Kill All the Lawyers

by Paul Levine

  She entered through one of the archways, pausing before opening the heavy door to the sanctuary.

  What if Steve sees me? How do I explain what I'm doing here? But then, what's he doing here?

  She took a breath and walked inside, entering the cool darkness of the vestibule. The place smelled of old wood and wet stones. She took cautious steps, careful to make no sound. The light, a golden hue, filtered into the sanctuary through stained-glass windows. Simple oak pews, walls of bare plaster, a ceiling of acoustical tiles. A spare, clean Protestant look to the place.

  Two elderly women sat in a back pew. Then she saw Steve. He sat in a pew at the aisle, one elbow propped on the side rail, his chin in his hand.

  Thinking? Praying? Repenting?

  At the very least, seeking solitude. Why couldn't he have told her? She had thought Steve lacked the capacity for quiet introspection. But maybe this was where he came for meditation and spiritual guidance. Not making a big deal out of it, just searching for peace in his own way. A flood of warm feelings swept over her. This was, after all, the man she loved. Surely she must have sensed this part of Steve's personality, even though he kept it hidden. She fought the urge to rush down the aisle and throw her arms around him.

  No, he deserved this quiet time. She turned and left the sanctuary, wondering if perhaps a house with a yard might be perfectly fine for them after all.

  * * *

  Steve looked at his watch. He was on time, which meant that opposing counsel was late. It gave him time to think. Had Victoria seemed suspicious? God, how he hated to lie to her. Maybe that was why he'd told a half-truth. This was a settlement conference. But it had nothing to do with Harry Sachs and his sticky butt. This was far more personal. Steve had promised Irene Lord that he would get her out of a jam—save her condo from foreclosure—without Victoria ever knowing.

  The legal task seemed impossible. Mortgage foreclosures had damn little wiggle room.

  "Has the mortgagor paid the mortgagee?"

  "No."

  "Judgment for mortgagee."

  Irene was five months in arrears, and the bank had demanded acceleration of the loan, meaning the entire balance—more than four hundred thousand dollars— was now due. No way Steve could allow the case to go to court.

  He heard the clicking of leather heels on the tile, turned, and saw Harding Collins moving toward him. Tanned. Tall and trim, with a fine head of gray hair that had been expensively cut. A charcoal suit that shouted Brooks Brothers, and a white shirt with tasteful blue stripes. If Collins weren't a real bank lawyer, he could play one on TV.

  "You must be Solomon."

  "Sit down, Collins." Steve slid over to give the man room.

  "Why on earth did you insist on meeting here?" Collins said.

  "I like historic buildings. The wood in here came from the first Presbyterian church in Miami, the one where William Jennings Bryan taught Sunday school."

  "I'm very well aware of that."

  "Right. Because you're a deacon."

  "Not here, of course." A hint of condescension. No, Harding Collins wouldn't attend what amounted to an inner-city church.

  "I'm deacon at Riviera Presbyterian. On Sunset Drive."

  A Suburban Presbyterian.

  Steve considered himself a City Jew, though he had so little faith, he doubted he was entitled to the title. Basically, he'd come up with his own concept of Unintelligent Design, his belief that if a divine entity created humankind, He (or, heaven help us, She) was either dim-witted or a sadist.

  Not knowing much about Presbyterians, Steve had enlisted Bobby and Cece for research and investigation. Cece came up with some dirt on Collins, and Bobby announced that "Presbyterian" could be rearranged to spell "Best in Prayer."

  "My secretary caught a talk you gave at your church last week," Steve said.

  Collins smiled, softened a bit. "Your secretary's a Presbyterian?"

  "More like a parolee. But she liked your speech. Something about sympathy and service."

  "Gifts of the deacons. Next week, I'm speaking about redemption. Feel free to attend."

  "Actually, I play for another team."

  "All are welcome," Collins said with a pinched ecumenical smile. "Now, what can I do for you?"

  "First Dade Bank has sued to foreclose the condo of my client, Irene Lord. One of your junior associates filed the papers. Unfortunately, Irene's in a bit of financial trouble and could use a break."

  "I've heard all the sob stories, Solomon. The family breadwinner died. The kid's in the hospital. The roof blew off and there's no insurance."

  "Yeah, a bunch of whiners out there."

  "I represent the bank. My obligation is to the shareholders, not the poor slobs who take on too much debt."

  "What about practicing what you preach? Charity, sympathy, gifts of the deacons."

  "Religion is one thing, the practice of law is another. You, of all people, must know that."

  "Why me of all people?"

  "I asked around about you, Solomon. You give sharks a bad name."

  "My rules are simple. I don't lie to opposing lawyers or stab them in the back. Head-on, I'll kick you in the cojones."

  "From where I sit, you're a low-rent lawyer with bargain-basement scruples."

  "Actually, I'm a no-rent lawyer, but I catch your meaning."

  "My answer's the same to you as to anyone else," Collins continued. "No negotiation. Pay up or hit the pavement." His tone had changed. From principled humanitarian to icy defense lawyer in the blink of a time sheet. "So, unless you have a legal defense to the foreclosure..."

  "Now that you mention it, there's a problem with the papers the bank had Irene sign," Steve said. "The disclosures about the adjustable rates aren't in boldface. Violates the Banking Act."

  "Nice try, Solomon. But every borrower initials the rates clause. That proves actual notice that the rates may go up. And just so you know, we've been hit with lots of consumer lawsuits. I haven't lost one yet, and frankly, I was up against lawyers a helluva lot better than you."

  "Different," Steve said.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "You were up against lawyers different than me. Not better."

  Collins laughed as heartily as a poker player who filled an inside straight on the river. "If that's your best shot, I really have to be going—"

  "Got one more. I sent my secretary over to the Justice Building the other day. You've had seven parking tickets in the last year."

  "I've also jaywalked quite a few times and I might have failed to put out the garbage cans on pickup day." Collins got to his feet.

  "Three of the tickets were issued within one block of the Shangri-La Motel on Seventy-ninth Street. You know the neighborhood, Collins? The one the cops call 'Hooker Heaven.' As for the motel, it's what, thirty bucks for thirty minutes?"

  Collins sank back into the pew. He shot looks left and right, as if the saints might be eavesdropping.

  "Can't blame you for not parking that Mercedes convertible in the motel lot," Steve continued. "But you ought to feed the meters."

  "What is it you want, Solomon?" His voice still in even-keeled lawyerly mode.

  "The bank gives my client a grace period of eighteen months. Stay all principal and interest during that time. Then she'll resume payments without penalty."

  "And if I don't agree?"

  Cool and aloof, as if representing someone else. But then, didn't they call Presbyterians the "frozen chosen"?

  "Maybe you didn't notice, but the Shangri-La Motel has that camera above the front desk," Steve said. "When you pay for the room, they take excellent digital video. A two-shot of the guy paying and whatever debutante is standing next to him."

  Collins' suntan seemed to fade one shade. "You son of a bitch. It's sleazy bastards like you who give the profession a bad name."

  "And I suppose foreclosing mortgages is doing God's work?"

  "Bastard," Collins repeated.

  "Maybe you'd like one of those
videos for your talk about redemption."

  Collins stayed quiet for a long moment. No more curses. The savvy lawyer seemed to be tallying up the odds. One measly condo mortgage against his life getting sucked down the drain.

  I would never, ever follow through on the threat, but you don't know that, do you, Collins?

  The bank lawyer barely registered a blip on Steve's personal chart of bad guys. Sure, Collins was a hypocrite. But that ranked pretty far down on Steve's sliding scale of sins. Collins' church work seemed real, and apparently was deeply felt. Maybe his way of repenting for his personal flaws.

  So who am I to judge this man?

  Florida Bar. Chamber of Commerce. Presbyterian church. Wife and kids and a house in Snapper Creek. In earlier times, Steve thought, Collins would have been called a pillar of the community. Steve wouldn't turn the pillar to salt; the guy simply didn't deserve it.

  But I will bluff him till the hookers come home. C'mon, Collins. I'm not robbing the bank. I'm just asking for time.

  Collins let out a soft hiss. "It will take a day or so to draw up the papers," he said. Then without a "Good day" or "Screw you," Collins shot one look toward the altar, stood, and walked out.

  Steve sat alone, watching dust motes float in the light of the stained-glass windows. He was not particularly pleased with himself. Though it was cool in the sanctuary, he felt his shirt sticking to the pew. He wanted to splash cold water on his face.

  Years ago, he had asked his father what the profession was all about.

  "Lawyerin's like playing poker with ideas," Herbert Solomon had drawled.

  It sounded both romantic and exciting. Like telling a kid that being a cowboy was about riding horses, leaving out all the shit-shoveling. Lawyering, Steve concluded, was more demolition derby than Texas Hold 'Em, and there was at least as much shitshoveling as at the rodeo.

  Thirty-Three

  FEELINGS ...WHOA...

  OH ...OH...FEELINGS

  Victoria sipped her Chardonnay and began crumbling blue cheese for the salad. Then she stopped. Steve liked grated Parmesan. She would go with that. But first, she checked the oven. The sweet potatoes—Steve's favorite—were coming along nicely, emitting a syrupy aroma.

  This should be his night, she thought. A special night. No arguments, not even a debate over whether figure skating qualifies as a sport. Earlier today, Steve had said he wanted to talk. Not about work. Not about the Dolphins. But about them.

  "I want to open up, talk about my feelings."

  Yep, he used the dreaded "f" word, the two-syllable one. And this just one day after she spied him sitting in church. A quiet, contemplative Steve. Meditating or praying. Or maybe just thinking about their relationship. So rare in men these days.

  She sensed a turning point. And just in time. Everything had become so strained between them.

  Maybe it was her fault. Steve had been under so much pressure with Kreeger creeping back into his life. Then there were the two assault-and-battery charges.

  And Janice, lurking in the background, threatening to file a custody action.

  "You should be more understanding and less demanding, dear."

  Amazingly, that's what her mother told her last night. She and The Queen had had dinner at Norman's in the Gables, and over mango-glazed snapper and a bottle of Zinfandel, her mother had expressed warm-and-cuddly sentiments for Steve.

  "Stephen has a good heart. Sometimes, I fear you're too harsh with him."

  "Me? Harsh?"

  "And judgmental. And if I may so, a bit fussy and priggish."

  "What!"

  "I thought I'd raised you to be a bit more fun."

  "And when did you do that, Mother? When you were off in Gstaad or Monaco?"

  "Don't get huffy. All I'm saying, a woman has to support her man. Steve's in a real pressure cooker right now. And to throw a hissy fit because he happens to chat with an unclothed girl—well, if you ask me, that's a bit priggish."

  Victoria had been too stunned to be angry. The Queen seldom spoke about anyone at great length, other than herself. And it was practically unheard of, a solar eclipse of an event, for her to say anything nice about Steve. But this was the second time in a matter of days that she'd taken his side. So what was going on? Bewilderingly, from the crab cake appetizer to the banana crème brûlée, her mother practically oozed affection for Steve.

  "When are you moving in together, dear?"

  "What's the hurry?"

  "I have my eye on a charming housewarming gift."

  "So, suddenly, you think Steve is right for me?"

  "Trust me where men are concerned, dear. Despite that thorny exterior, deep inside, Stephen is a loving, caring man who adores you."

  Just what were they putting in the sparkling water, anyway?

  But the more Victoria thought about Steve, the more she thought her mother was right.

  Meaning I've been right, all along. Beginning that night in the avocado grove—Bruce's avocado grove— when I sneaked off with Steve.

  He had so many good qualities. His love for Bobby. His quest for justice, even if the road he took was usually off the beaten path. His quirky sense of humor. And, of course, one more thing, something her mother nailed as she sipped her after-dinner cognac.

  "May I assume Stephen's good in the sack?"

  "You may assume anything you wish, Mother."

  "I always liked lanky, wiry men. Stephen looks pretty limber to me."

  Right now, Mr. Limber was in the backyard, squirting fluid on the charcoal, lighting a fire for the steaks. T-bones, sweet potatoes, tossed salad, followed by a discussion of feelings, along with Key lime pie. Yes, this was going to be a special night.

  Five minutes later, Steve came into the kitchen and headed straight for the refrigerator. What shoes and purses were to women, Victoria thought, the fridge and the TV were to men. He poked around a second and pulled out a cold Sam Adams.

  He liked cold beer and rare steak. She liked white wine and grilled salmon. But tonight none of that mattered. Tonight they would get closer than ever. She just knew it.

  "How long until you put the steaks on?" she asked.

  "A while. You know I like the coals to be glowing. The secret to a great steak—"

  "Is the hottest possible fire. Sear the outside, keep the inside juicy. I know, I know. Make mine well done?"

  He made a face. "If you say so. Where's the Bobster?"

  "In his room, studying."

  "Alone?"

  She gave him a bittersweet smile. Bobby had been moping around ever since he'd been exiled from the Goldberg house, and Maria had been forbidden from even setting foot on Kumquat Avenue. All by royal decree of the Munoz-Goldbergs.

  Complicating the situation was Janice. Steve had begun allowing her to visit Bobby at home, but so far refusing to let her take him anywhere alone. He'd been afraid Janice would snatch him and run.

  Now Steve picked up the salad bowl and shook it, shuffling the lettuce, tomatoes, and cucumbers, everything sliced thin, the way he liked it.

  "You make a great salad," he said.

  "Thanks." She sipped at the wine to let him go on without interruption. When a witness is ready to talk, best to keep quiet.

  "You're really terrific in the kitchen," he continued. "A lot of women these days just don't take the time. But the way you balance work and everything else— well, it's pretty impressive."

  She picked up the cheese grater and went to work. In truth, her culinary skills were limited to a couple of dishes, but she sensed this was just a warm-up, Steve taking a few practice swings. He looked a little nervous. Apparently, stalking a serial killer was not as scary a task as plumbing his own emotional depths.

  "You're good at so many things," Steve went on. "You're amazing with Bobby; the kid adores you."

  "It's mutual."

  Okay, now we're moving in the right direction, though at the speed of a manatee. C'mon, Steve. Let's go from the nephew's feelings to the uncle's feelings.


  "Maybe you and I can talk a bit while Bobby's still in his room," Steve said. "About personal stuff."

  She stopped grating the cheese in midstroke. "Sure."

  "There are things I've wanted to say to you for a long time, but you know how it is. . . ."

  He plucked a tomato slice out of the bowl and let the words dangle in the air. Tongue-tied. Not his usual state. His dark hair was messed, and there was a smudge of charcoal on his cheek. He looked like a kid, she thought, in part perhaps because of his T-shirt: "I Am Not Infantile, You Stinky Butt Poophead."

  "Go ahead, Steve. It won't hurt."

  "So why does it feel like opening a vein?"

  "When you're in a relationship, you've got to trust the other person. You can share feelings, expose your fears, your weaknesses." She reached over and wiped the smudge from his face.

  He took a breath and sighed, as if to say, "Here goes."

  She picked up her wineglass and waited. It was a two-sip wait. There was so much she wanted to hear. Words like "love" and "plans" and "future," and even "marriage" and "children." Sure, she knew he was conflicted. Men were like that. They yearn for the love of a woman, and then when they get it, they break into a cold sweat.

  "You remember how I always told you about the College World Series?" Steve said.

  That puzzled her, but she went with it. "U.M. down by a run in the ninth inning. You got picked off third base to end the game."

  "What else? What do I always say?"

  This must be some sort of metaphor, she thought, but what could it be? Steve was bringing back the most humiliating day of his life. He'd let his teammates down. So maybe he wanted to say: "I want us to be a team forever, Vic, and I'll never let you down."

  "You always say you got in under the tag," she replied. "The ump blew the call."

  "Yeah, maybe the photos make it look that way. But the thing is, I felt the third baseman's glove swipe my hand when I dived for the base. All this time, Vic, I've been lying to myself and everybody else. The damn truth is, I was out."