve.

  "I did something in Kreeger's case I'd never done before and haven't since," he said. "And I'm not proud of it."

  "Tell me. Tell me everything, Steve."

  Her nurturing tone. That was it. Women were born nuturers. Cling to their warm bosoms, and everything will be all right. This would be easy. Victoria was, by nature, supportive and caring. And forgiving.

  "The case against Kreeger was purely circumstantial," he said. "I thought I could win."

  "You always think you can win."

  "Yeah, but this was different. I thought Kreeger was innocent."

  He didn't have to say, "as opposed to not guilty." Victoria knew the difference. In criminal cases, you seldom defend a person who is truly I-didn't-do-thecrime innocent. But you'll often defend someone who almost certainly did the crime; the state just can't prove it. That's the difference between innocent and not guilty.

  As everyone knows who watches blabbermouth lawyers on TV dissecting the latest trial of the century, the state must prove guilt beyond every reasonable doubt. The prosecutor is the sturdy workman at the center of a storm, carrying sandbags to the dike, staving off the flood that will swamp the state's case. The defense lawyer is the vandal, poking holes in the sandbags, pissing in the river, and praying for even more rain. Steve believed he was second to none in the hole-poking and river-pissing departments. He took seriously the lawyer's duty to zealously defend his client. And he always had. Except once.