by Paul Levine
And what do I have in my trial bag?
As the proprietor of the Lassiter Five & Dime Homicide Store, just what products did I have to sell to shoppers, i.e., the jurors?
Opinions!
As wispy as clouds.
Consider what I didn’t have on my store shelves: a corpse, for starters. If you’re going to prosecute someone for murder, it’s best to prove, as a starting point, that someone else is dead. What else did I lack? Physical evidence linking Calvert thereto, plus time and manner of death, and something indicating that the defendant was in the same zip code when all this happened.
My cell rang while I was brooding. State Attorney Pincher on the line.
“Jake, I’ve been calling you. How close are you to an indictment?”
“C’mon, Ray. I just got into this today. Cut me some slack.”
“No slack, Jack! Get on the bus, Gus!”
“Jeez, and they say I’m punch-drunk.”
“Where the hell are you, anyway, Jake?”
“On the Key. Just left the shrink.”
“And . . . ?”
“He’s colorful. Theatrical. Flamboyant.”
“What the hell does that mean? Does he know his stuff?”
“He’s either brilliant or a total whack job. He diagnosed Calvert with a psychosis pretty much after saying hello. Even if I can get his testimony into evidence, Victoria Lord will carve him into little pieces on cross.”
I was on the causeway now, fat raindrops pelting my canvas top, rat-a-tat-tat, like machine-gun fire. The wind ripped across the pavement, and my two tons of metal swayed toward the rocky shoreline.
“That’s disappointing, Jake.”
“That’s life, Ray. Aren’t you the one who told me how many times you wished you could prosecute but didn’t have the evidence?”
“Jeez, don’t sound so defeatist. Don’t make me regret appointing you.”
“I don’t work for you, Ray. I work for the people of the great state of Florida. Official motto, ‘If you step on my lawn, I will stand my ground and shoot you.’”
“Damn it, Jake! Are you stoned?”
“I have a prescription. But, no, I am not, at this precise moment in time, stoned.”
“Buckle down, buddy.”
“Aw, chill, Ray. I’m coming back from Key Biscayne in a driving thunderstorm. The sky and the bay are the same gunmetal gray, and I’m clenching my teeth against the son of a whore of all headaches.”
“You are stoned!”
“I swear I’m not. I’m just trying to live my life Aristotle’s way. Something that rhymes with pneumonia and stands for contentment and fulfillment. In other words, I’m not going to have a stroke if we can’t indict Clark Calvert.”
“Lousy attitude. You sound like a real loser.”
“I’m not giving up, Ray. Who knows? Maybe the cops can find a body so I don’t have to waltz into the grand-jury room with an empty briefcase.”
“No time for that. Pressure is mounting.” He bit off his words, tension seeming to tighten his vocal cords.
“Hey, Ray. I can picture your legs bouncing up and down. Is that Pepe Suarez I see behind the curtain pulling your strings?”
“Screw you, Jake, and your stupid old Caddy, too.”
The stupid old Caddy passed the old Seaquarium to my left. To my right was Virginia Key Beach, where I windsurfed so long ago.
“Jake, you don’t understand life on this side of the fence. Sometimes you have to throw deep even if your instincts are to run off tackle.”
“Thanks for putting it in terms I can understand. Do prosecutors ever call for a quick kick or maybe the old Statue of Liberty play?”
“Clark Calvert just booked a flight to Saigon, smart guy. He’s leaving Saturday, unless you have him in cuffs by Friday night.”
“Relax, Ray. He’s not fleeing. He told Barrios he was going to Vietnam. He’s in one of those groups like Doctors Without Borders. Last year it was Mexico. Year before, El Salvador. I think he flew his own plane, brought his own nurses and medication at his expense. Barrios made some calls, and his stories checked out. Our murderer is a hero in remote villages where he performs surgeries for free.”
“What’s the difference between Mexico and Vietnam, Jake?”
“Wild guess. Tequila versus rice wine?”
“We have no extradition treaty with Vietnam. Calvert booked a one-way ticket. I don’t care how you do it. Just get him indicted and booked by Friday night.”
-15-
On a Clear Day, You Can See Bimini
Pincher hung up on me, and I considered my options. No way would I ask the grand jurors—twenty-one solid citizens who pretty much believe whatever a prosecutor says—to return a murder indictment based on a diaphanous cloud of opinion, conjecture, and wishful thinking.
I needed to press matters—and quickly. I had two choices. I could either gather evidence that a murder had been committed and Calvert had committed it. Or bail out. Announce we had nothing, resign my appointment, and encourage the police to continue investigating in due course, without deadline pressure.
I imagined what I would say to the press: “Murder has no statute of limitations, so this matter is not concluded. I trust that lead detective Barrios will continue exhausting every avenue concerning the disappearance of Sofia Calvert.”
Disappearance.
Which is what it was.
Not homicide.
Not yet, anyway.
Pincher would want to tar, feather, and disbar me. But he’d be in a bind. Appointing me was his idea. His judgment would be questioned if he took any shots at me.
To get to that point—indict or resign—I needed Victoria Lord’s cooperation. I needed to ask her to do something she would initially resist.
The rain squall passed as suddenly as it had appeared. Peering now toward downtown, I could make out what used to be my office, four floors from the top of the fifty-two-story skyscraper. That was the home of Harman and Fox, a deep-carpet, high-rise collection of overpaid, overfed paper-shuffling establishment lawyers. They had hired me because I could handle a jury trial without peeing my pants. But I fit into the place the way a Brahman bull fits into high tea. No matter which way I turned, I’d break some china.
I squinted to get a better look at the high-rise where I had toiled before getting fired for insubordination and where, on a clear day, you could see Bimini.
See it. Floating there, a mirage on the horizon.
Seeing Bimini, of course, was not being in Bimini.
Fishing, sailing, drinking . . . screwing. None of that if you’re keeping time sheets, renting out your life by the quarter hour.
I picked up my cell phone, intending to call Victoria with my idea that could either jump-start the Calvert investigation or end it. I was halfway through dialing the number when my phone rang.
Ah, the other woman in my life. Dr. Melissa Gold.
“Jake, how are you feeling?”
“Fine, really.”
“No headaches?”
“Only a couple of bongo drums, not the full band.” The truth, I long ago concluded, was sometimes overrated. Just what good would it do to complain? I would stick with the obsolete—and underrated—manly and stoic approach. “When will I see you?”
“I’m coming over. You remember, right?”
It occurred to me that Melissa was worried about my short-term memory. What did she know that I didn’t? Or that I’d forgotten?
“Of course I remember. That was my way of confirming.”
“I talked to Dr. Hoch, as I told you I would.”
“About a new medication.” I wanted to prove I had the memory of a pachyderm, or at the very least, of a Jeopardy! contestant.
“We’ve been cleared to do experimental treatments with lithium.”
“That’s a pretty serious drug.”
“You’re familiar with it?”
“I had a client on death row who kept trying to commit suicide. The state for
ced him to take lithium. They couldn’t stand it if he died before they could execute him.”
“It also has neuroprotective qualities that might stop the creation of tau proteins.”
A fierce sun came hard on the heels of the passing storm, and patches of steam rose from the pavement. It felt as if the Caddy were rolling through a fog bank.
“Side effects?” I asked.
“Hand tremors in some people.”
“There goes my knitting.”
“Dry mouth and loss of appetite are common.”
“That’s a positive. I can drink beer and still lose weight.”
“Some people experience loss of sex drive and impotence.”
“Forget it. I’ll take dementia.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Hey, c’mon. I’m only thinking of you, Melissa.”
“We’ll draw blood tomorrow morning to establish baselines, and you’ll begin the lithium immediately afterward. Understand?”
I always liked powerful women, so what choice did I have?
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
“I have a faculty meeting. See you later.”
She hung up, and as I passed a Chevy Suburban hauling a three-hulled trimaran sailboat on a trailer, I dialed Victoria’s cell phone.
“Hello, Jake.” Her voice crisp and businesslike.
“Hey, where are you?”
“None of your business, Mr. Assistant State Attorney.”
“Meaning you’re at Dr. Calvert’s house. Great. I’m just getting off the Rickenbacker, catching the flyover to I-95. I can swing across the Julia Tuttle and be there in twenty-five minutes.”
“If you set one foot on the property, I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”
“That’s all you’ve got?”
“And disbarred for prosecutorial misconduct.”
“Now we’re talking. But hear me out, Victoria.”
“You’ve got ninety seconds. I’m working with my client.”
“I’ll be honest with you. The state’s case is a little thin.”
“Thin? If you fed it a dozen Krispy Kremes a day for a year, your case would still be anorexic.”
“I have a psychiatrist who’ll swear your client is a psychopath.”
“Oh, please, please, call Dr. Freudenstein. Jurors so seldom get a chance to laugh out loud in the courtroom.”
“Fair enough. But I’m under pressure from Ray Pincher, and he’s—”
“Under Pepe Suarez’s left boot. I’m well aware of the politics. Go ahead, Jake. Indict Clark Calvert if you must. I’d welcome the chance to drop-kick your butt out of court.”
“Wow! That was good. Just what I would have said.”
“I’ve heard you say it. Drop-kick is a little antiquated, but I decided to stick with it. Anyway, go ahead and indict. You know what will happen.”
“You’ll get an easy acquittal, maybe even a directed verdict. Two days later, a crew from Florida Power and Light will be digging a hole in Calvert’s backyard and discover Sofia’s skull with an axe in it and your client’s fingerprints on the handle. The state can’t file . . .”
“Because of double jeopardy . . .”
“Calvert gets away with murder, and I look like a horse’s ass.”
“Not my problem, Jake. Do you remember what I said the other night at the Red Fish?”
“Don’t overcook the sea bass.”
“I warned you. ‘If you prosecute Clark, it will be the biggest mistake of your life.’”
“Jeez, okay, already.”
I was on I-95 now, heading north through downtown. The skyline was so thick with skyscrapers, even from the elevated expressway, there was no view of the bay. The new Miami had clogged streets, lousy parking, and dirty air. But lots of tall, shiny buildings. The condo builders and office developers would continue to borrow cheap money and build on spec until a bubble would burst, as it always had.
“Jake, not only do you have a stinker for a case,” Victoria said, “but frankly, you don’t have the makings of a good prosecutor.”
“Why the hell not? It’s easy. You put the cops on the stand and hope they tell a reasonable facsimile of the truth.”
“For a prosecutor, you’re fatally flawed. You have empathy and warmth and a generous spirit.”
“The hell I do!”
“Sure, you hide all that under a tough bark, but really, you have a tender heart.”
“Shows what you know. I’m a mean ass and a grim reaper, and don’t you forget it.”
Her laugh was the jangle of wind chimes. “Okay, tough guy. Why would I ever let my client talk to you?”
“Because of the ground rules. You’ll be present. You can instruct him not to answer any question that ruffles your petticoats.”
“Jake, your age is showing.”
“Wrinkles your pantyhose?”
“Still way out of it.”
A silver Porsche convertible cut across the lanes in front of me at the exit for American Airlines Arena. The driver was a young woman with red hair flying in the wind. The Porsche had one of those “Save the Manatee” license plates. I’m all for that, and also for not causing fatal crashes on the expressway.
“Calvert can refuse to answer any question,” I said to Victoria. “There’ll be no court reporter, no recording, and I won’t take notes. He’s not under oath and can’t be charged with perjury. With no record, nothing he says can be used to impeach him, should he be indicted and choose to testify. Basically, he and I will have a conversation that never took place.”
“What’s in it for Clark? Why tell you anything?”
“Because if I finish the interview and have insufficient evidence for an indictment, much less a conviction, I’ll quit. I’ll make a public statement that Dr. Calvert cooperated with authorities, and there’s no evidence that he committed a homicide. We all go home.”
“And the flip side? What’s in it for the state of Florida?”
“It’s a long shot. Calvert tells me A, which by itself is meaningless. But it leads me to B, which is intriguing, and that leads to C, which stands for conviction.”
“Clark says he is one hundred percent innocent.”
“Then there won’t be a B or a C. He’s got no worries.”
“You sound like the cop in the station house telling the suspect, ‘Hey, kid, if someone thought I committed a crime, I’d sure want to tell my side of the story.’”
“Trust me, Victoria. There’s something in this for everybody. You don’t want a trial. Even if you win, your client’s reputation will be shattered. He’s way better off with me clearing him.”
She was quiet a moment, and at her end of the line, I heard a piano. Something classical. Maybe it was Tchaikovsky’s piano concerto number one or Rachmaninoff’s number two. All those Russians sound alike to me. Didn’t Victoria say Calvert was a classical pianist, besides being the world’s greatest surgeon, brightest mind, airplane pilot, and ahem . . . former lover?
“I’ll ask Clark and call you right back,” she said. “It’s his decision.”
“Deal.”
I swung right onto the exit for the Julia Tuttle Causeway to take me across the bay. I was heading to Miami Beach filled with optimism. I figured Dr. Clark Calvert would agree to talk. Basically, Dr. Freudenstein told me so.
“Not only does he think he’s the smartest guy in every room, he needs to prove it. Talking to him is sparring. He has to land the last punch.”
Calvert would take one look at me—a bent-nosed ex-jock with a couple too many concussions—and hop into the ring. Like Muhammed Ali, he’d showboat with a little dance and maybe a rope-a-dope before counterpunching. He’d want to show his ex-girlfriend that she made a mistake dumping him all those years ago. He’d talk more than was necessary. And maybe, just maybe, he would say too much.
My cell beeped with a text message from Victoria.
Clark says he’d love to talk to you.
I stomped on the accelerator a
nd let the old V-8 roar to life. I intended to bring down Clark Calvert and prove Victoria wrong.
Damn it, Victoria! I don’t have a tender heart!
-16-
Bloody Hands
I pulled the Eldo into a brick circular driveway in front of Calvert’s house on North Bay Road, which, as the name suggests, is on the Biscayne Bay side of Miami Beach. The city is a skinny little island shaped much like the state of Florida, and here on the western side, it’s about a mile due east to the ocean.
A row of towering royal palms formed a border along the driveway and gave the impression of sentinels guarding the place. There was a shiny red Ferrari 575 Superamerica parked closest to the house with a personalized license plate, “SAWBONES.” My powers of reasoning immediately concluded this was Dr. Calvert’s car. Perfect. A twelve-cylinder rocket that shouted money and speed and status. The retractable roof was tucked away, giving me a nice view of the tan leather interior, soft as a baby’s ass. A limited edition, the car was in the half-million-dollar range.
Wearing a summery blue suit without a tie, Solomon leaned against the driver’s side door, his arms crossed in front of his chest.
I slid out of the Eldo. “They start the party without you?”
He shrugged. “They’re around back on the patio, which Calvert calls the ‘terrazzo.’ That’s between the main house, which he calls the ‘villa,’ and the guesthouse, the ‘casita.’”
“Outside? I assumed we’d be in your client’s study, sitting in leather reading chairs.”
“That’s what Victoria figured you’d want.”
“Why?”
“So you could ask to take a pee, then snoop around the house, rummaging through closets and peeking inside the medicine chests.”
“Your fiancée is a damn suspicious woman.”
“She just knows your tricks, Jake. Mine, too.”
“What’s going on, pal? You look troubled.”
“You know how women feel about their first lovers?” he asked.
“Usually regretful.”
“Wrong! They feel wistful and nostalgic. Dreaming of what might have been.”
