Kill All the Lawyers

by Paul Levine

  So many questions.

  Her thoughts returned to the house they couldn't afford and the shoes that were ridiculously expensive.

  Why shouldn't I be able to splurge on some wafery Italian footwear that costs nine hundred bucks?

  She thought about it a minute. Wasn't there a constitutional right involved here? A Woman's Right to Shoes. Ha!

  Her thoughts kept returning to Steve. Right now, he was so embroiled with Kreeger, he'd let the practice slide. The key in any law firm is to keep the faucets flowing. It's not enough to just work on the cases already in-house. You have to prime the pump, constantly bringing in new clients. And what was Steve, the self-appointed rainmaker, hustling up these days?

  City of Coral Gables v. Fiore. Defending a homeowner who, having been ordered to cut his lawn, mowed "FUCK YOU" into the three-foot-tall grass. Then there was the DUI case for the Zamboni driver at the Florida Panthers hockey games. And let's not forget Sheila and Max Minkin, suing their rabbi for showing up late to their wedding. Steve tried one of his old tricks with those two whiners.

  He brings in a lousy case with obnoxious clients, then tries to palm it off on me.

  She was so angry at Steve right now, she wished she knew one of Herbert's Yiddish curses. The one about having an onion grow in your navel. Yes, that would do quite nicely. Lacking that, she silently cursed her lover and partner in English, conjuring up the most wicked voodoo she knew:

  Dearest Steve. May you have to spend the afternoon with Max and Sheila Minkin.

  Then she said the hell with it and whipped out her American Express card. She was going to buy some damn shoes.

  Twenty-Two

  MOTIVE FOR MURDER

  Steve walked into his reception room to find the Minkins waiting.

  Oh, shit. They didn't have an appointment.

  What lousy luck is this?

  Cece Santiago was there, in Lycra shorts and halter top, lying on her back, bench-pressing a buck fifty-five, the bar clanking into its brackets. And here were the Minkins, thumbing through copies of Coastal Living and Architectural Digest that had been a year old when Steve pilfered them from a doctor's office.

  "Hey, Max! Hey, Sheila!" Steve pumped as much pleasure into his voice as he could fake. "How are my favorite newlyweds?"

  "How's our case?" Sheila shot back. Max kept his face buried in a magazine.

  "Rabbi Finsterman won't settle, at least not yet. His lawyer filed an answer to the complaint, so the issue is joined."

  The issue is joined.

  Trying to sound like a lawyer. Trying to justify his fee. It was not entirely bad news that Finsterman refused to settle. Now that they were in court, Steve's fee had just been hiked up from one-third of the recovery to forty percent.

  "When do we go to trial?" Sheila demanded.

  "There are pleadings to file and discovery to take," Steve said, trying to justify whatever fee might be at the end of this faded rainbow. "And it's no slam dunk. Finsterman's lawyer has filed several affirmative defenses."

  "What the hell are they?"

  "The usual. Assumption of the risk. Comparative negligence. Plus he claims the rabbi was delayed because a thunderstorm snarled traffic. Says it was an act of God."

  "It was August! It rains every frigging day," Sheila said.

  "I'll probably have to go to the expense of hiring an expert witness."

  "Like who?"

  "A Talmudic scholar." Thinking Herbert might be up for it, now that he'd started going to synagogue.

  The phone rang, and Cece picked it up. "Solomon and Lord. Felonies and misdemeanors. Torts of all sorts." She listened a moment, then said, "Jefe, it's for you."

  "Ah, probably Justice Brandeis returning my call." Steve gave Cece a sideways glance so she wouldn't say: "No, it's the collection agency for the rented copier." Then he headed for his inner office, thanking the Minkins for dropping by.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Steve sat cross-legged on the floor, pawing through the file of State of Florida v. William Kreeger. The death of Nancy Lamm. He'd had the criminal file pulled out of storage and started by going through the autopsy report and medical records. So far, he hadn't found anything relevant. The witness statements didn't help, either. He plowed back in time, poring over the notes of his first meeting with Kreeger.

  It all started with a divorce and child custody case. In re the Marriage of Leonard and Nancy Lamm. Leonard claimed that Nancy abused cocaine and was an unfit mother. The judge appointed Kreeger to serve as court-appointed psychiatrist. He was to interview both parents and their child and file a report with the court.

  Some details started coming back to Steve. The Lamms had a single child. A daughter. He remembered her name. Mary. Steve recalled Kreeger saying he'd told Nancy her daughter better not have a child out of wedlock or she'd be teased: "Mary had a little Lamm." Steve didn't think it was funny at the time, and it hadn't gotten funnier with age.

  Riffling through the files, Steve found a copy of Kreeger's written report. The doc soft-pedaled Nancy's addictions and seemed to blame Leonard for her problems. Her husband was cold and distant and uncommunicative. Nancy was sensitive and lacked self-esteem, a problem exacerbated by Leonard's verbally abusive conduct. There was even a hint of abuse toward Mary. Kreeger phrased this part very carefully. Without ever accusing the father of making sexual overtures, he referred to the man entering the bathroom while Mary was showering. Another episode involved Leonard asking his daughter to sit on his lap, something Kreeger deemed "age inappropriate."

  Leonard's lawyer filed a blistering set of objections to Kreeger's report. The lawyer called the claims fabricated and scandalous and asked that they be stricken. There was one objection—a huge one—that could have been made but wasn't because Leonard was unaware of it at the time. Kreeger had become Nancy Lamm's lover and should have been disqualified from the case on that ground.

  The custody hearing was two weeks away when Nancy Lamm drowned in Kreeger's hot tub. At virtually the same time a Grand Jury was indicting Kreeger for murder, the family judge granted Leonard custody of the girl.

  Steve went through the Family Court pleadings one at a time. With Nancy Lamm dead, the custody hearing had been moved to the uncontested calendar. Nothing fancy. Just a form order: "It is therefore ordered and adjudged that the Respondent Leonard Lamm be hereby granted permanent custody of the minor child, Mary Amanda Lamm."

  Mary Amanda Lamm.

  Amanda.

  "Uncle Bill loves me. And he has for a long time."

  Suddenly, it all became clear. The state had gotten the motive wrong. Pincher had told the jury that Kreeger murdered Nancy Lamm because she threatened to file a complaint about the shrink seducing her. But shrinks get involved with their patients all the time. Sure, it was unethical, but it was slap-on-thewrist material, hardly a reason to kill the accuser.

  The truth—the secret, ugly truth—was far worse. Nancy must have found out that Kreeger had seduced her daughter, Mary Amanda. That was what she threatened to disclose, maybe to the State Attorney as well as the medical board. Kreeger was facing prison time for statutory rape. He couldn't let that happen.

  He didn't let that happen. He killed Nancy Lamm and kept her daughter for himself. Even if he had to wait a while. Amanda went to live with her father, and Kreeger went off to prison.

  "Amanda was the only one who wrote me, the only one who cared. And when I got out, she was waiting for me."

  When Kreeger told him that, Steve thought Amanda was one of those wacko pen pals murderers sometimes attract. But that wasn't it. They had a history.

  Steve tried to picture what went on during the years Kreeger was in prison. Amanda Lamm should have been hanging out at the mall, going to cheerleader practice, and buying a prom dress. But her development had been stunted at age thirteen by the half man, half goat named Kreeger.

  Steve imagined the girl sitting at home, writing notes on pink stationery, carefully folding them into scented
envelopes, sealed with lipsticked kisses. Dreaming sweet thoughts of the man who stole her childhood and replaced it with whispered lies. Living in some perverted fairy tale where two lovers are pried apart by the dragons of fate.

  Sure, Kreeger loved her. Loved her in a way both twisted and vile. And she loved him right back. Loved the man who had murdered her mother. And that, Steve thought, seemed as sad and tragic as the murder itself.

  SOLOMON'S LAWS

  8. Love is chemistry and mystery, not logic and reason.

  Twenty-Three

  WE ARE WHO WE ARE

  Women don't sweep into a room anymore, Steve thought. There are no more Scarlett O'Haras, their dresses hoisted by hoops and petticoats, whooshing into a room, putting on airs.

  But then there was Irene Lord.

  The Queen burst through the door of his office, her eyes taking in the police-auction furniture, her glossy, collagened lips pursing as she contemplated whether it would be safe to sit down, lest a palmetto bug crawl up her panty hose.

  "We must talk," Irene breathed, those puffy lips barely moving.

  "Vic's not here," Steve said.

  "I'm not blind, Stephen. Old and decrepit perhaps, but not blind."

  Steve knew the remark was intended to elicit the obligatory denials, and he semi-complied. "Irene, you're not decrepit or blind."

  "And ...?"

  "And you're not old. You're gorgeous and vibrant and men still come sniffing after you like skunks after sunflowers."

  "Thank you, Stephen. I've always been quite fond of you."

  That stopped him. "A little early in the day for your gin and tonic, Irene."

  "I haven't been drinking. I've come to see you, not my daughter, and I'm making pleasant small talk. Haven't you one iota of decorum?"

  "Now, there's the Irene I love."

  "And the truth is, I am somewhat fond of you, despite how damned aggravating you can be."

  "Thank you."

  "I know you say things just to get a rise out of me, but sometimes you're so aggressive and pushy."

  "Pushy? Dammit, Irene, that's an anti-Semitic slur."

  "Oh, for heaven's sake. Not that again."

  "We wanted to join your country clubs. We were being pushy. We wanted to attend Princeton. We were being pushy. Damn pushy Jews!"

  "Don't raise your voice, Stephen. It's very unbecoming."

  "Ah, so I'm loud, too. 'Loud' is another ethnic slur."

  "Some of my favorite fiancés were Jewish, so please cease this harangue. It's becoming tedious."

  "You never hear about those pushy Episcopalians, do you? Those loud Lutherans? Don't think so. What's next, Irene. How about 'greedy'?"

  "You're not greedy. God knows, I wish you cared more about money. Now, would you please calm down and give me some legal advice?"

  "Ask Vic. She knows more law than I do."

  "I need someone who's more . . ." Irene clucked her tongue as if ticking off words until she found the right one. "Flexible. And forgiving. My darling daughter is somewhat . . ." Cluck-cluck-cluck.

  "Rigid?" Steve helped out.

  "Exactly. Can I count on your discretion?"

  "Lawyer-client privilege trumps boyfriend-girlfriend. Who'd you kill?"

  Irene rolled her eyes and reached into a soft leathery purse that seemed to be made of the belly skin of a baby alligator. She pulled out a document, slid it across Steve's desk, whisked invisible dirt from the cracked leather client chair, and sat down. Her hair, the color of corn silk, was swept up in a style that reminded Steve of Princess Grace of Monaco.

  "First Dade Bank versus Irene Lord," Steve said, reading aloud. "Mortgage foreclosure?"

  "They're after my condo, Stephen. You must help me."

  "Says here you're five months behind on payments."

  "At the moment, I'm cash strapped. What can I do?"

  "What about those old boyfriends with all the money? Call that Australian shipping magnate who said you were his favorite ketch."

  "He moved on to a sleeker sloop."

  "What about the gold-bullion trader? He's loaded."

  "Last year, when I turned fifty, he traded me in for two twenty-five-year-olds."

  "C'mon, Irene. Last year you turned fifty-seven."

  "So he traded me for three nineteen-year-olds. The point is, I'm with Carl now, and he doesn't have a dime."

  It hit him then. Carl Drake. Alleged heir of Sir Francis Drake. Smooth talker with a trim mustache and a gold-buttoned navy blazer. "Is that where your money went, Irene? To Drake?"

  "It's for my share of the expenses in the trust. I had to put up my money to stake my claim."

  "The son-of-a-bitch. When I grilled him at Joe's, he said you didn't have to put up a cent."

  "I know. I know."

  "And you kept quiet."

  "The way I was brought up, Stephen, a woman does not contradict her man."

  "Too bad you didn't pass that along to your daughter." Steve shook his head. "Jeez, Irene. Drake's a con man."

  "Expenses came up. It happens, Stephen."

  "Oh, come on, Irene. Sir Francis Drake's money hasn't been sitting around for four hundred years waiting for you to claim it. It's a scam. A flim-flam. A con job."

  "When it pays off, don't expect an invitation to my yacht."

  But she said it with such a lack of conviction that Steve immediately sensed something else. Irene knew she'd been swindled. Maybe she even knew it when she was writing the check. And this from a woman who was always the recipient of money and jewelry and designer duds. Which could only mean one thing, and that was scariest of all.

  "Irene, please don't tell me you're in love with this guy."

  Her eyes, unnaturally wide open thanks to lid surgery, now brimmed with tears. "With all my heart, Stephen. The man fills me with wonder."

  "Oh, jeez." Steve stood up. "C'mon, Irene. It's not too early. I'm gonna buy you a drink."

  * * *

  They sat at a sidewalk table at an Ocean Drive café. A woman lost in the deep and treacherous ocean of love, Irene Lord rejected every logical suggestion Steve made.

  No, she wouldn't break up with Carl Drake; no, she wouldn't sue him and freeze his accounts; and no, she certainly wouldn't file charges with the State Attorney.

  Steve said he would do what he could to slow down the foreclosure litigation. He'd hit the bank with endless discovery. He'd claim fraud and usury and violations of banking regulations, and anything else he could think of, including the Treaty of Versailles and the Nuclear Test Ban Treaty. He'd obfuscate and distort, muddle and confuse. He'd buy time with dilatory tactics, and if all else failed, he'd have Irene enlist in the army and seek protection under the Soldiers and Sailors Civil Relief Act. That was where The Queen seemed to draw the line, but otherwise she seemed to approve his strategy. And with each sip of Tanqueray, she appreciated Steve even more.

  "I feel we're bonding here, Stephen."

  "Aw, c'mon, Irene. The only bonds you know about are tax-free municipals."

  She laughed. "I'm not going to pretend I'm your biggest supporter. Many is the day I've wished Victoria had found a man who was more traditional and less . . ."

  "Pushy?"

  "Reckless." She smiled at him, her veneers snowy white. "But you do have something going for you."

  He waited to see if a zinger was attached to the compliment, like a stinging cell on a jellyfish.

  "Victoria loves you. She loves you in a way she's never loved any other man. And that goes a long way with me."

  Wow. The Queen had never said anything to him like that before.

  "Stephen, this is where you say you love her, too."

  "I do, Irene. A lot. More than I ever knew was possible. I fell for Vic when we were on opposite sides of a case, and it just grew from there."

  "So. If there's anything I can ever do for you . . ."

  It was an offer she'd never made before and might never make again. "To tell you the truth, I could use some advice right now.
About Victoria."

  "If you're worried, that's a good sign. Some men are so dense they never see it coming."

  "It?"

  "The three-inch heel of the Prada pumps as they're walking away."

  Steve let out a sigh.

  "Of course you have problems, Stephen. Every couple does. Nelson Lord was the love of my life, but boy did we fight." She used her fingertips to squeeze the lime into her gin and tonic. "With you and Victoria, it's even more difficult because you're so different."

  In the next seventeen minutes, Steve summarized the current state of his relationship with Victoria, admitting that, yes, he had some second thoughts about moving in together, and sure, she'd picked up on it. Now she didn't seem to want to share a Coke with him, much less live under the same roof.

  "She needs to know where the two of you are headed," Irene said.

  "Why can't she just relax, go with the flow, see where it takes us?"

  "Someone as highly organized as my daughter needs certainly in her life. Let's face it. Spontaneity isn't her strong suit and predictability isn't yours."

  "I can change."

  "How's that, Stephen?"

  He thought about it. On the sidewalk, the usual collection of wannabe models sashayed past their table. In the street, teenage boys drove by in their parents' SUVs, gawking at the girls, their CD players blasting unintelligible reggaeton, something with a lot of drums from Tego Calderon.

  "I'm gonna tell Vic to choose where we should live," he answered. "I'm gonna go to the ballet with her. I'm even gonna join the Kiwanis."

  Irene's laugh was a bit louder than necessary. Three gin and tonics will do that. "If The Princess wanted a man like that, she would have married Bruce."